Two sides of the story

 

Gail here.

You see in the pictures a dear beloved dog snoozing comfortably on the sofa.

You see him happily roaming along a soft boggy path on the Applecross peninsula, managing a five mile walk with ease, so long as no steep climbs are involved.

The pictures do not lie. But neither do they tell the whole story.

What you don't see is the dog straining for up to a minute to empty his bladder, contorting his slender frame into increasingly awkward positions, a thin pink trickle coming out, pain in his deep-set eyes. You don't see his frequent 'accidents' indoors, and the fact that he now shares my bed at night only by virtue of wearing a 'dog nappy' to prevent leakages. You don't see, on every  place where he rests, a discreetly positioned super-absorbant puppy training pad underneath his familiar blanket.  You don't see the washing machine in near continuous use. You don't see the door to my front room in Aberdeen permanently closed to try to preserve at least one part of the house free of the acrid whiff of the dog pee which a shelf full of disinfecting and odour eliminating products cannot completely disguise.

You don't see a deaf dog standing in my hallway, tail at half mast, a look of bewilderment on his fuzzy little face as he tries to make sense of his near-silent world.

Tomorrow, when I've summoned the strength, another phone call to the vet. Bertie is already on thrice daily medication. I am not convinced that the answer lies in yet more tablets.