Published: Thursday, February 05, 2009

Old Ringo is curled up comfortably behind me, content but beginning to show his age, a poignant realization from a longtime companion. An English Springer Spaniel of royal pedigree, Ringy’s going on 12, still spry but descending t’other side the hill. How can I deny it?

It’s never easy to watch a valued pet’s decline. I’ve watched others grow old, know what’s coming. Can’t avoid it no matter how hard you try. As I observe him in everyday activity, I find myself wondering how it’ll all play out when the time comes. I dread all possibilities short of sprinting toward a felled pheasant and dropping dead. Cause of death: euphoric cardiac arrest. I know it’s a long shot, probably even fantasy; but if I could write the final chapter, that would be it for him or me or anyone I care about. You can’t beat expiration during an activity you love. Few are so fortunate. Too few.

Don’t get me wrong, Bingy is far from death’s door. At least that’s my assessment. He’s eating well and still running with his joyful gait. Not only that, but, he’s an absolute pest these days with Lily in dead heat. He follows my every move, beating me through the crack of any door I open to assure he isn’t left behind. Yeah, I know, his seed didn’t sprout last year, but he’s still more than willing.

Ringy’s nose is still outstanding, his eyes fine, but his ears are going fast. Of course, those who know him best realize listening was never his finest attribute. But that had nothing to do with his ears. Similar to my great-aunt Gladys, ”Antie,” I always believed Ringy heard what he chose to. But now it’s different. He can hear a loud voice at close range and responds well to his Tri-Tronics beeper, but he doesn’t appear to hear the whistle he’s known his whole life. That first became apparent two hunting seasons back when my hunting buddy observed him in the field and told me he didn’t think he heard the whistle. This year it got worse. The whistle became useless for Ringy. But again, there were times when his ears were fine that he ignored it. But this was different. Now he really couldn’t hear it. Not a problem when you have a remote-controlled beeper fastened to his collar. Maybe he hears it, maybe he feels the vibration. Does it really matter? He comes.

So, yeah, Bingy’s getting old and pale, but his will’s still strong. It’s easy to see. He’s slowed down some, even though still in top shape, right around the 42 pounds he’s carried throughout adult life. My guess is that I’ll get another decent year in the field out of him, maybe more, but you never know when an animal gets to his age. That’s why I took precautions two years ago and bred him to Lily to carry his line forward. With Lily pushing 5 and Bessie pushing 2 behind him, he won’t ever again need to pull the heaviest load. In fact, he didn’t this year, when Lily surpassed him as my top gun dog. Bessie will be as good, maybe better, as Ringy’s sun slips behind the western horizon.

But, like I said before, I’m hoping he doesn’t fade away. I don’t want to endure him breaking down and getting sick before my eyes, necessitating that dreadful trip to Doc Schmitt’s, never a pleasant chore. But when you think about it, isn’t that lethal veterinary dose administered on a cold stainless-steel table a better option than most of us ever get?

To me, yes.