My Lab is 12 1/2 and did fine on a 2-hour jaunt through some pretty stout vegetation on Monday. I'm convinced that in his own mind, he's still that ripped up, 72-pound stud he was a decade ago. His game has always been pure power -- no matter the cover, he gives wild pheasants two choices: fly or die. There've been a few that didn't get up fast enough for one reason or another, and he gladly killed them on the ground and brought them to me. There might've been one or two hens that suffered that fate, but my memory is fuzzy about that and, after all, he's color-blind.
He's not a great house dog, as he carries his "bull in a China shop" mentality wherever he goes. We've adapted to his ways, though, and fortunately, my wife is a very tolerant person. We know he doesn't break valuable things on purpose -- he's just a little bit excitable.
I've loved quite a few dogs in my day, but none have ever expressed as much love for me as he does, and it's been that way since day 1. I'll do absolutely anything necessary to make the final part of his life as enjoyable as possible for him. I owe him, big-time.