The Whole Landscape Becomes Magnified

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 handling and leash skills. Constant scanning of the environment. The right gear. Fluency in reading canine body language. Advocating loudly for the dog at the end of my leash when it's needed. None of that is optional — it's the baseline.

I've heard the horror stories: the untethered dog making an unwanted approach, the handler who's checked out and not reading their own dog, the fear of a dog blowing through an electric fence in an otherwise picture-perfect neighborhood. I've lived a few of those stories myself.

But with a geriatric dog, the whole landscape becomes magnified.

You're chaperoning a dog who is old, sick, frail — vulnerable. A dog who doesn't move as fluidly or as quickly as he did even a year or two ago, whose hearing and eyesight have faded, whose body no longer shrugs off a change in season the way it used to. Often, the mind has slowed too. And I'd be leaving something out if I didn't mention the younger dog facing a terminal illness — coping with symptoms that can shift and surprise, just like an older dog's do.

None of this means these dogs can't enjoy themselves. They just do it differently now. My job as a handler — and yours, as their guardian — is to make sure they still can, safely, by leaning harder on the fundamentals and adjusting things like route and timing.

This is exactly what I coach families through as part of an integrated support plan, because a dog's needs change and every guardian's skill, experience, and surroundings are different. Here's some of what that coaching covers.

Building Your Wall of Safety

Invest in the right equipment. An assistive device like a Help 'Em Up Harness — or a WalkAbout harness for an amputee — gives a dog with hind-limb weakness the extra support they need to move confidently. This sets you both up to succeed.

Use two leashes, not one. The harnesses I use have both a front clip and one just behind the shoulders. Two points of contact means more control, and more security, for both of you.

Know your surroundings. Every neighborhood is different, and every neighborhood changes over time. Even with families I work with remotely across the country, when I connect with someone local, I drive their neighborhood myself. Subdivision or city block? Rural road or busy corridor? How much foot traffic — dogs, handlers, both? Sidewalks or none? All of it shapes how safe and accessible a route really is.

Factor in your dog's changing capacity. Physically, emotionally, mentally — what can they manage today? What do they actually find enjoyable now, versus a year ago?

Learn to read canine body language. This is one of the most useful skills you'll ever build, and it's the foundation of that wall of safety. Read the other handler, too — are they tuned into their dog, or are they on their phone?

Know the quiet hours. Every neighborhood has a rhythm. I call the high-traffic windows — before school or work, right after dinner — "rush hour." Learn your neighborhood's version, and walk around it.

Carry citronella spray, and know how to use it. Aim near the nose of an approaching dog, never the eyes. The goal is to distract and redirect, not to hurt. Skip the pepper spray — the blowback can disable you, and that helps no one.

Clip a whistle to your zipper pull. A sharp blast can startle an approaching dog into backing off or pausing an interaction already underway. It also draws human attention fast. I'll say this plainly: no one comes running if you scream. People do move quickly to make an annoying whistle stop.

Make situational awareness a habit. Constantly track your dog and your surroundings, and adjust as you go. That means no cell phone, no earbuds — ever, while you're out. (I still want you carrying a fully charged phone. It's a lifeline. Just not a distraction.)

Keep high-value treats within reach. A well-timed handful can redirect an approaching dog before things escalate.

Carry a couple of small squeaky tennis balls. If an off-leash dog approaches, a repeated squeak and a well-aimed toss is often all it takes to redirect their attention.

Decline pet requests quickly and kindly. Other people will ask. You get to say no.

Walk one dog at a time. Always.

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It's a lot, I know. But with a little regular practice, this becomes second nature — muscle memory instead of mental math. And once it does, you're free to focus on what actually matters: the meaningful time you still get to spend with the dog you love.

With over 20 years of experience in pet care and the past 12 of  those focused on animal hospice, Lorrie Shaw is a Certified Animal Hospice Practitioner, Certified Hospice Palliative Care Advocate, and pet loss & grief companioning certified professional. She is founder of Telos Companion Animal Services, LLC & can be found at lorrieshaw.com.