Sic Transit Gloria Basset Hound

Last updated on: May 13, 2015 at 11:39 am by Max Lindenman

Sic Transit Gloria Basset Hound 2015-05-13T11:39:36-06:00 Max Lindenman

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Once puberty concludes its mad career, the aging process slows. After building itself up in a frenzy, the body breaks itself down in its own sweet time. For that reason, when preparing to meet an old friend after a long separation, we can predict, more or less, how the person will look. It’s a simple matter of tweaking the picture we’ve been carrying in our heads since our last meeting. As long as we add few pounds, draw some crow’s feet, maybe subtract a little hair, our first glimpse of our old friend’s updated version shouldn’t cause too great a shock.

Provided the friend is human, that is. As I learned last week, when I touched base with Lexi, the basset hound jointly owned by my friends Rick and Yuna, animal friends need a formula of their own. This August, Lexi will turn 12. She and I last saw each other over a year ago – the exact date escapes me. But a single year to you or me is 6.25 years to a basset hound. From Lexi’s point of view, this was our first meeting in a decade.

Stepping through Rick’s door, I saw at once that Lexi looked every day of it. Previously, she’d been a tricolor, but time had bleached the brown from her muzzle, leaving it a dull white. The skin beneath her eyes had finally begun sagging enough to expose the red veins of her eyeballs. Unprepared as I was for the changes, my first thought was of a geisha who’d been fished, dead, from her own koi pond.

“Come on, Turbo,” Rick bellowed at her as we paused to pull off our shoes. “Come say hi to Max.”

“Turbo” was the nickname Rick coined for Lexi when she was about six months old. At the time, it seemed inspired. Despite the AKC papers that established her as a purebred basset and product of an ancient line of Missouri hunting dogs, Lexi was as perpetually mobile as any Jack Russell. The doorbell was her starting gun, launching her into a chain of wind sprints that lasted until someone distracted her with a bone or a tennis ball or cow’s ear.

Of course the years stole some of Lexi’s dash, but they replaced it, at first, with a kind of dignity. The last time I saw her, she moved at a stately, carriage-horse trot. But now, stumping gingerly across the living-room carpet, she looked more like a caterpillar. Her fore and hind legs seemed to be following two distinct sets of signals. Every time she planted a paw, her back hunched and her body listed.

As Lexi approached, I saw that she’d also lost something that I’m not sure I have a name for. To speak of a dog’s being vivacious or possessing joie de vivre might sound a little extravagant, but I swear, no other words could have done Lexi justice. Once, she had loved life and loved being Lexi, and she splashed this love over her fellow creatures, whether they were humans, fellow dogs or – this got her into trouble sometimes – cats.

There was a time when her gregariousness made Rick fret. One evening when she was about four, I took her for a walk. In those days, Lexi was – you’ll excuse my bluntness – a chick magnet. An ASU student in running gear fussed over her for close to half an hour; neither Lexi nor I raised any objection. Several days later, Lexi’s belly began to swell, which threw Rick into a panic. He’d planned to breed her, just as soon as he could find a basset sire with a bloodline as distinguished as hers, along with guaranteed buyers for her puppies. That she might be ravished by a mutt was his worst nightmare.

By the time Rick called me at work, his diction was already failing him. “When you took my dog out the other night,” he demanded, “did you get her pregnant?” I took the call at my desk, so when I shouted back, “No, I didn’t get her pregnant,” heads popped up from cubicles across the floor.

From the sullen look in Lexi’s bloodshot eye, it was obvious that answering Rick’s voice had become, for her, nothing more than a conditioned response. She felt no joy at seeing me, nor even – as far as I could tell – at seeing Rick. Hobbling up to my outstretched fingers, she gave them a single sniff before hobbling on. At Rick’s feet, she collapsed onto her haunches and awaited further instructions.

With a jolt, it hit me that I didn’t like this dog at all. She wasn’t pleasant to look at or fun to be with. She reminded me of a crotchety and secretive old woman. From the beginning I hadn’t wanted to touch her. Then I noticed a strip shaven from her coat, right on the spot where she had once liked to be scratched. (If Lexi were a person, and if her tastes ran in a certain direction, I would say the spot was right above her ass, where she would wear a tramp stamp.) The vet had apparently removed a benign cyst. These had been a chronic problem for several years, but now, taken with everything else, the shorn part looked like Death’s own hand print.

Rick was staring at me, frowning. It occurred to me that refusing to pet a dog is as rude as refusing to shake a person’s hand. For etiquette’s sake, I reached out and gave Lexi a perfunctory stroking. Her fur, which Rick had previously kept silky by dicing avocado into her kibble, felt rough as pig bristles. I withdrew my hand.

Somewhere I’ve seen pity defined as revulsion overcome. For Rick’s sake, I tried to carry out the transformation. “Poor Lexi,” I said. “She’s really getting up there, isn’t she?”

Rick’s mouth fell open and hung there for a long second. Finally, he said, “’Getting up there’? You’re crazy. Lexi’s doing great. ‘Getting up there’, my ass. Don’t listen to him, Lexi. You’re not poor. You’re rich.”

As Rick squatted down to give Lexi’s ears and neck a rubdown, he looked up suddenly, his nose twitching not unlike Lexi’s once did. “Aw, Lexi,” he said. “You peed. I’ll bet you went right before we got here. You couldn’t wait another five minutes, could you?” Sighing, he stood up and headed for the broom closet.

One December 24, as Rick was sitting on his couch planning his last-minute Christmas shopping, Lexi had squatted at his feet, thumping her tail and whining for his attention. Lost in his own thoughts, Rick ignored her. Her whining grew so high and insistent that it turned into a whistle, prompting Rick to scream, “LEXI, IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP THIS MINUTE, I’M GOING TO PUT MY BOOT ON YOUR ASS, AND YOU’RE GOING TO GO WHISTLING DOWN THE STREET!” Yuna and I couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or fall over laughing. In the end, we compromised by quoting Rick’s line back at him until he looked abashed.

Lexi was whining again now – not quite high or loudly enough to whistle, but close. Rick was all calm and efficiency. “Hold tight, Turbo,” he was saying to her. “We’re going to police your quarters and get you back in your AO.” I decided Rick was right: Lexi was rich.

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