Life as an old dog

Sunday, 14 September 2025

Mike White is a senior writer and columnist.

OPINION: The old dog moves with the deliberate steps that age inevitably bequeaths.

Each stride a little slower, a little shorter, than they used to be.

Sometimes he wobbles a bit, and I watch nervously as he balances on three legs to pee.

He stops to sniff much more than before, each scruffy tuft of weeds a distraction, each letterbox post a fascination, on our walks.

He buries his nose in the long grass, like a connoisseur with a wine glass, carefully, repeatedly swilling the scent for subtleties.

At nearly 16, the old dog’s eyes aren’t what they used to be, and I imagine his sense of smell has become more important in guiding and interesting him.

But what would I know. It’s probably just something incredibly exciting from one of the neighbourhood mongrels.

Sometimes, engrossed as he is, he loses us, even though we’re right there. His head swivels as he anxiously tries to locate us, relieved to see us standing there, as we had been all along.

The beneficiaries in all this are the local cats.

No longer can he discern their bastard tabby shapes 20 yards away and launch into a chase. Now, one can perch on a fence and the old dog will wander below, unawares.

They used to be such sport for him.

Their smugness infuriates me.

The old dog’s ears aren’t what they used to be, either. My whistle often doesn’t stir him, preoccupied as he is, sniffing in the shrubbery.

Sometimes I will be within reach, and call his name, and it takes an age to register.

The only blessing is that thunder doesn’t trouble him any more.

But we still head out for walks twice a day.

In the morning he’s ready to go. A stretch, such as he can manage nowadays, and a shake, and his nose is at the door waiting for me to let the day in, and him out.

In the afternoon, it’s often a different matter. By that time, his post-lunch siesta has stretched to four hours, and his lack of alacrity indicates he’s got no intention of it ending there.

He eventually rouses his head from his beanbag, considers us as we stand dangling his lead, and gives us a look that’s part bewilderment, part “bugger-that”, and rests his head back down again.

We lever him from his comfort, tell him it’s for his own good, and that he’ll get biscuits when we return.

The old dog is happy enough to meet other dogs on our walks. Just not puppies.

With most dogs, there’s the customary circling and sniffing, raised tails flicking like windscreen wipers in a monsoon.

But puppies are too much.

They want to play, and play is the enemy of arthritis.

They want to lick his face, and he considers that delinquent impudence.

They want to jump on him, and he regards that as somewhere between bad manners and assault.

He puts the puppies in their place, and toddles on.

In winter he wears a coat.

It’s a very fine one, and if you slide your hand underneath it, you smile at the trapped warmth.

It has pointless pockets - the old dog isn’t of a mind to carry supplies or any burden. That’s our job.

It is pink.

Well, the label described it as rose, but most call it what it is.

When we shifted south, my partner’s mother wonderfully and wisely bought it for him - because she is the old dog’s biggest fan.

But they only had “rose” in stock.

No matter. Dogs only see shades of blue and yellow, evidently, and who cares what anyone else thinks. The dog is confident in his extra skin. The dog loves his coat.

The old dog visits the vet every month, primarily for an injection that helps soften the stiffness in his joints.

But he knows it mainly as a place where he gets to sample a tasty array of different treats. He barely notices the needle.

The vets are all wonderful.

They smile at his greying face, tickle him under his chin, and say how good he’s looking.

The dog stares at the treat jar on their desk.

We pay the bill, amble back to the car via a few interesting stops in the carpark shrubbery, I lift him in, and we head home in the sun.

Sometimes, I struggle to remember how he looked when he ran. When he launched himself into the air to catch a Frisbee. When he streaked after a stick I’d thrown as far into the sea as I could manage.

Those things are now memories for the old dog.

But I tell myself that when he curls up near the fire, snuggled under his blanket, and starts twitching, that’s exactly what he’s dreaming of.

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