Sleeping with a snorer

Just Passing Through

I feel really sorry for my dog, Zuckey. We have a lot in common; however, she’s not handling her senior years very well.›She is thirteen or so this year, so in dog years that’s right up there ready to get a letter from the White House. If she had been a “service” dog, she’d be interviewed by the local newspapers and maybe honored on “vet-erans” day.› People would ask her what her secret to longevity is and she would get a lot of respect.›But, like I said, she has not aged well.›

Zuckey is a dachshund

mix. I think she’s mixed with turtle — you see, her legs are really short and over the years her belly has gotten lower.›Her legs are so short that she can’t keep her winter sweater from slipping down.

Twice during her early career as a protector of the premises, she got carried away and hurt her back.›Dachshunds do that.› They love to jump off beds and couches and their long bodies and short legs don’t handle the high sky-diving very well. Arthritis has taken its toll. She was no longer was able to jump off and onto furniture.›She required a little help getting up the steps to the deck and she had to adjust to being pampered more than most dogs (she took to that quite well). I built her a ramp.

To protect my own back, I built her a ramp from a board I found near the dumpster in the alley and some rubbery carpet scraps.›She adapted to that quickly. The only problem with the ramp during cold weather is the tendency to ice over and after a couple of slaloms attempts, she made adjustments to her routine, sometimes secretly doing her business inside.›We old ladies have a problem with coughing and laughing too hard, so I understood.

As I said she’s old, but that’s not the worst thing about Zuckey getting old. She snores. Zuckey sleeps around 23.5 hours a day, so there is usually a rumble in my house. If she happens to have her head hanging over the edge of her bed, resting her nose on the hard-wood floor, the sound vibrates across the room.› One day I thought the guy next door was cutting the hedges — it was Zuckey across the room “sawing logs,” literally.

Last night, she snuggled up behind me in the bed. It was cold, and her warm back felt good against mine. However, this time she had added a little moan and a twitch to her routine. I shifted her position several times and finally picked her up and moved her to the living room couch.

I felt so guilty about it that I got her an extra blanket, turned up the heat and gave her a pill for the arthritis. I got back into bed and lay awake for about an hour listening to see if she was breathing any better.› Finally, I got up, brought her back to my bed, and put some headphones on.

At our ages, neither Zuckey nor I should be losing sleep.›This morning I looked like I’d been run over by a truck, and she, well, she just curled up in my office and snored.