Hextol column: Sorry Mr Reaper but Lexy is wobbling on

She is 12, which is positively pleistocene for a German Shepherd, and had been wobbling on her back legs for some considerable time.

Like old ladies of any kind, she has been unable to last the entire night without getting up to answer a pressing call of nature.

But last Thursday, she had me up twice while it was still dark, and in the early hours, it was Mrs Hextol’s turn to answer her urgent squeaking.

It was too late, for the kitchen was already swimming in items of an unpleasant nature, which Mrs Hextol cleaned up in her usual efficient way.

But when she came back upstairs, she was close to tears, and opined that the faithful hound appeared to have suffered some major physical catastrophe.

“She looks very confused, and keeps falling over,” she said.

I went down to investigate, just in time to see the dog being copiously sick behind the begonias.

Her head was tilted to one side, and she appeared to have lost control of one side of her body. “I think she’s had a stroke!” I declared, but put her on the lead to see if she was interested in her early morning walk.

She bravely attempted to follow her usual route, but kept staggering away to one side, falling over and generally lurching about like a Saturday night drunk.

I managed to get her back home again, where she slunk into the kitchen before vomiting another bucket load of stomach contents which took a full Regina kitchen roll to mop up.

I rang the vets at Bellingham, only to discover they did not open on a Thursday, but I was given a mid afternoon appointment at the practice’s Hexham surgery.

She seemed to sink lower and lower as the day went on, growing more and more forlorn and listless, and not remotely interested in any of the tempting sweetmeats we offered her. We were resigned to the fact she had bitten her last delivery man.

Mrs Hextol said her tearful goodbyes as I carried the dog gently to the car and laid her unprotesting on her favourite blanket in the boot.

I felt like a murderer as we proceeded down the A68 in unaccustomed silence, for the dog normally whines with excitement whenever she’s in the car.

But as I approached Corbridge, a pair of pointed ears appeared in the rear view mirror, and Lexy started to come back to life.

And when we got to the vet’s, she bounded out of the car, and started running and sniffing her way round the car park like a puppy.

To say I was astounded doesn’t come close; it was as though she could hear the Grim Reaper whetting his scythe, and she was making it clear she was not going to cross the Rainbow Bridge without a fight.

She had never been to that surgery before, so how she knew her life was hanging in the balance I will never know.

She positively trotted into the consulting room with the vet, who came out with her some time later and announced she would not let him examine her thoroughly, but was of the opinion she may be suffering from some sort of inner ear infection, which could have affected her balance and made her feel as seasick as a human in a small boat on a choppy sea.

If it wasn’t that, it could be something much more serious like a stroke or brain tumour.

He had given her a couple of injections and I had instructions to take her to the vets at Bellingham the next day for further assessment.

She leapt triumphantly into the back of the car – a feat she has been unable to accomplish for some years now – sitting up as proudly as a show dog, but as soon as we left Hexham, she slumped back into her previous lethargic torpor.

She was little better the next day, unable to keep her feet and bumping into the furniture and all she would eat was the choice titbits Mrs Hextol dropped into her mouth.

Yet at the vets, she was bright and alert again, and was given another stay of execution.

I am delighted to say she has improved every day since, although still play the old soldier when it comes to meal times.

She is still wobbly and as prone to falling over as her owner, and it seems the old girl will be with us for some time yet.