Aging Gracefully

Canoodle will be 10 years old next month and he's an absolutely gorgeous greyhound. I'll admit to being just a wee bit prejudiced, but that doesn't make it any less true. About a year after I adopted him, while we were waiting to check out from a routine exam, our vet came into the lobby, looked across the room at him and said "that is a beautiful greyhound". And this man knows greyhounds ... many of them. So I don't hesitate to say that Canoodle is quite the specimen of his breed. His coat is fawn, which fades to white on his face, feet, and stomach. His long tail curls into a graceful upward sweep and when he's really happy, he whips his whole tail around in circles, helicopter style. He is the embodiment of the word lithe ... characterized by easy flexibility and grace. And his "personality" is beautiful; calm, quiet, patient and sweet. Because I have adopted, to date, four greys and have known many others, I understand that all of these characteristics can be pretty much universally applied to greyhounds and that they're all wonderful in their own way, but Canoodle outshines them all when it comes to pure beauty, inside and out.

Quickly over the course of a few weeks this summer though, he has gone from lean, lithe, and beautiful, to gaunt, which Webster's defines as "excessively thin and angular often as a result of suffering". The change started this spring, after the death of Aristotle, my first adopted boy. At first the vet thought it was the effect of grief, which would have been understandable, and fit his symptoms of not eating well and not being as active as normal, but otherwise looking and appearing healthy in a routine exam. As I've learned that most things greyhound require some time and adjustment, I was accepting that he just may take longer than I expected to grieve, even with the addition of a new 3-year-old, just-off-the-track brother whose major success in aiding the grieving process seemed to be keep me constantly on my toes and too busy, exhausted, and amused to be sad. (Okay, so I guess that means he was succeeding with me and the grieving process, but more about Duffy later.) But my relief that the problem was not physical came to a crashing halt a few weeks later when, on one of our daily walks I noticed that Canoodle was limping, a red flag to anyone who's lost a beloved grey to osteosarcoma (bone cancer) ... and I'd just lost my second one to the dreaded disease. So, back to the vet we went, to find out that Canoodle has a neurological problem which is causing his muscle tone to deteriorate as if he were closer to 15 years of age, rather than not quite 10. With the help of muscle relaxers, pain medicine, and as much walking as he'll tolerate, he seems to have finally, at least stopped declining, even if not getting any better. In those first few weeks it seemed that if he continued on the same path, he would disappear right before my eyes. He'd always been very thin and not a hearty eater, so his newfound nearly total lack of interest in food and muscle tone loss reduced him to little more than skin and bones quickly.

But none of what he's dealing with has changed his beautiful, sweet nature; and, even though he's not as physically beautiful as he once was, he's still just as beautiful to me. I'm sad to be reminded by his appearance that he'll never again be as stunning looking, but worse, he may not be with me much longer. Nonetheless, I am encouraged and uplifted by the grace with which he carries himself. If he's really inspired, he'll still run through the yard with Duffy, looking strong and majestic; but even on walks where he's slower and you can see his back leg twist in slightly with each step, he moves with a quiet, dignified grace. At first we were lucky to accomplish a 20-30 minute walk a couple of nights a week, but now he's up to a 30-40 minute walk every morning and most evenings. Although his gait has changed from his once graceful appearance of floating along on air to a much more labored plodding, he keeps going and seems to enjoy his time outside as much as ever. He doesn't "complain" on walks even when he's clearly uncomfortable, like the morning he had a pebble lodged between the pads of one paw. He kept on walking for the several steps it took me to realize where that clicking noise was coming from, stop to inspect his paws, and remove the stone. He also doesn't whine around the house, something my other greys have done on occasion even when they were healthy. Even though he winces about half the time when someone pets him, he still comes up for attention. He seems to accept what's happening to him without fighting it by letting the pain make him irritable. He is being, as I should have expected from him, the perfect model of aging gracefully, albeit prematurely. He is being an excellent reminder to me that, while I too live with frequent pain and exhaustion that makes me feel way older than my years, I don't have to give in to feeling sorry for myself, whining about it, or let it make me cranky. My new goal is to be as graceful as Canoodle as I go plodding along myself.