Be Kind

Dec 162020
 

This is the winter of our discontent.

We find ourselves under a cloud this year, separated from those we love, locked away, almost stretched beyond our abilities. Some of us are sick, all of us are weary. The miracle that might release us into the world —the vaccine—is some months away. Meanwhile, we have bumpy times ahead. I know two people who just tested positive for the virus. Vigilance is required.

I would not presume to diminish the physical toll COVID has taken on both its victims and the people who treat them. But I also worry about the mental and emotional toll the virus has taken on so many of us, beginning with the frontline workers and first responders who have seen so many people die. One hundred times as many as died on 9/11. It boggles the mind.

I understand the frustration this pandemic has taken—and the fear. I don’t understand the misplaced anger, the willful disregard of the health and safety of others, the dismissal of efforts to try, however imperfectly, to protect. It’s not just that such reactions fly in the face of reason and common sense. They negate empathy.

Empathy—a concern for the feelings and well-being of others—is presumed to be at the heart of this season. We collect coats and toys. We hand envelopes to service workers and donate to our charities in the glow of love and joy and the spirit of giving. If I thought my wishes counted for anything, I would wish that empathy invade each and every one of us in the next week and refuse to leave, so that we might think about, to sympathize with, even to feel with and for our fellow beings. It shouldn’t matter whether they are working in an emergency room or suffering alone, separated from loved ones temporarily or permanently, coping with too much responsibility or too little, carrying their wounds visibly or hidden away.

What to do? Not to state the obvious, but let’s be kind. To ourselves, to those around us, to people we don’t know, maybe even to people we don’t like, insofar as that’s possible. It’s within our control to be generous. At the end of the day, kindness is the the best possible gift we could give. Who knows? It could even become a habit.

Old Dog, New Tricks

Jul 292019
 

Molly crouch nowMolly has turned fourteen, which means she’s either 88, 84, or 76 years old, depending on which chart you follow. I prefer the one at her vet’s office, which measures her size, weight, current health and puts her at 72 years. I prefer that calculation. I like to think that she, like me, has a bit more time left on the clock. Although such things are unpredictable at our age.

She’s a Cavachon, a mix of Cavalier King Charles spaniel and Bichon Frise. King Charles are much prized lap dogs, cuddly, sweet-eyed, sweet-tempered, a little needy. Bichons are playful, curious, bred to entertain. Molly is a combination of both, which means she has a big personality, a defined set of likes and dislikes, a touch of anxiety, an obvious preference for people over dogs, and a big appetite for playing and eating. Physically, she seems to have inherited the best of each—she remains a good-looking dog with soft fur and lovely eyes, ears, and tail. Her weight is low, her physical ailments few, even as her similarly aged canine acquaintances struggle.

Still, we’re both growing old, she obviously at a faster rate. At this moment, we’re moving together into what you might call early old age (although I’d prefer not to) and hitting the same issues, human and canine versions, at the same time. This has been a blessing and a curse. It’s also the reality of caring for a senior dog—or a senior human.

Molly thenIf you’d asked me twenty years ago whether I’d care for (much less worry about) a senior dog, I would have said, “Doubtful.” Then again, if you’d asked me where I expected to be, I’d have said in Florida or Canada with my loving husband. Then he died and I had some quick adjusting to do, which ended up not being quick at all. Four years of hyper-activity only helped me so much. After I slowed down, the walls began to close in. I still lived where I lived, one of two occupants in a house I couldn’t seem to leave. Thus, a dog. A puppy, actually, whom I purchased when she was nine weeks and I was four years into my grief and still deeply afraid of making lasting connections.

I’d never owned a pet, not by myself. I had no idea what to do. How was I supposed to care for this tiny defenseless creature? I thought I wasn’t up to the task. A childless widow, what did I know? How could I handle the responsibility?

Molly and Nikki thenShe was a mellow puppy, which made things easier. She was also a life-saver, an identity-changer (I’m a dog owner!), a bit of a headache, and an absolute guarantee that the low moods and the dark thoughts to which I am prone could not pin me to my house, let alone my bed. My canine companion’s immediate and ongoing needs have always compelled me to, as a friend once said, “Get over your bad self.”

Molly has experienced some changes as she ages. Her anxiety has increased a bit. Her energy has dropped. She sometimes stops in the middle of the room for a second or two, as if trying to figure out what she meant to do. She’s developed idiopathic head tremors, small impulses that turn her into a bobble head for three or four seconds. If her knee is bothering her or she’s tired, she won’t jump up on the couch or finish her walk.

We’ve both adjusted to these issues. She’s learned to use the stairs to the bed. I’ve learned to lift 17 pounds without hurting my back. She’s adjusted to the tremor wave by taking a wider stance when it hits. She loves her mat by the front door (so she can monitor my comings and goings) as well as her car seat. We’ve even experimented with a stroller, which she seems to enjoy.

She seems otherwise happy and healthy, my Molly, and interested in life. She trots briskly, at least first thing in the morning. She’s still up for car rides and road trips and walks and games like fetch and new adventures and food, always food. Like me.

Her life will begin to be measured in months, not years. Maybe Molly and Nikki noweven shorter intervals. Her health can turn on a dime. That’s hard for me to accept, but I must. Living with a rapidly aging creature is a teaching moment. I frequently find myself lacking in either patience or gratitude. The care and maintenance of a senior dog requires the one and urges the other. That’s a lesson I’m working hard to absorb, a lesson that will be Molly’s lasting gift to me.