Old dog learns new tricks as age advances on hound and home

A dog will be good for you, people told me when I decided to rescue a one-year-old dog from the pound.

Bumper, the 14-year-old Australian terrier cross.

A dog will be good for you, people told me when, 13 years ago, I made the decision to rescue a one-year-old dog from the pound. It will get you out of the house twice a day, they said, and get you moving. A dog is an excellent companion. It can help ease loneliness. It teaches you responsibility. It is always pleased to see you when you get home from work — always. There is even strong evidence to suggest caring for a dog can help deal with depression.

The list of positives in regards to inviting a dog into your life is endless. Notice I haven’t said “owning a dog” — you don’t own a dog; you live together as counterparts.

What no one tells you, however, is what happens as your dog ages. Your waistline gets thicker, for starters. Walks that once went for more than an hour at a swift pace get shorter, to the point where a walk is just going outside to the park so he can do his business and then heading home. It’s his choice, by the way — the short walk to the park is all he can summon the energy for. He wants to go home and eat, and so do you. Paradoxically, his dog-walking costs go up. He goes from having a dog walker three days a week to needing it five days — he just can’t stay in the house for an entire workday any more. He has always hated going to the toilet in the courtyard and is embarrassed when he’s forced to.

Having a dog of an advanced age is like having an aged parent. You start to worry about what the future holds for him and what will happen if and when he gets ill. You start to wonder what his end of life will be like. A long illness? Perhaps he’ll die in his sleep at a very advanced age? What will you do if he is in pain? Humans are strange beasts in that we have no problem euthanising an animal if it’s suffering but don’t extend the same mercy to other humans. You know one day you may have to make that decision about your pet.

Friends ask what you will do when he dies. “Will you get another dog?” Then they realise what they’ve said and quickly offer an apology. “I’m sorry, that sounded uncaring, I didn’t mean it that way.” You stop them and assure them it’s OK because you’ve already thought about it. In fact you and your partner have decided you won’t get another dog. You’ll have a break. You’ve had this discussion with him in the room and felt bad about it even though you know he can’t understand. You’ll have a break because you know no other dog will be a replacement for this one.

You put off big life decisions. You won’t move house because it would be too much for the dog to adjust to. You won’t buy a new sofa just yet — the dog has made himself at home on this one and it’s too late to change his habits. He’s also developed a weird obsession with licking the sofa fabric, so we definitely won’t spend money on a new one while that’s happening. The vet informs you it’s a sign of canine cognitive dysfunction and suggests you switch his food from a “mature adult” recipe to a specialist geriatric variety that has to be specially ordered. “He won’t like it at first but whatever you do don’t give in, he will test your will.” The stand-off lasts for 10 days — he’ll eat one or two pieces and walk away from the bowl. The sound of him crunching through a full bowl after nearly two weeks is music to your ears.

One day while waiting at the vet you spot a new product behind the counter. It’s a DNA testing kit. “Decode your dog’s genetic make-up,” the box says. Ever since we’ve had Bumper in our lives people have approached us in the park or in the street and asked what breed he is. “He’s s terrier cross of some sort,” we tell them because that’s all we really know and even that is a guess (although he’s definitely a terrier, anyone can see that).

About 10 years ago a woman approached me in Sydney’s Centennial Park and out of the blue announced, “Your dog is a cross between an Australian terrier and possibly a jack russell or maybe a fox terrier.” You tell her you don’t really know because he came from the pound and they didn’t know his origins. “No he is, I know about these things,” she says, and marches off. So for years we’ve been telling people he’s an Australian terrier cross based on the word of a mysterious woman in the park. Should we find out for sure? It’s only $100 and then we’ll have certainty. But why do we need certainty anyway?

Our 14-year-old Australian terrier cross is the best dog you could ever hope for. Yes, he licks the furniture, jumps on to the bed when we’re asleep, snores, barks at shadows, bites small children and, um, has a small flatulence problem from time to time. In the street a few weeks ago a man asked how old our dog was. “He’s 14.”

“Goodness, he looks amazing for 14. What a great little dog,” he says. The man bends down to pat him and, somewhat out of character, our normally skittish dog doesn’t flinch. “We have a terrier just like him and he’s 17 and still going strong.”

Now we have to decide if we can get another three years out of that sofa.