Slightly Off the Mark

Note: This was written before our dog Beowulf passed away last July.

Most people over the age of fifty can testify that growing old sucks. I mean, older. Growing older sucks.

One of the things that sucks is medication. Now, a person can avoid going on a lot of medicine by staying fit, eating right, exercising, meditation, yoga ... you know, all that stuff you didn't want to do, even before you could predict the weather with your knees.

Of all those things, the only one I came close to doing regularly was exercise, if by exercise you mean walking. I always loved to take hikes, and walks, the main difference being how far from civilization you are. I was going to say you could define hiking as walking on very uneven ground, but I've been on some sidewalks that made me think I was returning the One True Ring to Mount Doom.

(Why would someone name a mountain Doom, anyway? Is that where they met their future ex?)

You can see some neat things on hikes, though.

The walking by itself wasn't very helpful. First I had to take medicine for my cholesterol, which is a reaction to the human desire to intake things that are bad for you. Apparently there's a thin line between cream-filled donuts and ingesting high-test gasoline. My drug of choice is chocolate, which is the cocaine of foods. I never tried sniffing it through a straw, though.

Maybe next vacation.

Then they put me on a stress pill because of my job, which I couldn't quit because I had to pay for the stress pill.

Then, I discovered I had high blood pressure--while waiting to have a colonoscopy.

Well, duh. Of course I did--a whole room full of people were about to send a sewer router into a place where stuff's only suppose to come out. Just the same, I ended up on a pill to keep my blood pressure numbers below the height of the Empire State building. (In meters. Look it up, I'm not your accountant.)

Then my prostate blew up like a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

Eventually an entire shelf in the medicine cabinet was filled with drugs, and not one of them a fun drug. This doesn't include pain relievers ... we have another shelf for them. It seemed a good time for some kind of organization. Luckily, like many men who own homes, I had several stacks of empty cardboard boxes laying around.

No, I don't know why, but apparently it's a thing.

So I liberated a small cardboard box and put it on my desk, where I could spend half an hour every morning taking my meds without disturbing my wife. Well, she's disturbed by all the empty boxes, but never mind.

At about the same time, our dog fell over. Then he continued to fall over. He had developed a nerve related condition called ... well, I can't pronounce it, but we had to rush him to the doggie hospital. He got better, or possibly I got lopsided and he only looked straight. The vet also prescribed Beowulf medication for joint pain because--well, we grew old together, and it was his time. Emily left his bottle of meds where she could easily find it.

On my desk.

"Since you started feeding me those strange hot dogs I've been seeing ... strange things."

When I get home from work I race around in a half-unconscious state, trying to get all my 6 a.m. stuff done so I can go to bed and pretend it's night. (See above about stressful jobs.) The meds are an important thing, of course, although unlike Beowulf I don't get mine inside a hot dog. Lucky dog. I mean the dog, not the dog. The meat one. The other meat one. Never mind.

Trying to do three or four things at once, I got one of his pills, filled a cup with water for my pills, walked into the kitchen for a hot dog, then back to the desk where I discovered, of course, that I had swallowed the dog's pill.

The dog's pill is a narcotic.

Now, I should have done what Emily later said I should have done: Called the vet. "Hi, I took our dog's medication ... well, yes, I am a dumbass, but that's not why I called."

But I didn't want a bunch of people laughing at my dumbassery. At least, not until I could get a blog out of it.

Instead, I stayed up to gauge what kind of reaction it had on me. Let me assure you--it did have a reaction. It was, in fact, the same reaction I used to have to drinking alcohol, and illustrates the reason why I don't bother with illegal drugs.

I felt weird. I got drowsy. Then I fell asleep. Then I slept for a long, long time.

"So, listen ... since you got to try mine, do I get to try yours?"

It's the same thing that happens when I take melatonin, and that's perfectly legal. It just happened faster, and I didn't have the nightmares. I get half my best stories from nightmares.

So, now I can say I know how the dog feels, except that I can't lick my private parts--and my back is too stiff for that, anyway. Maybe, someday, some doctor will put me on a pill like that for some age-related discomfort I haven't even though of yet. If that happens, hey--the side effects from the other pills will no longer bother me.

I'll sleep through them.

Another note: Ironically, my doctor did, indeed, respond to my increasing chronic pain by putting me on the exact same med Beowulf was on.

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No one knows where Beowulf came from.

He was very serious, and also very curious. I suspect he was mistreated by his former owner, because he would whine instead of bark, and was a little jumpy when touched. We did our best to make him feel at home, and I think it worked: One day he got off his line in the backyard, and when I started a panicked search I found him patiently waiting at the front door.

Gradually he relaxed and, as will happen, became family. He never chewed on anything unless he knew he was allowed to, and when someone passed by he would bark at them for one reason: He wanted us to let them in so he could make friends. (Having said that, he saw any animal smaller than him as food, giving us some insight into his former life.)

He loved every kid who came around, and most adults--unless he detected alcohol on their breath. Then he'd start to growl and become protective, which perhaps gives us another look into his past.

Like us he loved to travel, but he also loved to get home.

But he got old, as dogs do, and people. Neuropathy, hip dysplasia, hearing loss, cognitive problems. We were okay with him sleeping a lot--heck, I sleep a lot. But wandering in circles, steering himself into corners and just standing there, whining when he should have been comfortable ...

Sometimes there comes a time when you have to consider if you're keeping them around for their happiness--or yours. We got him about six months after Emily and I were married. The vet's estimation of his age meant he was around sixteen years old. It was time.

In the last photo ever taken with the three of us together, Emily and I were smiling, kind of. I think I can speak for both of us when I saw they were forced smiles.

He wasn't just a dog. He was family. Now he's crossed the rainbow bridge, to frolic with the family members who came before him (as Emily told him to at the end). There aren't any words to describe how much he'll be missed.

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 With blogs like this I've learned to make it abundantly clear: He's OK.

Beowulf is about fourteen, as near as we can figure, which is Methuselah in human years. According to the Bible, Moses lived to be 120; Beowulf is that close to making it to the promised land. What that brings with it, at least for owners, is worry. After all, we've had him for ten years. That's way older than anything ever found in the back of my refrigerator. Except that one time. Let's not talk about that.

So when the side of his face started to get sensitive, we worried. When his snout swelled up to grizzly bear size, it was time for a run to the doggy ER, which does indeed exist. It turns out he had a tooth abscess, which is every bit as horrible as it sounds. He had to be on antibiotics for weeks before they could even think about treating it.

We thought about it, of course. A lot. For three weeks.

I felt guilty about that. Dental work and I have a long history, and there's no "good" about it.

He had a tooth removed, and ended up with stitches where the abscess was, um, abscessing. The first day that didn't bother him much, what with how very, very drugged he was.

"Duuuuddddeeee .... good, good stuff ...."

It got a little harder after that, although we were given pain pills that, it turns out, were for him, not me. Not that he was hungry, but a roll of turkey lunch meat with a lump in it goes a long way.

Every time we coaxed him close to the food he'd lay down, and just look at us. Since getting him in the car for our Pet ER trip is probably how I screwed up my knee a few weeks ago, you can imagine how anxious I was not to move him around. So mostly we let him sleep, although he would periodically stagger to his feet and do his regular patrol.

I know what you're thinking: "But Mark, aren't you taking advantage of Beowulf's medical problem to put out a cheap blog?"

Well, yes. But in my defense, it's not cheap, it's free ... and the subject remains cute and photogenic.

Besides, it's compensation for how I completely freaked out when Emily took the bandage off his leg and I thought I was looking at doggie bone. (I wasn't--they'd just shaved him down to his skin, and I've never seen his skin before.)

The important thing, and let me stress this: He's improving.

I got this all ready to post during the worst of winter ... now, in the worst of spring, I'm finally putting it out there. Let's face it, we're all at least half a year behind. 

-------------------------------------

Between Emily's knee surgery and my general laziness, we weren't taking Beowulf out for walks as often as we should, so before the weather turned icky in November we drove down to Chain O' Lakes State Park. I took him for a stroll along Sand Lake while Emily was in the car, luxuriating in not being at home. (Then we went for a drive.) Naturally, I took pictures.

Of course, no dog walk would be complete without the dog, who was happy to get some new smells in.

Honestly, it was a little depressing seeing everything closed up for the winter. There were still a few brave souls camping, though. As you read this, outdoor stuff is finally getting a little easier.

Duck! Sorry. The geese weren't fond of the dog, I don't know why.

It was close to dusk, but there was still one fishing boat out there. Even with most of the leaves down, Chain O' Lakes is still a beautiful place to visit. We didn't see any deer this time, though.

Here in dispatch we got all sorts of goodies this year in honor of Public Safety Telecommunications Week, much of it in the form of food from various appreciative members of the public. I especially liked one of the first ones, a paper bag full of all sorts of neat snacks, many of them of my favorite type--chocolate. But I wasn't able to partake right away, because right after I got home we had to leave again, to see my mother in the hospital. So, I left it on the kitchen counter until we returned.

The dog ate it.

He left most of the list, so I could see what I was missing.

Most of the chocolate was gone. Dogs love chocolate for the same reason humans do: It's bad for you. But, I'm happy to report, Beowulf made it through the crisis with a smile on his snout and an ache in his stomach. Okay, I'm not so very happy.

It's hard to tell how much of the bag he swallowed, but he didn't get to the microwave popcorn, and apparently the can cooler was too chewy. The green stuff at the bottom left is from one of those Scentsy wax smelly things--but that's another blog.

He also didn't get the gum, which is maybe for the best. Imagine that moment of panic the first time he passed gas after a whole pack of gum moved through his system.

In any case, although I remain less than happy with him, at least Beowulf didn't make himself sick going places he wasn't supposed to go. And me, I've learned my lesson: First, never take your work home. Second, whenever you get chocolate--eat it. Right now.

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

            Sometimes I wish my dog could talk. Other times I realize how very, very good it is that he can’t.

            Bae—we named him Beowulf, although for all I know he thinks of himself as Mxyplictic—must think we’re crazy. We cut our nails without complaint. We put perfectly good food in the trash can and then don’t let him sample. Worst of all, we get wet on purpose.

            “Wait – you’re going in there again? But that’s the room where all the water sprays down. Don’t climb in there! Water! Oh, the humanity!”