Presidio
Sentinel San Diego
June 2014
By Laura Walcher
There aren’t many things in life that I’d admit to being “too old” for … but I
might, just might, be too old for Fen.
Not that Fen thinks so; he thinks I’m just dynamite. I know this, because the second we hit
the sidewalk, he springs into manic action, fully expecting me to race along
with him
at what feels to me like the speed of light - but he thinks it’s just what’s fun in life; you know -out,
out, out of the house, free (ok, free-ish) at last!
Is Fen really the “adult” dog that
they told us he was? Is Fen really
the Schnauzer mix, noted in his papers? Nah. We
know better. The closest we can
come to “breed” is
maybe a
Bijon/Poodle mix? Or not. The closest we can come to his age is one; a puppy? We’d bet on that.
He came with those papers from the
Humane Society. He’d been at the Chula Vista
pound, infirm with a congenital hip condition that rendered him struggling on
three legs. Why the Humane Society
would invest in this pup …hard to know! But they did, with significant surgery
and a half-inch stack of medical
reports. He came with the name “Fennel,” which
we shortened to “Fen,” (not realizing the confusion
it would cause getting either Fen’s attention or that of grandson “Ben.”) And, believing that he was a somewhat physically hampered,
likely easier to take on leisurely walks, home with us he came.
But I digress; Fen did arrive with some talent: he answers to the name; obeys “sit,” “stay,” “no,” and “come.”
Sufficient. What he doesn’t heed is “slow down, already!” Or, “Chill, man!” Guilt overcomes me if I try to hold him back; in fact,
if I do, I get the ‘look.” Reprimanded.
I’m a bad
sport. Don’t I know he NEEDS his
exercise?
This is all the more amazing given
this hip situation. Amazing, that
is, to we wussy humans. Not only hasn’t he complained, whined, or required a cane, at first he exuberantly walked, albeit
gingerly, on four legs - and
ran, no, raced, as noted, on
three. Go figure. Now, a scant few months later, you’d be hard pressed to notice
any impairment at all.
I’m the one with the problems. I swim. Walk. I don’t run. I don’t race. The fastest I want to go is “brisk.” That becomes my person; I can even be graceful, svelte, at brisk. There’s no
question, though, that Fen doesn’t dig “brisk.” I can tell; he doesn’t see the point.
You might as well stop altogether, says his doleful stare. Or, stop
altogether only to smell, or poop,
pee, or scarf up some revolting roadside snack.
You can
tell the trouble I’m in; now I think I can read his mind.
Did I mention that Fen is just
adorably sweet, impossibly cute?
Did I say how smart he is, and that he has no enemies in the animal or
human world, that his best friends
are a cat and
a 70-lb. pit bull?
I would’ve mentioned those nice
things … but I’m really, really exhausted. ###
