Status Viatoris

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

As thrilled as you no doubt all were (cough, cough) to catch up with my news last week, I have a sneaking suspicion that there will be a few out there who are currently tapping their fingers, whilst muttering:

“Yes, yes. That’s all very well, but what about Pooch?”

And quite right too… What about me?

So you will be relieved to hear that Pooch is, well…. as Poochy, as ever.

Perhaps even more so on occasion.

He is also exceedingly relieved to have bid goodbye to the ghastly summer heat, which has been particularly punishing on a boy of nearly twelve, and which has led to the fur on each knobbly little elbow being rubbed into extinction by hours spent lolling dolefully on unforgiving floor tiles.

Too much embarrassing personal information, Mummy!

And it would appear that floor tiles and arthriticky hips are also a ill-advised partnership; all of which meant that by the time the temperatures began to descend to more manageable levels, our dear Pooch was quite reduced to a hobbly, panty, bald-in-patches shadow of his former self.

But despite his previously palpable misery, a couple of cooler weeks was all it took to get Mummy’s Little Soldier back to his irrepressible best.

Just the memory is enough to make me feel faint. Dash and get me another snacklet to perk me up, Mummy, there’s a poppet.

As wonderfully joyful and bouncy as he is, the fact that Pooch will be twelve this December is  never far from my mind. And being that I am one of Life’s worriers-about-every-wee-thing, I have for a while now been prone to panic at the slightest limp, sneeze or shake of his head.

Other than regular exercise, food supplements and eventually medication, I have been assured that there is absolutely nothing further I can do to ease the path of the arthriticky hips.

The squidgy lumps that have sprung up hither and thither are apparently harmless fatty lipoma, and the milky eyes are a result age-related lenticular sclerosis – aka nothing serious.

But there was no getting away from the fact that sooner or later there would be SOMETHING, and after a routine heart scan I was finally given the news I have been dreading since February 2001 when this amazing little creature became part of my life.

Pooch has a myocardial tumour.

Snoozin’

Taking cells for a biopsy would be a risky procedure in itself, and even if it was discovered to be cancerous, removing a tumour from a dog’s heart is not an option. Chemotherapy is also known to have little or no effect on this sort of growth.

And anyway, the scans do seem to indicate that the tumour is a benign fibroma.

Pooch is currently showing very few symptoms other than a bit of a cough and slightly raised blood pressure, so hopefully the progression of this hateful mass will be slow.

But progress it eventually will; affecting his heart and lung function, with the obviously fatal consequences.

Having to come to terms with the irrefutable evidence that my beloved dog is not going to live forever, or even as long as I had started to hope given the astounding longevity of some of the local hounds, is ridiculously hard.

But I mustn’t let my sadness impinge on his right to the happiest life possible, so fingers crossed he puts the recent frenzy of hugging down to his ever-increasing cutesy wootsiness, and not my desperation to hold him close for as long as I still can.

This is Status Viatoris, hoping that the cardiologist appointment in six-month’s time indicates a less than speedy decline, in Italy.

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

Poochos

Much to Pooch’s disgust – a disgust he takes little pains to hide, I might add – our previously sedate morning walks have recently taken on a whole new element of excitement and adventure.

Toyos

That in itself probably wouldn’t pose a problem for him, if it wasn’t for the fact that the reason for such change has come in the form of two dogs. And not just dogs, but the sort of dogs that Pooch abhors most of all – puppies.

Ick.

Diblos

Toy, an 11-month old Brittany spaniel and Diablo, a 5-month old something white and fluffy, belong to two good friends of mine who live in the same carruggio and whose work commitments do not allow for extensive canine trotty-wags during the week.

And as scooping the poop of three incontinent hounds as opposed to just the one really appealed to me, I offered to haul them along with us on our morning perambulation.

Solitary boy doing solitary boy stuff.

Once the initial daily chaos of trying to get them all into their respective harnesses and attached to their leads whilst the tiddlers make repeated attempts to kiss Pooch (who retaliates by trying to bite chunks from their fluffy little noses) and Diablo pees his happiness over everyone’s feet; we cross the road to the safety of the lane on the other side and the three sort-of amigos are then unleashed on an unprepared world.

More sociable boys hanging out.

An utterly hair-raising helter skelter down to the river – punctuated by the production, collection and subsequent disposal of steaming mounds – ensues, with The Musketeers occasionally sparing a millisecond to look behind them and check I’m still puffing along obediently in their mission-driven wake.

Thanks lads.

Slightly more convivial group sniffing.

On arrival at the wet stuff, Diablo jumps straight in for a swim whilst Pooch selects the ideal rock to lavish his un-dividable attention on and Toy nervously cases the joint for scary stuff (which I would then be required to protect him from if he were ever to run it to ground).

Yup! I’m stuck, again.

Having three such very different dogs in tow comes with its own problems as I learnt to my cost a couple of weeks ago on leaving the river, when him of the old cronky legs stumbled over a stone forcing him of the agile legs to soar clean over his head, thus knocking him of the stubby legs off a wall and down a 1.5 metre drop into some brambles.

A rather long silence followed as Pooch, Toy and I peered down at Diablo in his uncomfortable nest; with at least one of us wondering how on earth we were going to retrieve him.

Half dog, half springy mountain goat.

By lying on my stomach on the ledge and reaching down I couldn’t even touch the top of his head, much less haul him up by his harness which had been my plan.

But eventually he started bouncing up against the wall, and timing a lunge to coincide with a bounce, I finally managed to get him by the scruff and yank him to safety.

The boys heading off in search of adventure…

Diablo’s gratitude has since known no bounds, but has also had the unfortunate side-effect of increasing his confidence in my abilities to get him out of sticky situations. So it is that sliding down wet rocks, scrambling down muddy inclines and reaching into prickly undergrowth in order that accident-prone wee pup may continue on his waggy way have become an integral part of my morning escapades.

…and back they come!

Seeing the dogs enjoying themselves so much has definitely made it that bit harder to drag myself home from all the delights the Italian countryside has to offer. What used to be a perfectly respectable 45 minute to an hour’s start to my morning routine, has now morphed into two hours and probably about 6 or 7 kilometres of japes so jolly that all those things I should really be hurrying home to get on with are quite forgotten.

Oooops.

Hopefully not dry-clean only!

But having always subscribed to the theory that over and above cuddles and treats, regularly walking your dog is the way to ensure its contentment and obedience (a dirty wet dog is almost always the happiest sort and a well-exercised dog is quite simply putty in one’s hands), it becomes surprisingly easy to put less pleasurable obligations clean out of my mind.

(Now that little confession is bound to go down a storm with the ever-responsible Mothership )

But even springy mountain goats sometimes lose their nerve and need a helping hand.

Nevertheless, little stubby legs of not-quite half a year and achy delicate legs of nearly twelve, cannot stomp on indefinitely; so eventually I turn my troops around to make their tired, damp but exceedingly cheerful way back towards the village.

On the home straight.

After a relaxing cappuccino at the bar, the knackered trio are more than happy to be reunited with their beds; leaving me to get on with the more onerous obligations of the day whilst basking in the glow of satisfaction resulting  from a job well done.

Exhaustion reigns.

This is Status Viatoris, who cannot actually think of a better start to her day than herding the Tre unruly Moschetierri round the surrounding countryside, in Italy.

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

A rather superior hound...

It took me quite a long time to stop wondering if I had done the wrong thing by acquiring Pooch.

Far from being a fluffy, cuddly and winsome puppy; he was instead angular, nervy and full of worms.

Mutlet.

And despite having been exceptionally quick to house train, aged about six months he regressed to the doggy equivalent of the terrible twos,  and proceeded to destroy my living space, my belongings and my sanity for the following… well… at the time it felt like forever.

He successfully employed teeth and claws to systematically ruin two three-piece suites, two double mattresses, pillows, shoes, credit cards, phone chargers, television remote controls and so the list goes on.

When he wasn’t mercilessly ripping things into oblivion, he was peeing all over them.

Having ignored him, given him more exercise, cried, shouted at him, ignored him some more, smacked him, cried again – all to no avail – I finally had to resort to muzzling the little blighter every time I left the house. He still somehow managed to chew the ears off my beloved toy lamb, but eventually the nightmare ended; and almost as suddenly and inexplicably as it had begun.

Such a very good boy... now.

It was about that time that the real falling in love part started; and now, almost exactly eleven years later, I frighten even myself with the intensity of my feelings for this amazing little animal.

Happiness and cuddles doggified.

Since working from home, Pooch and I have found ourselves joined at the hip practically 24/7, and although he is perfectly happy to be left at home on the rare occasions I do have to go out alone, I am pretty sure that we are both much happier when we are muddling along together.

I know I am.

This is just the visible umbilical cord...

Last night, due to the unbelievable amounts of chaos currently being wrought by the builders, I decided to pull out the sofa bed and kip downstairs.

Pooch, having already retired to dig himself a little nest upstairs, did not fully appreciate this state of affairs; and at about 4 o’clock this morning I was woken by the wails of the most pitiful of sobbing puppy dogs, who, having decided to decamp to Mummy’s bed as is his habit halfway through the night, had discovered that his worse nightmare had come true – she had finally run off, and without so much as a goodbye…

His joy at hearing my whistle sent him barrelling down the stairs and under the duvet with such ferocious determination that I am lucky to still boast the use of my legs.

Deep relaxation born of relief.

Pooch, I can’t believe we have been together for eleven whole years; my longest relationship yet!  And as cheesy as it may sound…

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

You make me happy, when skies are grey.

You’ll never know, Pooch, how much I love you,

So please don’t take (at least not for years and years yet)

my sunshine, away…!”

This is Status Viatoris, who secretly suspects that the devotion she feels towards her darling little dog, may  well be reciprocated, in Italy.