Another Mouth to Feed

“You're not going to like this.....” my friend Michael began as he pulled on his coat and gloves and fumbled with his keys, “But I just can't let her be sent to the pound.”

“Who?” I asked but knew that it didn't matter. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me our already overrun household was about to be added to once again. A friend had picked up a dog running the streets - a young, three quarters starved and friendly female pit bull - animal control had been called and Michael unraveled at the thought of her being sent to them.

Futile as I knew it would be, I pointed out the obvious. He already had four, aggressive and unhousebroken dogs. The entire house looked like a landfill and reeked like an outhouse. He couldn't afford the care and feeding as it was, to add a 5^th dog was lunacy. She was bound to be in heat and full of worms. The love of dogs and his tenderheartedness notwithstanding, he was certifiable if he took her in. He was inviting mayhem. His dogs would kill her or she would kill one of them. I went on and on like a broken record but from the start I knew I'd lost.

“Take a leash and a collar,” I finally told him, “And a blanket or a couple of towels.”

“It's temporary,” he assured me, “Just until I can figure out what to do with her.”

Famous last words, I thought dismally.

A week in and it's even worse than I feared. She is, no doubt about it, sweet natured and amiable. She gets along with the other dogs reasonably well and I'm happy to have been wrong about that, at least so far. She's not a wild, frantic barker, which is a relief because one more would surely have pushed me over the edge. But she is a jumper-upper and hasn't a single clue about being house trained. How one medium sized dog can produce that many piles of dogshit is a mystery to me.

My first time caring for her when Michael leaves town is sketchy. As best I can determine, she likes to sleep and play under and around my desk so when I walk in, the desk lamp is on the floor and all the power to all the electronics has been unplugged. Another pillow has has been raggedly unstuffed and its contents strewn about the room. Not to be outdone, the yellow cur dog has broken through the barrier to get to the stash of paper towels and toilet paper in the bathroom and someone, I suspect the little pit, has overturned not one but two trash cans and left chewed up, plastic dog food containers spread from one end of the house to the other. The old pit gives me a sorrowful look, his innocent brown eyes are very convincing and the littlest one, the long haired chihuahua who is perched imperiously on the top of the couch, yawns and gives me her best “I had nothing to do with any of this” look.

There are days when I feel exactly the same way.

Waiting on Reality

After over a month of seductively warm temperatures, the last day of the year dawns with brilliant blue skies, bright sun, and a serious nip in the air. It's not even 40 degrees when I head out to turn off the porch lights at Tricia's. She's been gone six weeks now and there are times when I think the dreadful reality of her death still hasn't hit me. I know it the way you know the abstract things in life, things that are but don't really affect you so you don't give them much thought except in principle.

There was no shock at Tricia's death. In retrospect, I'd watched her dying for the better part of six months but the part of me that knew what I was seeing and the part that refused to accept it never did come to terms. My friend, Jean, was going through the aftermath of cancer treatment at the same time and I didn't feel like I could deal with the possibility of them both succumbing so I brought milkshakes and soft biscuits and hot soups and tried to be positive. After one particularly grim visit with Tricia, I remember Michael asking me if I thought she was sick enough to die and the question cut me like a knife. Yes, I'd finally told him, I think she is. But the thought was excruciatingly painful and I refused to dwell on it. Funny how the the thought of someone you love dying can bring out the selfishness in us. I wasn't completely aware of it at the time, but I spent a lot of time denying it to spare myself the pain. In a strange and sad kind of way, I suppose it prepared me for what I knew was inevitable. I had a long time to get used to the idea of her being gone and yet I still don't know it for certain.

Christmas and the New Year come and go and then it's January 2^nd, Tricia's birthday. She would have been 73. I stand in the small space off the kitchen, empty now but not long ago converted into a kind of quasi-sick room with a couch and her recliner and a couple of end tables for her laptop and phone and cigarettes. A huge print of Andy Warhol's ketchup bottle hangs on the wall and there's a makeshift entertainment center on the opposite wall with a row of books she never got around to reading and a neat stack of DVD's she never got around to watching. I remembered that once she'd gotten settled into this small and improvised space, she hadn't had the strength or energy to do either. I also remembered that she'd hurt all the time, her ankles had swelled to the size of medium tree limbs and she was always cold despite a pile of blankets and pillows and a portable heater the girls had brought her. The most shocking thing had been the weight loss which had turned rapidly into emaciation. Everything tasted metallic, she'd told me once, or went through her like grease through a goose. She was dehydrated and so frail and bruised that she seemed transparent. The girls bought her a walker to get to and from the bathroom but sometimes she was so weak and exhausted that she couldn't manage the stairs, even with help, and would sleep in the chair. By early November, a strong wind would've carried her away and the only time she left the house was for a doctor's visit or a trip to the ER. She absolutely hated her body's betrayal, particularly as her mind was still sharp and always racing. She worried about all the thing she was leaving undone and was frustrated beyond words at being helpless and dependent on others. On the rare occasions we talked about dying, she was restless and weary and at her core, very angry, but what she never seemed to be was frightened.

Dying is not always easy or peaceful and the distraction of the unknown can only make it worse. Whether her faith saw her through or she was too ill to care, I don't know. I only know that we all wished desperately we could ease her pain. As a general rule, I despise people who tell me that death is a blessing, myself included, recovery and freedom from pain and continuing life would be the real blessing. I only concede that death may be a mercy.

I miss those usually short and sweet daily emails. It was how we kept up with each other and made sure each was above ground and breathing. We would share the insignificant details of our days from medical updates to silly dog stories to who we had run into at the grocery store to the latest neighborhood scandals. On the rare day we didn't write a line or two, I still felt secure knowing she was just walking distance away. And though I didn't stop and visit often enough, she knew a phone call would've brought me running with cigarettes or a Sonic shake or a box of chicken and biscuits from Popeye's. Looking back, I wish I'd brought her something every damn day.