Our kids wanted a dog. So did Varda. Her parents thoughts the things filthy, and occasionally said that she had been a "street child" (not a complement).
We promised the kids and Varda a dog after what would be our last sabbatical overseas. That ended in 1994, when we returned from our year at the University of Utah. Less than a week after reaching home, Varda said, "Let's go to the pound."
The person in charge said that the dog we selected was two or three years old.
Motzi is still with us, now 14 or 15. In person time, according to the formula I learned long ago, she is somewhere between 98 and 105.
We have known for some time that Motzi has cataracts. She has eaten a "geriatric" dog food compound for several years. The last visit to the vet revealed a problem with a heart valve. The medication, like those which the rest of us take for high blood pressure, seems to be a diuretic. We may have to get up a bit earlier and take her out rather than risk house cleaning.
She can no longer get onto the couch with one easy leap; she makes it up the flight of 72 stairs that is sometimes part of our neighborhood walk. But not every day.
My earlier experience with dogs, some 60 years ago, was that they ran free in the neighborhood. Most chased cars, and did not survive traffic to reach old age. Those who did, and got sick, would be put to sleep in order to save them from suffering.
Now it is different. Rules that require leashing dogs (and picking up their mess) means that few chase cars and more reach old age. Also, there has been a change in the practice of veterinarians. There are treatments not available or not practiced years ago, and strong disinclinations about killing pets that can be saved.
Parallel to the movement to extend the lives of pets is an opposite movement to allow humans to put themselves to sleep. In this country with a bit of religious law on the books, we are far from that. The most we can do is to carry a card that instructs physicians not to take extraordinary efforts to prolong life, and hope for the best.
We also hope for the best with respect to Motzi. Until now, we have not denied her the care recommended. We have not discussed our own limits, but the experience of some friends has been informative.
One family, headed by a specialist in the care of (human) cancer patients, decided not to go the route of dialysis with their aged cat. We did not inquire as to the details of the pet's fate. We heard that it died, and have noticed a younger replacement.
Another friend tells a sad story of his late dog. In response to a trauma, a veterinarian provided a blood transfusion, but selected the wrong dog-type. It seemed to be painful as well as fatal.
One of our acquaintances spoke proudly of a friend who extended her dog's life with a heart transplant. This acquaintance is not the sharpest knife in the neighborhood drawer. When asked about the source of the heart that was transplanted into her friend's dog, she looked puzzled.
As Motzi and we go further into our golden years, we will try to keep our focus on quality rather than quantity, and seek out care givers who share our views of the reasonable.