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Bella My New, Perfect Old Dog

Bella the French Spaniel and perfect old dog.

About a month ago I got a new dog. Bella is actually a very old dog; she’s just new to me. At 14, she’s a super-senior.

I admit I don’t actually know her entire background, but she had been well taken care of and loved. I got her from NBRAN (National Brittany Rescue and Adoption Network) where she had been surrendered. Bella came with a sheaf of medical records dating back years.

My friend Monica regularly fosters for NBRAN. She had Bella for about six months and Bella was initially in rough shape. She was obese and could barely walk. According to the vet records, euthanasia had been discussed. Monica and her two younger Brittanys were up for the challenge. They got Bella walking, and eventually she lost some weight.

Bella is not a Brittany, she is a French Spaniel. And, let’s face it, she is really, really, old.

This is a photo of the breed standard of French Spaniels. Bella looks just like it.

Those were two big strikes against her when finding a forever home. People tend to go to a breed-specific rescue for that breed, but NBRAN is cool about taking almost-Brittanys. They have a lot of skill placing Brittany-mixes.

But rehoming old dogs is almost impossible. Most people want puppies, not elderly dogs with health issues. Potential adopters look at old dogs and worry about the loss, not what they bring.

Not me. As much as I love puppies, I adore old dogs. For one thing, geezer dogs have manners. They are housebroken. They don’t chew. And, if you are busy or lazy, they need far less exercise.

They are also very resilient. In my experience. I’ve adopted five extremely senior dogs and they just adapt. They show up at their new house, look around, settle, in and usually take over. They don’t have time for histrionics.

That doesn’t mean that they don’t come with strong opinions. Old dogs, like old people are bossy. But in a much cuter way.

Every elderly dog I’ve ever rescued had a very strict idea of when bedtime falls. Hint: it’s early.

My first elderly rescue Morgan, used to stand in the hallway around 8:58 and bark at me until I caved and went into the bedroom. Then she’d happily climb on her bed and go to sleep.

Bella is a little more subtle. Now a true Jewish dog, she uses guilt.

Around 8:45 she wakes up from her post-dinner nap and wanders around. She is 100% able and willing to use the doggie door, but when she believes it’s time to hit the sack, she ignores it. She walks around the kitchen –past the dog door- and strides back into the den. There she stops in front of me and looks pleadingly into my eyes. She repeats this behavior about four times or as long as it takes.

Eventually, I get up and ask her if she needs to go out. This brings the Danes out of their slumber, and a small riot occurs at the front door. I force my way through the scrum and the Danes fly out and get to business. Bella, the catalyst of all this, pauses on the stoop and looks at me like she has no idea why we are here.

I coax her out by walking down the driveway. She slowly inches her way onto the lawn. If I wait long enough, Bella will do one of two things. Either she will meander around and pee. Or – and this is far more likely – she makes a U turn and trots back inside.

Then I have two choices. I can go into the bedroom where she waits patiently for her nighttime snack. Or I can try to be the boss and keep watching tv causing the whole dumb charade to repeat until I give up.

For a dog that used to have serious mobility issues, Bella loves her walks. Almost every day she goes out alone with me, or when I walk Jasper and Ruckus. Initially Bella liked to lead. She didn’t know where she was going, but she was marching there. Now she lollygags around, sniffing with the rest of them.

Before I adopted her, I introduced Bella to Jasper and Ruckus. I wanted to make sure that they’d all get along. It was a non-event; they all totally ignored each other.

My next concern was Bella and Tilly, my once-feral cat. Bella is old, but she is a Spaniel and they are bred to have a strong prey drive. If Tilly and Bella have not bonded, they have become comfortable roommates.

It was Jasper, and Ruckus who got crabby when Bella walked in and stayed. The first day Ruckus followed her around and yanked a chunk of fur out. Bella is exceedingly fluffy and wasn’t hurt.

She was scared, which is reasonable.

That first week I never left the dogs alone together. Whenever I left, I put a baby gate between them. Soon Ruckus stopped following her and Jasper stopped grumbling.

Jasper and Bella work hard in my office.

One day I returned from the barn and the baby gate was down. Only Bella could have knocked it down. All three dogs greeted me happily at the front door. We were on our way to a peaceable, if not quiet, kingdom.

She doesn’t care about Talen at all. He is careful around her.

Bella had never seen a horse before, but they barely register on her radar. They are very aware of her. When she wanders into the paddock they always – even when she is practically under their hooves – step carefully around her.

The only time I’ve seen a typical Spaniel reaction from Bella was when she noticed my neighbor’s chickens. She was fascinated. It’s a good thing there was a fence between them.

Bella’s eyes got huge and she tried to push toward them. Since chickens are chickens, the whole flock crowded up to stare at her, clucking away. Then Ruckus ran over and scared the birds.

Chickens fascinate Bella. The feeling is mutual.

Now, the first thing Bella does when she is out, is trot to the back looking for chickens. Sometimes she does. The chickens never remember her.

Pretty much everyone who meets Bella loves her. Well, duh, she’s a pretty awesome old dame.

My heart will break when she dies. But I knew from the beginning that our time together was limited. I know that when every creature– young or old – enters my life. I never get to keep them long enough.

To me, it is always worth it. This is particularly true when it’s an old animal, coming from a rescue or the pound. All I want is for them to have a comfortable place where they are loved to spend whatever time they have.

I don’t think I have failed my oldsters. I KNOW the only time they have ever hurt me is when they leave me.

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Addicted to Brittanys: Jake

AKC Perfect Brittany Spaniel. NOT my dog. Notice that it is looking for trouble.

The AKC definition of Brittany Spaniel is okay as far as it goes: “The Brittany is lively and smart and has an upbeat, willing disposition.”

Hmmm. I’d take issue with a lot of that. They are “willing” as in if your wishes and theirs coincide, they are right there. But if they are busy (and they are always busy) when you call a Brittany,they will acknowledge you and keep doing what they were doing. (“S’up? I’ll get to you when I’m done. So, I’ll get to you eventually.”)

Brittanys are super smart, not average dog smart which can be frustrating. Who wants to have their furry friend constantly outsmart you?

Me apparently.

I am a Brittany addict.

I got my first Brittany -then called Brittany Spaniels- thirty-something years ago in the same way I have acquired most of the quadrupeds in my life: because I’m a sucker.

Jake had been adopted by an idiot friend and his stupid wife in the misguided attempt to save their marriage. Like many jackasses before them, and a zillion people during the pandemic, they didn’t think adopting a pet through. All they saw was that Jake was adorable, friendly and housebroken.

They didn’t consider that dogs need exercise, (Brittanys are HUNTING dogs. They need a ton of exercise) as well as food and water. My loser friend worked at home but he was lazy. Extremely lazy.

So when Jake, then barely a year old – a puppy really- needed more stimulation than a twice daily walk, and started to destroy couches and anything he could wrap his teeth around, they yelled, hit and confined him to the kitchen.

As I said, they were geniuses. Not. (And, I might not have to add, former friends.)

When they announced he was a bad dog and going to the pound, I stepped up to take him.

My exact words were, “I have no life anyway; so what difference does another dog make?”

That has apparently become my mantra. I might have it tattooed on my arm.

Jake and Keeper loved each other . A lot.

Jake’s entrance to our lives was dramatic. The first night he was in my apartment he chased Catcher the cat, scared my canaries, barked at Keeper the dog, ran out the front door (through the screen) and tore down the street with me running after him.

I eventually caught him, and with regular walks (about six to ten a day), a bunch of obedience classes, constant work and a lot of love, Jake became a charming, occasionally obedient dog. I adored him.

He was never the easiest dog: Brittanys never are. They are super sweet, and love deeply, but they are never going to be a Labrador. You either love them, or are exhausted and exasperated by them.

Personally I find them hilarious.

A few years after Jake joined the family I moved into my first house. He may or may not have been the driving force behind home ownership.

Regardless, the selling point of my new house with the giant back yard. The previous owners had left a kid’s fort behind. It was a nifty thing, with a ladder to the top deck with a slide on the front.

Within days Jake learned that if he climbed the ladder, it brought him closer to the tree branches, where the squirrels hung out. However, he didn’t like the slide and couldn’t go down the ladder.

This meant that inevitably, I’d be working away in my office, which had a window facing the yard. Just as I’d get really deep into a piece, the sharp bark of a Brittany would pierce my concentration. I’d look out and there would be Jake, stuck on the top of the fort, screaming his head off, with Keeper barking at him from the ground.

Obviously I’d have to stop working and go outside to help., I’d climb the ladder and with Jake in my lap, slide down. Except since it was a child’s slide and I had an adult butt, it wasn’t much fun.

More than once we’d get stuck. He thought it was a blast. Me, not so much.

I found a nearby preschool that wanted the fort. It was gone within the month. Jake missed it.

Jake was the itchiest dog I’ve ever had. Naturally we went to a veterinary allergist. (I have 13 vets listed in my phone. Including the canine allergist, the small animal ophthalmologist, a neurologist etc. There is one human doctor’s number.) Turns out Jake was allergic to almost everything in Southern California, including dust, grass, and smog and native pollen.

I had a couple of options, the doctor mused. I could have him had a series of allergy shots, but given the breadth of his problems, it probably wouldn’t work. Or I could re-home him, to some place far from Los Angeles.

Neither were options. But, my parents had a lovely farm in the Berkshire Mountains of Western Massachusetts. The vet thought if he spent the summer with my Mom, it might help disrupt the allergy cycle.

Which is how Jake started going to summer camp.

I stayed almost a week to make sure he was going to be okay. I shouldn’t have worried. Jake settled in pretty quickly with my parents and their three dogs and several horse boarders.

In fact, he settled much faster than my folks. They weren’t used to a dog as clever as Jake.

The first night they left him in the house with the other dogs when they went out to dinner. They carefully closed up the house and drove away. Three hours later, when they returned, he was sitting on the front porch happy as a clam.

That first week I saw a chipmunk running across the porch. I told Jake to “go get it.” I never expected him to listen. But apparently he’d been waiting for that moment his entire life. That poor chipmunk never had a chance. Decades later I still feel horrible about it. Jake was ecstatically happy.

He loved his summers at the Farm. It also worked. He never had severe allergies again. And as a bonus, most of the chipmunks and squirrels that plagued the farmhouse moved on.

He figured out how to open the gate to the pool. He’d get out of the main house unless every door was closed and locked. And of course, no food could be left unattended. He’d never steal food while you were watching. Instead he’d pretend to be otherwise occupied. But once you looked or stepped away, the food was gone. Swallowed in a single bite.

Mom used to say that you could watch Jake figure things out. He’d just watch and look, and then – bam, whatever he was working on, he’d have the solution. If Jake had opposable thumbs he could have solved a Rubic’s Cube.

I have no doubt she was right.

Keeper and Jake were two of the cutest holiday Rein Dogs.

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Spotless Dalai, The Bestest Girl. Part II

Dalai, proudly registered with the AKC as Spotless Dalai (I named her after the Dalai Lama in the hope that it would inform her behavior) settled easily into the household. Murray’s grudging toleration of her grew to fondness.

Eventually they developed into a gang. As long as Dalai realized Murray was the mob boss.

Murray liked Dalai, but not enough to give up his ball.

The only time I recall that they got into a bad spat was when we were loading into the SUV for agility class. Dalai pushed past him and started to jump into the truck. The Boss was having none of it. He grabbed her by the back leg and dragged her out. Instead of going to agility, we went to an emergency hospital to get her leg sewn up.

She deferred to Murray from then on.

Agility is not the default dog activity for Great Danes. Danes were originally bred to hunt boar in Germany, but sport is not the first thought when someone mentions Great Danes. Couches arIn my house dogs do agility. All dogs. I started with Murray when got bored of obedience classes.

Agility requires a lot of obedience, but it’s fun. And he loved it. So I did too.

My trainer was originally skeptical of Danes doing agility, but he was won over by Murray’s devotion to the sport. (Except for dog walks. Murray hated and feared dog walks.) By the time Dalai came along, Poppy had been going to class regularly, and depending upon her mood of the day, was either spectacular or spectacularly bad. More than once Poppy leaped off of the top of the A-frame to chase a squirrel. Her weave poles were spectacular.

In my house everyone goes to agility class.

So Dalai did agilty. She nailed jumps, turns, the tunnel and tire. Even the dog walk didn’t faze her. She was no Poppy on the weave poles, but was getting the idea.

We were at class one day when Dalai started limping. When she climbed into the car, she cried. We went directly to the vet.

By the time she got there, she was unable to move without howling in pain.

After a barrage of tests and X-rays, it was determined that she had severe disc issues so we were off to a specialist. The vet thought surgery was in order, but wanted us to see a neurologist first.

I was numb. By this time, my barely three-year-old dog couldn’t stand without pain.

As soon as I got home, I called the neurologist who was part of a snazzy emergency /specialty hospital in Santa Monica. She was booked for the next two weeks.

Dalai couldn’t wait that long.

I called the surgeon again, hoping she could pull some strings for an earlier appointment. She couldn’t.

One more call to the hospital, this time in tears. The receptionist took pity on me when I said that Dalai couldn’t wait two weeks. I’d have to put her down; leaving her in that kind of pain was unconscionable.

“Well…” she said. “You could bring her in as an emergency. Then she’d already be a patient and the neurologist would see her.”

With tons of tears (me) and crying (Dalai), we headed back to Santa Monica I got there and called to tell we were there and needed help. It took a bit to convince them that I needed someone with a gurney since Dalai couldn’t walk.

I signed a ton of paperwork and handed over my credit card. The neurologist would see her that day.

I wasn’t sure if I would ever see Dalai alive again. Or if I was doing the right thing.

By the time I got home (traffic on the 405 IS that bad), the surgeon called me to schedule for the surgery the next day.

Of course there were caveats. Usually this surgery is done on small dogs so there was no guarantee it would work on a dog Dalai’s size. (It wasn’t until much later that I learned that this was the first time the surgeon had done this on a giant breed.) Dalai would have to be confined and kept very still for months.

I gulped at the cost estimate and gave my credit card number.

I set up an X-pen in my bedroom, to keep her contained, but I never even closed it. Dalai was a perfect patient. She took her daily 12 (!) Tramadol, and tons of antibiotics without a problem and never moved unless she had to potty. She never used a towel sling to help her walk – instead she chose to hop and cry. It broke my heart, but that’s she was still stubborn.

A vet friend who came to the house to do acupuncture and laser treatments on Dalai’s back and wounds and I moved my office into the house so she wouldn’t go outside.

It worked. She started to heal. Six months later she could wag her tail – something the surgeon told me she’d probably never do again.

She also could finally go for walks again. That’s how we met Werber family. They had just adopted Blue, a year-old blue merle Dane. Blue and Dalai bonded quickly and deeply. Most afternoons we’d either walk the Danes together, or Blue would come over to play. They’d chase each other around at astounding speed and leap and jump in the air. When they were tired of the zooms, they’d chase Poppy until she had enough and went into the house with Murray.

When Murray died, (at the age of 11 ½!) Dalai and Poppy bonded even more. They also fought. Poppy was a third of Dalai’s size, but four times as tough. Dalai occasionally thought she could push her little sister around.

She couldn’t.

The fights were short, dramatic and thankfully rare. They always ended the same way: a frantic drive to the e emergency vet with me explaining that my giant Dane had not only started a battle with a small spaniel, but had lost badly.

When Dalai was six, I decided that it was time to add a new Dane to the pack. Dalai didn’t so much jump with joy, when Jasper came home from Kentucky with me, as sigh in a ‘there goes the neighborhood’ way.

But they did play together. A lot. Their zoomies were something to see. Dalai was older but wise and Jasper was young but a dumb puppy. He’d run around the yard and she’d cut him off at the pass every time. They loved each other.

At some point Dalai had moved from sleeping on my bed into Murray’s big crate. She’d occasionally sleep with Jasper and I, but seemed to genuinely prefer the crate with its many orthopedic dog beds. She looked a little like the Princess and the Pea. Appropriate.

Dalai started being a geezer about two years ago. She had the lumps and tumors of old dogs, and her back legs were occasionally wobbly but she wasn’t in pain.

She was still Dalai. She ate, barked at whomever had the nerve past our yard, chased squirrels and ran out back to fuss at the horses. She still played, even when Ruckus arrived last December, Dalai would zoom around with Jasper and the puppy. She was just more strategic than fast.

That couldn’t last forever though. Last month she cried when she struggled to stand up in the morning. It wasn’t the same as when her discs first blew out, but for the first time since then, she was in pain.

Covid meant my regular vet couldn’t come to my house but I found a kind, gentle vet who did in-home euthanasia. I bought Dalai a McDonald’s quarter pounder with cheese which she ate daintily, then she sighed and passed peacefully in my arms. She was ready.

I wasn’t. The thing with the Bestest Dogs, and they are all the Bestest Dogs, is they just can’t stay with us long enough. 11 years is a long time, but it’s not nearly enough time.