The Heroin of Hate

A Tonic for Old Age & Infirmity

Hate is a powerful elixir. Hate is the tonic which beats back age and infirmity. By all measures, it appears to be a veritable fountain of youth for Mesa. She is no longer the lithe athletic mind-machine, leaping gates in a single bound. Now the gates confine her. Or at least it takes a great deal of effort on her part to climb something she hopped in her youth. I understand, I’m the same way. Minus the hate. This hate that fuels her.

We did the x-rays. The vet says it’s her knee. Arthritis. She didn’t recommend surgery. She gave Mesa meds and ordered her to take it easy, so Mesa can make the journey into old age an easy slide. No hard play. And I agreed to all this. Because I want the best for my dog and I want her to live to a ripe old age without being crippled by pain.

But Mesa didn’t get the memo. Or, more accurately, Mesa did get the memo, but she balled it up and tossed it in the trash basket. Quietly, on her own, Mesa walks with a bad knee. When she pauses, she dangles that leg ever so slightly. But add Sadie the Weasel, the Border Collie/Kelpie cross and Mesa finds renewed vigor. She is powered by hate for Sadie. In the presence of Sadie, not only will she fail to limp, but she will run, and snarl, and steal toys just because she can. Because Mesa shoots up hate like heroin.

This cannot be healthy. But she loves it. Mesa is like an aging World Wrestling actor. She lives for the drama, the spectacle, the feud that powers her. She can ache in the quiet still moments, but when the curtain goes up, Mesa stomps back and forth in the ring, pulling on the ropes, taunting her arch nemesis.

I am torn. This cannot be good for her knee. Or her body. But this is permanent. This isn’t something surgery or crate rest will fix. We have entered the stage of life where I must weigh quality versus quantity. And satisfy her mind. Her mind is as sharp as ever. She can ignore the pain if she can just be allowed to throw gang signs at Sadie. Who happily throws them back.

I can crate Mesa. Force her to live life in a rocking chair, watching daytime television while she sorts through grainy photographs and tells the younger dogs about her glory days. Or I can allow her to shoot up on the heroin of hate. Let her snatch up a deflated rubber ball, and snarl at her nemesis while she trots along with her tail held high. A banner. That labels her loathing. A celebration of scorn.

So, I compromise. I let her have a wee bit of time shooting up on her drug of choice and then bring her inside to a soft dog bed where she can possess their toy, and glare, reveling in conquest. And contempt.

For we dance with old age around here. That spiteful bastard. Sit down too long and he will steal youth and vitality. For one day you are taunting your neighbor in the wrestling ring of life, until the thief sneaks in the dark, and the next morning you have trouble putting on your socks.