Elliot turned 14 in August. His age began showing in spring, and little by little, his eyesight faded, his osteoarthritis ramped up, and he decided social niceties weren't his thing, preferring to hang out on our bed.
He quit using the stairs to get up and down on the bed a few months ago. That meant we had to lift him, and once we set him down, he'd pee. So, now we carry him outside, and he walks back in, stopping for a treat and a drink.
Elliot weighs 28.7 pounds. I'm not supposed to lift anything over ten pounds due to medical reasons, but we don't have a choice. As it is, my dog pee-stained carpets drive me crazy, and I'm not about to add to them. But removing the carpeting isn't an option. He needs it for stability. Thus, we have a system.
I take him out twice during the day. Maddy does the evening feeding time. Tom does the rest, including waking him in the early morning. After an accident on the bed, I purchased a dog blanket for protection, and we've stumbled along with this new normal.
Yesterday, I came home from the gym. Elliot was sleeping, so I hopped into the shower. We'd had some cooler weather, and the bathroom window was open, so when I heard some odd noises, I assumed it was my neighbors fixing up their backyard landscape.
When the whining started, I knew I was wrong and jumped out of the shower, dripping water. Elliot's lower half was on the bed. His upper half was frantically pawing at the chest at the bed's foot. This happened one other time when his stomach was upset. I hoped this was NOT the situation, thinking instead that he'd misstepped.
I put him back on the bed, and he immediately went to the stairs and whined. Oh, boy. I had, for some weird reason, an old towel. One that would not wrap around this rotund body, but I could not leave him to get dressed because I was afraid he'd try to jump.
At least he knows pooping on the bed is not something we would want, although the blanket would've protected my mattress. But not wanting to give him the wrong idea, I held the towel to my front with my armpits, scooped him up, and carried him to the front door.
Picture this--the towel across the frontal privates, ends flapping on either side, my backside exposed to the elements.
I knew the neighbors directly across were out, that the one catty-corner to my left works, and that the ones catty-corner to my right were either in or out. Still, I had no choice.
So, silently apologizing to whoever might see this naked body, I opened the door, set Elliot down on the porch instead of hiking out into the open yard, and told him I'd be right back. Then, I ran to my room and got a pair of underwear.
WHAT?
It's a mystery why that was my first grab. A robe and a beach towel did not cross my mind. And instead of putting on the underwear, I brought it to the front door, where I discovered Elliot had, instead of walking straight ahead to the yard, turned to the right and somehow fallen off the porch into this little section of various plantings and mulch. He couldn't get up, his arms and legs waving desperately. Running to his aid would have exposed me to anyone outside and all Ring doorbells, so I apologized to him and ran and put on a robe.
Then, I rescued him and got him into the yard. I was a mess. Mulch and dirt clung to my wet feet and legs, my hair stood on end, and because my robe had lost its sash, I held it tightly, emphasizing every curve and fat roll.
Dear lord, my poor neighbors.
When we were back in the house, I laughed so hard I could barely breathe. Elliot gave me a side-eyed sneer and limped into the bedroom.
Elliot: "I've never been so humiliated."
Me: "Blame your father. He's the one that keeps feeding you seasoned chicken."
I am happy to report that our Ring doorbell only recorded a side view from my head to my shoulder, so unless my next-door neighbor, who has multiple cameras, caught anything, I'm hopeful I won't end up on the Internet.
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