No More Zoomies

The ageing girl would often be overcome with bouts of zoomies. The kind left a trail of broken furniture, cushions scattered, and neighbours confused. Despite the growth on the side of her foot slowing her charges to a hop-along, nothing could stop her from a great, long, leisurely sniff around the neighbourhood.

Why would it? She had survived surgery to remove the previous growth on her shoulder (about the size of a golf ball when it started bleeding) and had not once shown any signs of feeling poorly. In fact, the zoomies got even better! The old girl would not easily be perturbed by lumps and bumps and limping. Nope! She had seen much worse during her stint on the streets. This tumour thing was just a little snag. But it was also a great sympathy card to play with her family and strangers alike. Who doesn’t want to pet a patchwork-looking, lopsided, grey old pup?

Despite her resilience (or perhaps stubbornness ... she was a Bassett after all), the anomaly on her ankle was impossible to ignore. It garnered gasps, stares, and pity from onlookers. Canine and feline friends would stare and delicately investigate the ping-pong ball protruding from her ankle. People spoke to her through pouted lips in funny voices. But she relished the attention; it closely rivalled her favourite thing in the world: food. 

The evening stroll was nothing out of the ordinary. She was excited and energetic and easily pulled Mum along as she sniffed out the neighbourhood cats and any remnants of the day’s comings and goings. Her limping gait was a minor problem, if at all. She even tried her best to keep up with her younger brother and Dad who always sprinted ahead. There was some stiffness during dinner, sure, but not enough to stop her evening rituals.

That night, however, discomfort and pain paid their visits. The old girl hobbled around in bed, jostling Mum and Dad in search of an ever-elusive comfortable spot. She yelped and huffed in frustration, but nothing much could be done. Up and down, to and fro, hither and thither. Nowhere could she find a spot to accommodate the swollen paw and tired body. When morning came, the pain was worse and sleep had been sparse. Her swollen paw was rendered nearly unusable. She quite successfully resisted Mum’s attempts to get her out of bed. But eventually, something had to give, and Mum would not let it be the old girl’s sloshing-full bladder.

This rigmarole did not stop her from enjoying a lavish breakfast. She could simply lift the paw and let it hang limply as she crunched away at the kibble. However, it did make for an uncomfortable car ride to the vet—something she usually relished. It was nearly impossible to pop her snout out of the window because she could no longer lift herself onto the armrest of the car door.

When she arrived at the vet, Mum had to carry her big lumpy body out of the car. Her usual nimble flop from the backseat would not work this time. They made their way into the vet’s office at a frustratingly slow pace. She understood this place and she remembered her last stint here. She sauntered with a hobble into the large, tiled building. She would not grace anyone with her slobber this time. The exuberant displays of affection toward staff and other patients were noticeably limited. Something was amiss. Something, other than the cat food on the shelves, smelled very fishy indeed.

28 kilograms she weighed. Not too shabby, but not good for the wonky paw. As they waited for the prescription and dispensing, she produced at least one pint of drool on the consultation room floor. 

The old girl was highly disapproving of the prodding and poking. It reminded her too much of the needles and surgeries and bandaging and other abuses she had suffered before. How could she know if it would happen again? She couldn’t really understand the humans. She only knew sounds, how to pretend to understand or pretend to listen, or how to expressly ignore them. 

She received five extra treats with peanut butter when she was finally home (but they tasted a little funny ... bitter). Before she could protest too much, she was also served ice cream and was faffed over for hours while she lazed about, propped up on a fancy cushion. Mum massaged her with salves, rubbed her belly gently, and serenaded her with strange songs like the buzzing of bees. It was completely strange (but completely welcomed) when Mum closed her eyes and placed her open palms on the afflicted paw.

Now, she is sedated and dozing peacefully. Blissfully ignorant of the fact that, overnight, walks have become a thing of the past, running is no longer possible, and delightful zoomies are a definite no. Now it's time to slumber and snooze and doze until the final sleep arrives.

She lounges in her annexed spot on the couch, hollowed by her increasing weight. Snoring loudly, head resting on her Mum’s cold feet, Freyja says tata and farewell. However, she is in no hurry to meet the ‘nap-to-end-all-naps’, after all, he has never been a very punctual fellow. Perhaps he would forget entirely. 

She is still running in her dreams. Frolicking about the park with excited hops that are never to be had again outside of the old girl’s dreams. Freyja takes a deep whiff of a dandelion and sneezes. The park is so busy! She doesn’t know where to begin. 

Perhaps, she thinks, I will start with a gentle prance and see how far my legs take me. 

Perhaps, she thinks again, I can run forever. 

“I wonder”, the young woman said, soaking through a handful of scrunched tissues with snot and tears, “if she remembers the ocean or the feeling of youth.” She carefully watched the old Basset’s chest rising and falling. Short, shallow breaths. The long, twitching ears were greyed with age. In the place of the dark lining around her once-youthful eyes are clouds of white hair. 

Perhaps, Freyja thinks, she should say goodbye now.