Blogger and gransnetter, Christine Human, describes getting a new puppy - and the sleepless nights and extra work that go with them - at sixty-three years old... At what age would you say 'no' to new pets?
The last time we had a puppy I was eleven years younger. I am now sixty-three, my husband, Shed Man, seventy and suffering with mild MS. The list for and against having another dog was long and complicated, sprinkled with revisions but in the end it came down to the empty space in our hearts where a dog should be. It’s like having a toddler around; it's turned our lives upside down.
This is the story of a day in the life of our Border Collie, (fourteen weeks). Rosie started the day by grabbing the elastic cord of my anorak which, when pulled, is designed to gather the hem in. On this occasion, with plastic tag firmly grasped in her razor sharp baby teeth, she ran outside to escape the consequences.
I spoke sternly, "Rosie drop" and to be fair she did. The cord, now with the tension usually associated with firing a catapult, was launched back at me, flicking me across the upper thigh, the sound reminiscent of a headmasters cane on a youngster's bottom smarting like a bee sting.
It's like having a toddler around; it's turned our lives upside down.
We go to weekly puppy classes together, and Rosie is reminded that we are top dog, and eat first. Breakfast, formerly a leisurely affair, is now reminiscent of a fast food chain prior to a cup final. We gobble cereal, slurp coffee and have taken toast off the menu. We watch the oven gloves being deftly flicked off the cooker oven handle, admiring her dexterity, and take note of the directions of travel for later recovery. We relax as she settles down under the table after ignoring her requests for attention which involve jumping on laps and licking ears as enthusiastically as a surgeon scrubbing up pre-op.
Shed Man rises with shoes like flip-flops while Rosie sits innocently, a long droopy moustache of shoelaces making her look like the baddie in an old Kung Fu film.
The recycling is deftly spread around the patio, the clanging of tins, the puncturing of plastic bottles, and the enthusiastic sorting of wine bottles sound like an orchestra tuning up the percussion section. Pots of pansies bravely survive replanting, (four times this week). And the cat sits motionless on the shed roof with narrowed eyes flexing its sharpened claws, ready to strike.
I wear a gadget to measure my footsteps and the 10K that I found so hard to reach prior to having Rosie now transmits gold medals to my iPhone for doubling my target.
In the evenings we turn off the TV and yawn loudly. Rosie knows it is bedtime and after a final run around the garden chasing shadows she pops into bed, sighs and settles straight down. And then we sneak back into the sitting room and pour ourselves a glass of wine...
Rosie has thrown down the gauntlet and we are rising to the challenge.
Read more posts from Christine on her blog A Dangerous Age.
