Animals Unfolded

The five pillars of animal enrichment (and why they matter more than ever) Every pet has a  telos  — an essential nature, a "beingness" — and that idea shapes how I work with them and their families. Being able to express themselves in ways aligned with their species, their telos, is essential to their well-being. Their well-being has always mattered to me and the families I've worked with over the last two decades. But over the last several years, one piece of that puzzle has risen to sit right alongside their physical health:  enrichment . Enrichment is more than a game of fetch (or keep-away, if you know what I mean), a walk around the block, an occasional chew bone, or hanging out with trusted humans and other pets. It's a whole framework — five pillars, in fact — and the pet guardians I partner with have embraced it enthusiastically, especially during the times their pets need it most: recovering from illness or injury, or on crate rest after surgery. Enrichment ...

Of all the topics that make a pet guardian's stomach drop, few compare to hearing the word "dementia." It's not hard to understand why. We bring our own history into that conversation — what we've seen online, what a friend went through, what we watched happen to someone we loved. Nearly all of us know someone whose journey with dementia was frightening and disorienting to witness. So when a guardian raises the possibility of cognitive decline in their pet — or a member of the veterinary team does — I do a lot more listening than talking. That fear deserves space before it gets information. Here's a place to start: if your dog or cat is 12, 13, 14 or older, some degree of cognitive change is a reasonable thing to expect. It's often a feature of aging on its own. But just as often, it's tied to an underlying diagnosis — and more specifically, to  unmanaged or under-managed  effects of that diagnosis, like pain or nausea. Addressing those medical pieces ...

I felt him behind me before I heard him — the rumble of an old work truck, slowing down. "Hey there, old timer…" the driver called out, nodding at my charge that day: a 14-year-old Labrador with a fresh cancer diagnosis, osteoarthritis that had been along for the ride for a while now, and a muzzle so gray it looked like he'd stuck his face in a bowl of powdered sugar. I rolled my eyes — privately — then turned and gave a polite nod. Comments like that don't bother me much anymore. I've come to understand they're usually less about the dog and more about the person saying them — a reflexive way to deflect the discomfort of being reminded, out of nowhere, that life is short and bodies fail. I get it. There are bigger things to focus on. Like being safe. I don't see the world as a scary place. If you handle dogs for a living , you accept that it  can  be, under the wrong conditions — and that with training and skill, it's a lot less so. Defensive handlin...