Monkey is old. She’s going on 18. Those of you who know her are aware of her rather negative disposition, her unwillingness to cooperate or communicate. Most of the time, she acts as though she’s blind and deaf. She may be deaf, but she’s not blind. I say may be deaf because she never paid attention to instructions when she was younger. Maybe she’s been deaf since birth. I don’t know.
Old dogs require patience. Lots of it. They sleep most of the time and when they’re awake, they randomly pee and poop. Our apartment is covered with washable rugs and oriental carpets. Also washable but expensively so. In the mornings, I pick Monkey up when she’s awakened and seems ready to go outside. I carry her to the patio where she completes her morning necessities on a piece of astroturf. I carry her because if I don’t, business happens before we arrive at our destination.
I’ve also begun carrying her outside so that accidents don’t happen in the hallways or before the grassy areas designated for the apartment dogs.
The other morning, Monkey woke up early. Maybe just before 6 am. I hopped out of bed, went to pick her up and lost my footing. I sort of crumbled onto the floor. Not a fall, a crumble. I held Monkey tightly so that I wouldn’t drop her and once on the ground, I let her go so I could get up. She ran across the room, pooping. I got up, picked her up and took her to the patio. All good. I came back into the bedroom, and the floor was littered with little round nuggets of Monkey poop.
Patience.
I picked it up and disposed of it. Monkey and I went back to bed.
There are other accommodations necessary for the old dog. I bought a ramp that parallels my bed so she can come and go as she pleases. In our last home there were dog beds in every room. But, at the apartment, we’ve downsized and there is a dog bed in the living room just in case she doesn’t want to snuggle with me on the couch.
We don’t leave her alone longer than three hours. The main reason is that she might not be able to hold a tinkle for that time (although she does hold it throughout the night). The other main reason, yes there are two main reasons, is that she has separation anxiety and doesn’t calm down while we’re away. She paces the entire time. I learned this after she became our only dog at the old house. One night we went out and came back after it had snowed. I looked at the tracks Monkey had created, and she had run back and forth from the back dog door to the front courtyard hundreds of times. It broke my heart to see the tracks and to know how frantic she had been while we were away, even if it had only been for a short time. Dogs, you know, don’t understand time. An hour is the same as ten.
The other day a video popped up on my FB page. It was of Monkey, Mimi, Nisha, Boomer, the chickens, GB and a dog trainer. They were attempting to train Monkey and Mimi, but the chickens kept interrupting the session. The Newfs weren’t interested. They figured they had been well trained and didn’t need anything new.
Monkey was alert, sturdy and interested, of course, in food. The video brought back a wonderful memory of the wonderful life we had in that garden.
A few days earlier, a picture of Monkey in a tree popped up. She had chased a squirrel up a tree and got stuck on a branch. I had to fetch her. She wasn’t appreciative.
Monkey was always the bad girl of the group. The worst dog. The one who didn’t care to please, didn’t care to obey. She was the runner. She was the one who chased down a coyote who had jumped the fence in search of a chicken dinner. She was the one who woke up the Newfs to let them know someone was walking down the street.
She was the toughest, most recalcitrant, disobedient, unappreciative dog I ever met.
And here she is, an 18-year-old bony, skinny, wobbly, white-faced mutt. Her once tiny, sturdy body is much reduced. She follows me now from room to room. We walk slowly for brief forays outside. She doesn’t need the leash; she’s not going anywhere. She’s no longer a runner. She no longer pretends she hates me because, truth be told, she trusts me. I am the person she loves and wants to be with for her protection.
Every night, Monkey gets the zoomies. Well, zoomies for an old dog. She begins hopping and dancing with sheer joy. It’s all about licking the dishes as we put them into the dishwasher. Then it’s all about her late-night dinner. That’s when she prefers to eat. We give her a bowl of kibble and prescription canned food. We then go to bed. She comes in, wants more food. I get up and she dances and hops by my ankles. I give her some more food. I go back to bed. She comes in, runs up the ramp, drinks a glass of fresh water that sits at the top of the ramp, and comes to bed.
I give her a little kiss on her head. She snorts in disgust, curls up, and goes to sleep.
Air. 
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