We calculate Paris is now 15 years old.
We don't know her exact birth date, but we adopted her when she was a couple of months old, and dogs don't attend to calendars. We thought we were going to lose her last summer, when she stopped eating and became too weak to climb steps.
"She feels like crap," the vet said. He told us we shouldn't expect her to last until Thanksgiving.
He prescribed some drugs--most importantly prednisone. Within hours of receiving her first dose, Paris was eating and walking better. Within a couple of days she was back to her old self. She's had maybe two bad days since when she's seemed a little lethargic.
In the mornings, I don't make her walk as far as she used to, and we're more careful about walking her on hot days than we used to be, but otherwise Paris is back.
Karen gets up in the morning and splits Paris' pills, then rolls them up in a little bit of bologna. Paris sits beside the bed and takes the treat. She's good for another day. Another of science's miracles.
We know it cannot hold--it's a strip of Scotch tape. Paris has been on prednisone twice as long as it would be prescribed for a younger dog. It will eventually lose its effectiveness. There might be something else we can do, but I don't know what it could be.
Paris was born with a heart murmur. For the past couple of years, once or twice a day, she honks like a goose. This is a sign that her trachea has collapsed, that fluid is accumulating around her lungs. There is pressure on her respiratory system. She is old, even though she is better than she was last summer when I thought it might be best that she drift off to sleep forever. Everything we do is more palliative than restorative.
Karen tells me I should not let Paris see me cry.
Paris came back last summer, then we lost her littermate Dublin suddenly when her murmuring heart exploded. In October, our youngest dog Audi got sick for a week and died, wrecking a plan we'd put in place a couple of years before. Apres Paris, after Dublin, we thought we'd adopt some puppies. Gentle Audi would be good with them, we thought, she was sweet and tolerant and completely without judgment.
We weren't sure that Paris would welcome a new dog. And we didn't want to put her through any undue stress.
So we doted on our only dog, and took her on road trips and to restaurants. The prednisone kept working. And we emerged from what was one of the most brutal years we'd ever experienced--2022 was a year of heartbreak and disappointment for a lot of people--with a little bit of hope that this year might be better.
And it has been.
As a lot of you might know, a little more than a month ago we adopted a dog from Little Rock's Animal Village. It happened in the usual way: Karen saw a photo on Facebook, and we made some inquiries, and I went to see her and fell in love. We were disciplined to the extent that we had certain parameters--a new dog should be small, preferably smaller than 18-pound Paris. We downsized a few years ago and have a small dog door and a small dog run.
And any new hire would have to not only get along with Paris but respect her authority. (Paris is one of nature's aristocrats; the first thing her rescuer said to me when he handed her to me that summer day in 2008 was "This one's the boss.") Paris would have veto power. And neither Karen nor I thought for one moment that she'd be reluctant to use it.
Savannah Catherine Martin is an eight-pound, four-ounce terrier-Chihuahua mix with an elongated body like a ferret and a medium long-haired brindle coat. Her face is scruffy; she has a mild underbite. We estimate she's closer to one year old than two, but she's definitely not a puppy. She's fearless, a tube of muscle with an apple for a head. She is quick and fast and loves to run and bound straight up, as though she were on some invisible trampoline.
She is on my lap right now, not quite asleep.
It is our conceit that we understand them; we can't say much about them with any certainty, but I believe she loves her big sister Paris, who is lying a few feet away from us, her clouded eyes searching and judging, keeping watch. In a moment, when I get to the end of this thought, I am going to loop a lead around Savvy's neck and take her and Paris to the dog park that--for now at least, until it is developed into some economic engine--sits conveniently across the street from our garage.
I am back now, and my girls are playing.
I tried to wear Savvy out in the park; she sprinted after balls I tossed (she's no retriever and too small to fit the balls into her mouth even if she wanted to, but she will chase them) and every so often buzzed past Paris, leaping at her regal face.
Paris meets these attacks with clubbing forepaws; by raising up slightly on her haunches and snarling playfully, the way she used to with her sister Dublin a dozen years ago. Savvy tries to undermine Paris, to slide beneath her and lift up, but she's too light, so instead rolls on her back, spinning and kicking as Paris mock snaps at her throat.
The fight is fixed. Paris always wins, though sometimes she looks astonished by the impudence of her little friend.
Then after a few minutes, I call for Savvy to sit and drape the lead back over her head, and we lead Paris across the street, into the garage, and into the house. I break a Dingo Stick in half and dip Paris' portion in peanut butter before giving it to her. I walk back upstairs to the office, and soon Paris pads up to keep me company.
Then Savvy races up and bounces her butt into Paris, and the war is on again. (Savvy is like Cato Fong to Paris' Inspector Clouseau--she's liable to spring her trap at random and inopportune times.) And for a few minutes they tumble and snarl and divert me from my work.
Finally it is over, and Savvy is on to some new adventure. Paris stands there winded. And coughs and coughs.
And wags her tail.
pmartin@adgnewsroom.com
Paris at 15, in a rare undignified moment. (Photo by Philip Martin)