It’s a rainy day and I’m hunkered down with a text book just having gotten home from the vet.
Milo is… well, she’s old. She’s 9. Has lost six pounds in the past 18 months (she’s down to a lithe 85lbs). She hasn’t been able to run much this summer and the humidity has been so hard on her and my mom had me paranoid about heart worm and I’ve been thinking her hips have been sore.
The vet said that he suspects she has some arthritis in her lower back and told me to give her some oil and glucosamine on her food. She’s lost the weight from the muscles in her back legs, due to running less, he figures, but suggested putting her on senior’s food. She’s otherwise healthy and strong for a nine year old lady.
*Giant Watery Sigh*
She had a little cut on her paw this weekend, so we left her at home when the four of us went for our usual weekend park jaunt. We met up with our friends there who have a three year old lab. She’s a great dog, and ripped through the woods and trails and puddles with her tongue hanging out and complete happiness on her face. And it slapped me in the face how slow Milo has gotten. I haven’t seen her rip through the forest in a long time.
It made me a little sad, to be faced in a glaringly obvious kind of way with her mortality. For all the years in my life I claimed not to be a dog person, I sure did fall head over heels in love with Milo as soon as she entered my life.
The vet said to play it by ear with the running. She’ll never do long distances again, I don’t imagine. But hopefully she’s got many more years of 5 and 10k’s in her.