MYS T ERIES Old dogs and the rainbow bridge

Years ago – at my nephew’s “white coat” ceremony at Michigan State University’s College of Veterinary Medicine – the emcee made a comment that was very profound. Although I don’t remember his exact words, the gist was that “pets enrich our lives, and make life so rewarding.” True that.

By Chris Zimmerman

I couldn’t imagine life without a dog. In my house, it has to be a birddog. Today, we have two Brittanys, the young one is almost three years old. Our “old man” is nearly 11. And like most dogs his age, “Shorty” is starting to slow down. After all, an 11-year dog is like a 77-yearold person. With every passing day –every passing bird season – he inches closer to the end of life and the journey over “the rainbow bridge.”

What exactly is the Rainbow Bridge? According to sources on the internet, it’s a mystical place just this side of heaven, where beloved pets enjoy the best parts of life in a utopian setting until they’re reunited with their human companions. The dearly departed have a never-ending supply of dog treats, fire hydrants to tinkle upon, and in Shorty’s case, gamebirds to chase. I’m not sure about the reality of that concept, but it sounds pleasing when dealing with an old dog whose health ailments are piling up faster than a veterinarian’s bill for services rendered.

On earth, Shorty is dealing with bad hips, sore joints, and glaucoma. For years he jumped in the back of the truck, even if bird season was still months away. From his perspective, and mine too, every bird hunting adventure starts with a drive in the truck. Last season, I had to help him in and out of the truck but that was okay; I know he would do the same for me.

Naps are more common for Shorty and they last hours on end. When he naps, I’m certain he’s reliving some of our grand hunting adventures throughout the Midwest. I’d like to think the bond we share has been forged in the pursuit of those birds. Shorty would do anything for me. And I would do anything for him.

What I can’t do is extend his life. His days on earth are numbered, but then again, so are mine. Time is a commodity that we can’t buy or sell. There’s no bartering or bargaining with Father Time. For Shorty and I, we make the most of every day and engage in living “our best life.”

The inevitable heartache that coincides with a pet’s last breath is something that we all sign up for when bringing a pet home for the first time. In my adult life, there have been two prior Brittanys and two English setters. They all hold a special place in my heart. The memories we made, the fun we had is something I will carry with me for as long as I live. Some dogs I appreciated more than others because they were better hunters.

My first Brittany was a spectacular hunter, but he was kind of an odd dog. He used to roll in dead things, for some strange reason. The worse the smell, the more attractive the urge to roll in it. Dead animals were his favorite, but cow pies and deer droppings weren’t off limits. It used to drive me nuts, but like I said, he was a fantastic hunter, so I let certain things go without taking umbrage.

My least favorite birddog was a big setter named Joker whose bloodline had more show stock than hunting. Boy, was he a looker. Long and sleek, his white coat was spotted with hundreds of dark black pepper specks. Although he could have been at home at the Westminster dog show, he didn’t have the gene to find birds. What Joker lacked in bird hunting skills, he made up for in patience.

Joker used to sit motionless on the corner of our yard and watch for squirrels. To my knowledge he never caught any squirrels, but that hobby of his had a peculiar effect on his salivary glands. Joker didn’t just salivate, he drooled. To have a pair of foot-long tendrils of slimy egg-white drool dangling from his massive jowls was a common occurrence. It was downright weird. When he shook his head, those juicy morsels flung on the bay windows outside, or lassoed his mailbox-shaped muzzle. The inside of our house wasn’t spared the carnage. Our ceiling, walls and appliances all had to be wiped down regularly.

A dog’s quirks, habits, and bizarre tendencies make up part of the fun of owning a dog. Their companionship is second to none, and without question, enrich our lives.

Canadian Lakes is a dog-friendly place to live. For the most part, the lots are big and roomy, which is a requirement for a dog’s good health. Off West Royal Drive, is the dog park. It’s fenced in and has a few play objects for the dogs to engage. Nearby benches allow dog owners to chitchat with each other while their dogs do their canine thing.

Northwest of the dog park, giant tracks of state land are perfect for letting dogs off their leashes to run free. Exercise is important for any dog. For that matter it’s important for people, too.

Just a few miles east of Canadian Lakes, in Remus, Healthy Acres Veterinarians take great care of my dogs. Their rates are quite reasonable. Associated with the car wash a couple blocks east of downtown Remus, is a dog wash. For $5 you can shampoo, cream rinse, blow dry and brush your dog in a stainless-steel tub that’s waist high. My dogs don’t care for it, but they sure smell and look good afterwards.

With all the good things about living in Canadian Lakes, maybe the mystery of the rainbow bridge can wait. In Shorty’s world, and mine, living here is as good as it gets.