Farley the Wonderdog volume 79099999a

This picture was taken after one of our pep talks with Farley. I think the talks are really working, don't you?

Farley is getting old. The reason I know this is because we just bought a new bedding set. It's replacing the bedding we got for a wedding gift. You know, that wedding that was almost ten years ago. We've been holding off getting new bedding because the dog sleeps with us.

However, one day, Farley's hips just couldn't take it anymore. He can't jump up on our bed. So instead of being the kind owners and picking him up and helping him on to the bed, we bought him his own bed for the floor, and then shopped for new bedding. We have a beautiful bed. And a ten year old bedding set that has been washed every week for 9 1/2 years, no matter what quality, still ends up looking like a worn out baby blanket.

We were a little concerned Farley would take offense to the luxury of taking over our own bed as well as doing it in such comfort and beauty. Because now that the old tattered wooby is gone. We have a beautiful luxury-suite-looking bed now. Farley in his best Walter Matthau impression, makes it up the stairs at night, takes one look at our bed, rolls his eyes, and then circles his own bed and moans as he lays down for the night. As if to say, "I hope that fancy bed makes you happy. I prefer the simple life down here. On the floor."

And now, no more Farley Fridays. We usually have Farley Friday, and Farley loads up with the kids for the ride to school. Damn dog. Last week, and the minute Max and Lucy got out of the car, he hiked his geriatric ass up onto the back seat and shit three giant human poops. If you'll remember, he's done this before. As if to say, "I'll simply replace your children's absence with my shit, mo fo."
Jerk. I'd be mad, but he really does look like a confused old man at points like that. So, I had to break it to the kids: no more Farley Friday's.

He can't make it down the stairs today. It's really sad. He finally thumps down, using just his front legs, and then just resigns that half his body is laying on the floor, maybe the other half will too. He'll just have to go outside later. Uggh. Watching him fight it, and then accept defeat is absolutely heart wrenching.

I cannot take this dog letting me know when to make the call of his time to go. It's too much. And he seems all there, especially when the kids leave the graham crackers on a chair he can reach without having to make an effort to get it. But then he seems tired and worn out too. For years I've been claiming the dog is near his end. But really, this time, it's not because I want to kill him. This time, he's constantly hobbling around like an old retired pro football player wishing he'd done more steroids in the prime of his career. Now the only steroids needed are some cortisone in those achey hips.

Once I got over all that, then apparently Farley decided he was okay with sleeping on the floor. That maybe he should remind us he's still alive and kicking, and uh, pay attention. So, he poops. Every morning, he wakes up, struggles to stand up. And in doing so, what with that struggle and all, he poops. He has no idea he does it. We don't tell him. He leaves us a little human-sized geriatric poop nugget on the floor every morning. Nice.

A couple of weeks ago, Farley had a play date with JulzHOLLA!'s dogs. One of her dogs is a medium-sized dog that minds her own business. The other one is a purse dog, and a total slut. And Farley falls for it every time, his hips failing, as he tries to hump her. It's disturbing and sad to watch. So, we don't get them together too often, but it was inevitable, we had to leave Farley at JulzHOLLA!'s for dog sitting for the day. The week after that playdate, we thought Farley was going to die. I mean, we really thought it was the end. He wouldn't move, and got stuck on the stairs. It was awful and sad. I was devastated, and when Ricardo suggested we call the vet and ask what to do, I got a little freaked out. Because I'm the one who wants to go running to the doctors with my concerns all the time, not Ricardo.

We put a call into the doctor. Basically, we just don't want to keep him going for our own selfish needs. Oh God, first we get rid of the cable, then we're going to have to off the dog. The kids love this damned dog. The dog waits at the door while they play outside, barking at any injustice, whether it be the other kids winning a foot race instead of his own, or a poodle walking by. Farley loves these kids and the fact that they are messy eaters. He helps clean up for them. Oh God. Oh God. This will be rough.

But it turns out, my vet was on vacation. So, by the time he got back and called us, Farley had recovered. His playdate with the purse dog slut had destroyed his hips for a full week. He was fine now. And even warmed out hearts by tearing into Max's lunch bag. Still, we had a nice conversation with the vet. The vet has begged us to walk Farley twice a day for 10 minutes each. It seems to be working.

That, or Farley heard the conversation, he sure has perked up. "Hey guys, I'm good. No seriously, please do not schedule an appointment for my demise with the vet! I'm cool! Look, see, I'm getting into the trash can right now. I've totally got this." So Farley, good job communicating. We see that you're getting old, but not anywhere close to death. I promise not to set you up with any slutly toy dogs anymore.

Still, the kids seem to detect the urgency of showing this dog all the love they can. Farley reciprocates with still "protecting" them from the front window, still eating their scraps, and lots of kisses. Everyday seems to matter more with Farley. Damned Dog!

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: What's My Name - Snoop Dogg