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.
So. December was a month, right? Just as you think maybe you have everything under control, wham! Something (or a series of somethings) comes around to smack you in the face.
Ed Rizzo slid his ample body into the ornate confessional, crossed himself, and pushed a strand of thinning hair off his forehead. “Forgive me, Father,” he intoned, “for I have sinned, although I’m pretty sure God will cut me some slack even if my wife won’t, if you take my meaning.”