I took Oscar, our morose, ancient whippet, to the vet this week. Nothing serious: his failing body and my failing wallet spend half our lives there (a friend texted recently: “I have joined Dignity in Dying on the strength of Oscar,” which I’m unsure how to interpret). There are unexpected upsides, mainly the other animals; I met a cat called Corbyn last time.
Drawing up Oscar’s arthritis shot, the nurse asked for a progress report. How is his zest for life? (Absent, as it always has been.) What’s his opinion of stairs? (Against.) Does he enjoy food? (The costlier the better.) Is he still waking at 5am? (Look at my ruined face: you tell me.) I mentioned as we chatted that, after a lifetime of disdainful indifference, he has become anxious around other dogs – conscious of his own frailty, I suppose. He barks and gets upset if they want to play. “I’m going to give you something,” she said, rummaging in a cupboard. Dog Xanax for us to share? No, a yellow ribbon that reads “I need space”.
