Then there was the occasional puddle appearing on the carpet, and Gail started thinking I was reverting to my puppyhood.
A trip to the vet in July 2020, and then another two months later. Blood and urine tests and an ultrasound scan, and afterwards, between the tears, Gail declares I have a ticking time bomb inside my bladder.
A new routine of tablets wrapped in yummy cheese commences, and over winter I'm almost as good as new, although what formerly came out gushing like a Highland burn in spate has dwindled to a slow and time consuming trickle.
I'm still full of bounce, enjoying my food, my walks, my cuddles.
Gail is now thinking the time bomb clock might be running slow. But then peeing becomes yet more difficult, accidents are happening again in the house and more tablets are added to the daily regime.
My bladder action is now likened to a tap with a worn washer. One can still turn it on and off, but between times it drips a little.
Gail searches the internet for "male dog incontinence products" and the belly band is purchased for night time wear. I think of it as my Championship Belt.
Peeing and now also pooping increasingly demand acts worthy of a contortionist.
But in all other respects, I'm still going strong.
Gail says I have reached the Cristiano Ronaldo phase of my career*. An analogy which I think suits me rather well.
*Gail says: the reference to Mr Ronaldo in no way is meant to imply that the ageing but still super-fit (and, er, ever so slightly vain) footballer recently re-hired by Manchester United has incontinence problems, rather to draw attention to the fact that dear Bertie retains an amazing level of physical stamina given his advancing years!
