Half Moon has always been a vocal guy. His grunts, chirps, gurgles, inquisitive warbles, and squeaks engage Kathy and me in conversations we never thought we’d have. He tells us clearly what he wants and what he doesn’t like. He’s a good communicator — sometimes a little too full-throated, but he is 40% Chihuahua, so we grin and bear it, especially during meal prep (which we never do fast enough.)
During the last six months, Half Moon’s vocalizations toward Jax, my mother-in-law’s sweet cocker spaniel, have taken on a sharp, angry edge. Jax is a simple, 15-year-old soul who wobbles occasionally on his surprisingly stilty legs, stumbling over his saucer-like orange and white paws. He is mostly blind now, reacting only to the smell of a treat, not the sight of the treat in front of his soft, fuzzy face. Jax has also largely lost his hearing, except for Half Moon’s alarm bark, which goes off way too often.
Even when he enjoyed better sight and hearing, Jax was never gifted at reading other dogs’ body language. He’s that dog that stands too close and doesn’t understand why another dog wouldn’t appreciate it. His sight and hearing impairments also mean he doesn’t react to visual or verbal warning signals. Helen and Andy have learned to give him some grace. But Half Moon? Not so much.
Mealtimes are high-energy periods for Halfie. He is so food-driven that even the question segment “Do you want…” ignites an explosion of barking and scuttling to the feeding area. He works himself into a lather until his kibble goes onto the snuffle mat he uses to slow down his chow. All the dogs, including Jax, eat well in their assigned areas and then reconverge on me for after-dinner mints.
Now it gets interesting. Half Moon targets Jax with warning barks, teeth gnashing, lunging, and growling. Jax doesn’t react; he continues investigating the area, sticking his nose perilously close to Half Moon’s face. It’s not until he feels the force and heat of Halfie’s voice that he finally reacts and takes a step back, and even then, he doesn’t leave Halfie’s space. This drives Half Moon into even greater fury. The demonic display continues until we usher Jax out of the room, a look of confusion on his face, wondering what’s happening.
I could write this off as resource guarding and manage the situation more closely, except at any other time, they can lick off the same spoon, clean out the same bowl, or have their heads in the same BarkBox. This is a new behavior. Jax has lived with us for nearly three years. Halfie tolerated his presence, moved away when he came near, or moved to lie down on a large dog bed with him. Half Moon mostly just threw dirty looks and left the fireworks out of it. But now, his behavior has escalated to a more troubling point.
I think this is a protective behavior, but not of food or resources. Half Moon is protecting himself. He’s scared, frustrated, and angry with Jax. Halfie can’t move as quickly or easily as he used to, so he can’t create space between himself and Jax. Halfie has to rely on Jax to read his cues and react appropriately, which he’s not doing. This accelerates Halfie’s stress level past what he can manage.
Half Moon, like many senior dogs, is struggling to handle stress as effectively as he did when he was younger. His body is undergoing significant physical, emotional, and cognitive changes, which make him more sensitive to stressors he brushed off a few years ago.
Half Moon is about 12 years old and has been in a cart for more than 7 of those years. His mobility outside of his cart has reduced somewhat as he works hard to press into position to spinal walk or scuttle across the highway of runners we have throughout the house. Abnormal wear and tear on his joints has likely created some chronic pain or at least the fear of discomfort. This, paired with his reduced mobility, creates a cycle of stress and anxiety.
His emotional resilience is also faltering under the strain of decreased mobility, specifically the option to move away from the stressor (Jax) quickly. Half Moon is now a grumpy old man who wants Jax to get off his lawn. (Enter angry fist shake here). The incidents may also have a cognitive element, but I’m not convinced that’s the case yet. Yes, they always happen at dinner, so perhaps he’s “sundowning,” but his actions seem justified, and he settles down for bed quickly once he’s away from Jax. That said, I’ll keep an eye out for other elements that could indicate a cognitive decline.
In the meantime, I’ve worked with my veterinary team to create a plan for him. We did a month trial of anti-inflammatories in case the outbursts were a pain indicator. That didn’t reduce the number or intensity of the incidents, so the next step was a vet visit for a more thorough examination. Let’s just say I’m glad I muzzle-trained him many years ago. Our team got to see a brilliant display of stress behaviors. My veterinarian agreed that there is additional underlying pain, so we’re addressing that with gabapentin, a nerve pain medication. So far, the incidents have reduced in length and intensity, but the harsh warnings continue.
I know Half Moon is anxious in these situations, so my job is to figure out a way, every night, to keep Jax happy exploring a different part of the room while after-dinner mints are distributed. Chief Problem-Solver. It’s a job title we all share when we live with and love a mobility-challenged dog.
