It’s a sunny bank holiday lunchtime. Four families and six dogs have assembled for a picnic, followed by rounders. Actually, it’s not so much a game of rounders as a heated argument about the rules of rounders, with all the participants standing quite far away from one another. I’m not really joining in – as far as I’m concerned, we’re playing baseball and I’m the only one doing it right. After a while I sit down on the grass.
The old dog approaches, walking with a slight limp.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
By the time we get home the dog is struggling with the bad leg, although none of its other legs are, strictly speaking, good. I figure the dog is simply old and tired, because I am old and tired.
The old dog is somewhere between 16 and 17. We determine her age using the youngest one’s birthday, because somewhere there exists a photo that proves we already had the dog when we got the baby.
The dog has recently acquired a number of age-related infirmities, but it retains an improbable enthusiasm for existence.
The next morning, however, the dog does not look pleased to be alive; I have to lift it off the sofa and set it on its legs. The dog hates being picked up, but it doesn’t protest. I slide the water bowl under its nose, and it takes a few desultory laps.
My wife takes the dogs to the park, but returns earlier than usual.
“This dog can’t do anything,” she says. “It can’t even climb the kerb.”
“I know,” I say, lifting the dog down the two steps into the kitchen. “It’s from yesterday.”
The dog tries to get back up on the sofa. It’s like watching a tortoise try to climb into a rowing boat.
The oldest one has been summoned from university to provide the other two with some emergency tutoring ahead of their exams. When he arrives, the old dog barely lifts its head in greeting.
“This dog’s a bit of a mess,” I say.
“I can see that,” he says.
The next day I have to carry the dog between the garden and the sofa all day.
“You’re used to this, aren’t you?” my wife says when I come in with the dog in my arms. She knows that the dog I grew up with eventually had to be lugged around like this.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think this dog needs to go to the vet.”
“I know,” my wife says. “But I’m not doing it until after tomorrow.”
She places significant stress on the word tomorrow. This is because the next day is the youngest one’s birthday, and there’s an outside chance the trip to the vet could be a one‑way excursion.
The following evening, the oldest returns to university. He bends down to say goodbye to the old dog.
“She seems a bit better,” he says.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “When are you back?”
“Three weeks,” he says.
I turn to the old dog. “He’s coming back,” I say. “You’ll see him again, probably.”
The next day the old dog actually does seem better. I take it to the park in the evening, and although I have to carry it down the front steps, it skitters across the road happily enough, mounts the pavement with a little skip and spends 20 minutes hoovering up discarded sandwiches.
By the next evening the dog is spry enough to climb two steps in order to pester me for food while I’m trying to watch TV. It wedges its nose under my hand and looks up at me with cloudy, expectant eyes.
“Good for you,” I say. “Now leave me alone.”
