The myriad signatures of a canine pissoir

Sally (la Sal, the Salster) is part whippet, part Labrador and part dormouse. She is 16 years old, stone deaf, three-quarters blind and has dementia. She sleeps like the dead all day but loves her evening walk. We’ve decided that for as long as she enjoys her walks and remains continent indoors we’ll delay taking her to the vet and asking him to put her light out.

‘We’re talking about you,’ I shout at her after we’ve had a review because the dementia has become more obvious. No response. Deaf as a post. ‘You’re on borrowed time, sweetheart,’ I say, lifting her ear to speak into her head. No response. Strange it must be for a dog to live in silence. At one time she used to jump out of her skin and hide under the table every time I sneezed.

The sense of smell remains, though she must sniff more energetically than before for nuance. When out for the evening walk she likes above all else to check the dog messaging boards along the route. It’s her one remaining interest. The message board might be an unremarkable patch of long grass or a wall end but apparently there is as much information to be gleaned from one of these canine pissoirs as there is from a Sunday newspaper after a stunning by-election result. She trots from one of these places to the next fanatically inhaling the myriad urine signatures. If we deviate from the usual route she sulks for hours.

Pre-dementia, she maintained a proper perspective on the sensational stuff she was getting from these rank spots. It was the message, not the medium that was of primary importance.