New York Times
By MICHELLE SLATALLA
Published: March 13, 2008

WHEN my dog Otto was a puppy he behaved like an idiot, even for a Labrador retriever.

We haven’t been invited back to the Hamptons since the time he stole a cheeseburger from the hand of a child. Then he jumped into the pool, climbed out and shook himself off on the guests. That was probably forgivable. What came next — joyfully vomiting pool water, grass and ground beef at the host’s feet — was not.

I would like to say this behavior was atypical. But Otto was a spirited dog. He once toppled an elderly neighbor after he snouted her crotch too enthusiastically.

How I miss those days.

Now Otto is a slow-moving 9: X-rays show that he is arthritic, with swollen elbows. His orthopedist recently said he had a bulging disk. Despite every treatment known to modern veterinary science — from glucosamine tablets to prednisone to monthly injections designed to protect the cartilage in his joints — the only thing Otto throws himself into these days is our other dog’s food bowl.

Nobody is happy about Otto. A few weeks ago, he watched dejectedly as my husband and I set off on a hike without him.

Then, at the very place on the trail where Otto once rolled happily on the carcass of a dead mouse, we suddenly heard a rhino crashing through the bushes.

A crazy-eyed, burr-covered retriever emerged. We would have mistaken the dog for the ghost of Otto’s youth if not for its white, old man’s muzzle.

The dog’s owner appeared on the trail a few seconds later.

“How old is he?” my husband asked, absently picking a burr from behind the dog’s ear.

“Twelve,” the owner said.

“He’s in great shape,” my husband said.

“He used to be barely able to walk,” the owner said.

What helped relieve the dog’s arthritis and joint pain? Acupuncture, the owner said.

We were skeptical. “Otto would pull out the needles with his teeth,” my husband replied.

“No, it doesn’t bother them,” the owner insisted.

We watched his dog grab a 10-foot branch at the side of the trail and wave it dangerously, like a scimitar. Just like Otto used to.

“Any minute now, he’ll put out someone’s eye with that sharp tip,” I said wistfully.

The next morning, I Googled “veterinary acupuncture.” That is how I learned that this version of the ancient Chinese therapy that calls for inserting needles into specific locations on pets is gaining steam, even outside Northern California.
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