Old dogs of the Internet

Try as I might, I cannot escape the old dogs. The white muzzles given them away. In video, they are slower to rise, albeit just as spry once they settle into a run. With my own white whiskers and near-heart attack every time I set out on a job, I know the feeling.

On social media, I have followed a pet rescue out of Houston. Originally I followed because of the cats they took off the streets and adopted into new homes, some spending years in kennels before earning real homes. While I donate to local animal support organizations, but this one caught my eye for the breadth of its work. They take in the hardest cases, rehabilitate dogs that some shelters might simply euthanize. I had to donate to the care of one, a dog with unimaginable skin diseases, who recovered to play like any other dog.

But the latest batch call to me more than ever, with some of those faces practically begging for me to take a 24-hour roundtrip to Houston. The organization took in a pack of dogs from a recently closed shelter. These weren’t the puppies and young dogs usually posted online. These were old dogs, a wisdom of years in their eyes and cocked heads. Dogs named Hazel and Meg. Granted, old dogs don’t always act old. An excited dog shines no matter the age.

Signs of dog aging are impossible to miss. I had forgotten the way my parents’ beagles had grown white on their snout, faces becoming white masks and finally just slept a lot as vision and hearing loss stripped away the world around them.

Age is now a factor with my lone pet. Cats can hide their age to a point. Once exposed, they don’t age gracefully. After Percy’s past year of rear leg injuries and reduced mobility, I realize cats cannot fend off age forever. His rear legs lack the spring of a few years ago, the muscles no longer as developed. When he tweaks something and growls his way up the patio steps, I see an old cat.

Maybe the older I get, the more I understand the plight of those old dogs. If we see our friends less and less, we can count on a four-legged one to chase toys in the yard. If anyone touches Percy at the wrong moment, he will swipe hard. The wrong moment remains hard to predict.

As much as I glance at those old dogs, the logistics would never work, even if I spent 25 hours in the car. The 13-year-old cat in my house would ensure that. He would run scared from the dog and the stress would lead him to act out by marking territory.

Out of respect for his territory, I must stay dogless as long as Percy roams the yard. But I will hope adoption comes soon for the old dogs. Others also will see the spirit in them, their yearning to run and play even if they can no longer conjure the speed of youth.