She’s napping now. She looks so peaceful. She’ll wake up hungry soon. The new medicine does that to her. It also reduces pain and, we hope, whatever thing may be pressing against parts of her brain or her inner ear. Maybe fluid, maybe a growth. Her ailments are both known and unknown. The arthritis is obvious. The neurological issue is less clear-cut. Unfortunately, an MRI is out of the question, given her age and the fact that she is a dog.
Molly is sixteen-and-a-half, a still beautiful mix of Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and Bichon. She’s probably between eighty-eight and ninety-four in human years. Not quite Betty White but an old dog by any estimation. She’s also a friendly, funny creature who’s lately been my only companion.
It’s not like I didn’t know she would age. All pet owners understand they will likely outlive their beloved companions and nearly all of them push against it one way or another. There are a couple memes going around where an owner tells her pet she will do everything for the animal as long as it promises to live forever. One graphic shows an older gentleman stroking his purring cat while telling her she’s never going to die. When Death shows up to offer a polite correction, the old guy turns on him with a knife. Death throws up his hands and says “Okay, cool. Cool.”
If only it were that easy. I’d come out with guns blazing.
It’s hard to see a pet experiencing pain or confusion. Molly can’t explain what hurts and I can’t always make it better. Her left knee is unstable, the leg weak. Her back hurts. Her eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and neither is her hearing. She’s prone to ear infections. She gets anxious in the late afternoon. She whines.
And yet she adjusts. I wish I could adapt the way she does. She falls down; she gets up. She takes the stairs. She climbs up to the window and watches. Her walking pace is often brisk. She loves to explore. Yes, she naps more than she used to but less than other dogs her age. She still assumes the play position and bounces into the kitchen at mealtime. She accepts her medicine, especially if it comes wrapped in a dab of peanut butter. She likes to see other dogs and other people, who often come with treats.
The idea of losing her panics me. At some point, the inevitable will happen, and I won’t be able to chase it away, even if I try to arm myself to the teeth. I can’t prepare for it, not really. I can try not to obsess about it. Though I remain at the amateur level in terms of meditation or mindfulness, I keep trying.
Molly is an expert at living for the now. It’s not great when the now hurts, but as soon as it doesn’t, she’s all in. Maybe her will or her interest in whatever life has to offer keeps her going. Perhaps instinct kicks in. Animals may well have a mantra: “Look alive; it’s how you survive.”
Whatever her secret, I am more than happy to try and apply some of that to my own life. If she wants to nap, I’ll let her nap. If she wants to go out multiple times on this rare warm winter day, I’m more than happy to take her cue.
Molly 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.
If 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.
She 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.”
even 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.