Poor grammar and bumper sticker philosophies aside, getting old ain't for sissies. Just try stiff joints in dog years — all while chasing down those rear bumper clichés.
So far this year hasn't been much of a tail-wagger; unless you call orthopedic beds and prescription meds fun. Throw in a shave job that makes Britney Spears look like a capable hairstylist, and you see why my yippee factor lacks yip. I'm having a midlife canine crisis and I haven't even hit my teens.
For starters, while other eight year olds take bubble gum-flavored chewable vitamins, I'm popping arthritis pills. I'd spit out the tablet, oh so cleverly disguised in the rolled up bread, if not for my weakness for peanut butter. I'll swallow my pride, or the bodily functions of others, if you smear enough Jif on it. What can I say, although my mitral valve works the same as humans, I'm a dog at heart.
However, my heart seems to be the only thing not on some sort of medication these days. Of course each new ailment means another trip down the road of false pretenses. Every time I hop in the back of the Jeep, I fully expect a jaunt with a happy ending frolic at the beach or a Thoreauesque walk in the woods. Instead I end up at the vet clinic on the wrong end of a thermometer reading.
Trust me doc, a few pats on the head and a "good girl” can't undo the irreconcilable damage to our patient-physician relationship. However, a handful of treats can negate a malpractice suit. Make 'em peanut butter flavored and I'll stop cleaning my tongue off on your face.
As if having your weight announced like 4-H livestock to everyone in the waiting room isn't mortifying enough for a lady my age, then comes the listing of pills, elixirs and ointments. I guess HIPAA laws only pertain to those on two legs. Good thing the Milkbones at the check-out desk are within reach or I might go foaming-at-the-mouth Cujo — or at least Old Yeller on a bad day.
After all the poking and prodding, it was determined that I have a skin condition and lack of white blood cells. The latter means uttering a word no 56-year-old (in dog years or not) wants to hear: incontinence. While spared the indignity of doggie Depends, I was given yet another bitter pill of aging to swallow.
So if I seem more hormonal, blame it on the weekly dose of estrogen. I usually take my barking wrath out on the UPS truck if it dares venture through the neighborhood. However, it's a good thing kids don't peddle GRIT door-to-door on their bikes anymore, or things could get real ugly.
There is no denying the fact that I've lost a step or two when it comes to chasing my own tail. Sadly, I might be celebrating my ninth birthday with soft foods only. While heading outside at 6 a.m. in a raging February snow storm to take care of a certain euphemism ain't for sissies — or most humans — neither is dog years.
Corky, a golden retriever that finds the concept of fetching beneath her, resides with Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva.