Old Nipper's medication sent his pulse beneath the ground, where things looked familiar, yet where it could barely be detected. Years were going by in the canyons of the two-second spaces between the beats of his heart. It was as though a part of himself, his animal spirit as it were, the original Old Nipper immured inside his frail-staved ancient frame, had been planted or buried on a planet in a faraway galaxy where he had once dwelt but thereafter forever abandoned. That part of him still sent back radio signals, but he had long ago stopped bothering to monitor them. Still he appeared from a certain distance to remain alert as ever.
Nipper looking into an Edison Bell cylinder phonograph: photo by Francis Barraud, 1895