“Jazzy’s breathing sounds bad, as if she has something in her throat, but I can’t imagine she has, because she hasn’t eaten anything weird (to my knowledge) except for a very dry crust of bread,” I messaged Rosie by Whatsapp. I thought I had better prepare Rosie for the worst before they arrived home from holiday.

This happened at around five o’clock on Tuesday, the last day of my five-day stint of farm-sitting, and Rosie and Slav were on their way home from the airport; I had just come back with the two younger dogs from a long and glorious walk on the top fields. I noticed Jazzy’s funny breathing as soon I entered the farmhouse kitchen. Jaz was lying in her usual spot on a double layer of dog mattresses. Her breathing was rapid and rasping… Her eyes looked at me sadly as if to say “I’m sorry, but I think I’m on the way out… I think I’m dying… I may not last until Rosie gets home.”

“Oh no,” I thought, “I’ve killed her!”

I will explain… Each morning, after all the animals had been fed, it had been my recent habit to take all four dogs, regardless of age, out for a short walk. In fact, the whole point of the short walk, taken at a leisurely pace, out in the fresh air and sunshine was that it should be beneficial to the health and longevity of Jaz and Sasha. Indeed, the older two had seemed very happy (especially with lots of encouragement and pats on the back) to be going up to the orchard, then taking a rest in the first field; tiny Sasha enjoyed her rides in the wheelbarrow – she loved playing at apple-guard-dog and, likewise, Jaz was happy pretending to be a puppy again by running a few steps downhill.

Listening to Jazzy’s laboured breathing it was hard to imagine that this was the same jolly dog who had been so invigorated by her excursion to the orchard several hours earlier. If anything, her breathing was getting worse. I went over to stroke her head and give her a bowl of water when I noticed that Jaz had wet and dirtied herself. “Poor dear Jaz”, I thought – this was another clear indication of her imminent demise. If only I hadn’t taken Jaz for her walk that morning… If only I had put her, and not Sasha, in the wheelbarrow… not that I would have been strong enough to lift her – and she wouldn’t have fitted anyway (she’s a big old girl – beautiful but big!) but it helped somehow to try and think of what I could have done differently.

At last there was a phone call from Rosie. She was on her way home – hurrah!

” – Yes, she is eating well – absolutely no loss of appetite – hold on, I’ll give her a biscuit…

– Still enjoying her food, Rosie. Still drinking water – had a whole bowlful earlier.

– Yes, she did have an accident – both departments – must have been when I was walking with Inca and Malchi. I’ve cleaned it up and the mattresses are outside.

–  No, really? She hyperventilates when she feels embarrassed and guilty? Give her a cuddle but don’t be too sympathetic or she’ll think she’s ill?

– Rosie, her breathing  has abated. She’s getting better… I’m so relieved.”

You’ll be pleased to learn that Jaz is alright, just old and a bit of a worrier. Old age  can be so humiliating, especially for a sensitive lady dog like Jaz. Bless her!