How a wily fox terrier taught me that old dogs can learn new tricks
The dog is 13. She celebrated her birthday on Friday by going to the vet to get her doggy travel documents. Then, in just a week’s time, she will join us on the drive from London to Mallorca. It’s a reminder that almost a year has passed since we noticed that something was up, took her to our vet in Palma and discovered that she had cancer. There were several tumours in her spleen, another in her shoulder. Back in London we were given a sobering assessment – let her alone and say goodbye within eight weeks or operate. We took route two but were warned that she would probably have a lame leg once a chunk of the shoulder around the tumour was removed. And still, we might only get a few more months. But here we are – the most recent scans showed no signs of cancer but the oncologist says that it will return one day. Even so.
I never had a dog as child but in adult life I have shared my home first with my partner’s border-collie mongrel mashup (adorable, clever), then a weimaraner (adorable, properly stupid) and now Macy the fox terrier (adorable, wily and very particular). They have all been good at training humans, good at getting you to see things from their perspective. But also skilled at passing on some life lessons along the way. Macy in particular.
When she finally came home after the surgery, Macy was shaved, her wounds stapled together and she was in pain. It would be days before she could even stand. But she has shown a fortitude that I wonder whether I could muster. She learned how to walk anew, favouring her stronger front leg, soon finding how to run and jump again. She showed no signs of being sad – just a look of surprise when, in the early days, that weak leg might buckle. I know that I can be too quick to judge something as viable or not, too easily annoyed when the pursuit of perfection ends with a compromise – but she has shown me that sometimes we just have to accept that things are a little different now, start over, find workarounds.
In the past year she has also revealed a gritty self-assurance, a determination to do things her way when it matters. Aware that strangers might knock her bad shoulder, she now lets out a funny squeak if their stroking seems to be getting too forceful.
During the sweltering heat that hit London this week, she took herself to the roof terrace and slept there on her back, the breeze cooling her belly. I went to check up on her at 03.00, thinking of bringing her back to bed but instead I just watched her dreaming, legs twitching. Content to be alone.
It’s been a big week – a party for the launch of our Quality of Life Survey, our board meeting in Zürich, a quick dash to Spain. But when I’ve opened the door of my house, there has been a dog who squeals with delight at seeing me, runs around in circles in celebration and within minutes is curled up on the sofa, emitting sighs of joy. She knows to live for now, to make the most of every second. Perhaps she should write a self-help book. I definitely need a copy.
