A Gate, A Door and An Old Ragged Dog

 It's a simple ritual.  Let the dogs out into the back yard then pick up after them.  Collect all the shredded cardboard, empty dogfood containers, pieces of pried up linoleum and other debris and dump them into a fresh white trash bag before refilling the water bowl and sweeping the floor for the umpteenth time.  The I light a cigarette and take my place on the top step of the back porch so I can watch the entire yard and keep a wary eye on the dogs, making sure they don't try to tunnel or climb out.  I also have to watch for the many neighborhood feral cats who delight in tormenting from the safe side of the cyclone fence.  The entire process takes about twenty minutes unless the squirrels decide to join in, chattering and scolding as they perform their high wire acts between the trees and making these relatively peaceful, solitary moments a festival of noise and obnoxiousness.  The dogs never catch anything but they never give up either.

When they've had their fill of the their small outside world, they meander back to the porch and make their way up the stairs and back inside.  They each get a biscuit and then I 

methodically lock them behind the gate that subdivides the kitchen, close the door between the office and the kitchen and and from the other side, secure it with bungi cords.  A tank couldn't get through, I think to myself, the house is safe.  These precautions work well for the first couple of weeks but then I discover that the ragged old dog can climb the gate.  I find him serenely asleep after he's overturned the trash can and spread wadded up paper towels all over the floor.  He's had a paper festish since he was a puppy and this is nothing new but it's still annoying.  I'm mildy impressed that he's figured out to climb the gate at his age and in his condition but not terribly concerned.  The following morning, the trash can is again overturned and scraps of paper towels litter the floor but this time, he is still on the far side of the gate, calmly watching me sweep.  I wonder if he actually climbed out and then climbed back in again, then I realize that from this side of the gate, he would only have to apply a little pressure to the gate and he would be able to able to get through easily enough as it opens outward.  Why he would want to is another matter but then dogs often have their mysterious ways.  This, I remind myself, is a dog who was able to jump from the floor to the kitchen counter when he was younger and could always open a cabinet with the most minimum of effort.  Dumb as a brick, we used to say, but with a clear clever streak.

Now, of course, he's old and tired and out of energy.  The once luxurious coat is patchy and matted, his muzzle is completely white and his back end doesn't always cooperate with his front so he falls often and routinely has trouble navigating stairs.  He's mostly deaf and his eyes are beginning to be cloudy but he still gets around and shows no sign of pain or stiffness.  He may be unsteady on his feet at times and he needs help to get on the bed at night but he eats like a horse and can empty his water bowl in ten seconds flat.  And he's still unfailingly glad to see us both every time the door opens, never neglects his guard dog duties if someone should pass by the house or God forbid, a cat or a letter carrier or a delivery person should venture onto the front porch.

I take all of this into account the morning I unlock the fron door and discover him asleep under my desk.  The door between the office and the kitchen is wide open, the trashcan is overturned, the bungi cords intact but laying on the floor.  Is it possible that I was careless and just forgot?  It isn't likely but just to be sure I take extra care when I leave that the gate is up and he's on the far side and the door is shut and the bungi cords are attached and the trashcan is righted.  Dumb as a brick, I tell myself as I leave - just not possible that he could've gotten around all those obstacles and freed himself.  Except that it happened twice more that same day and then routinely began to happen every other day or so.  Sometimes I find him on the far side of the gate, sleeping as innocently as a newborn.  Sometimes I find him on this side of the gate, peacefully asleep beside the overturned trashcan. Sometimes I  find him under my desk, also asleep without a care in the world.

I tell this to Michael who calmly suggests it must be magic but I hear the skepticism in his voice and can only imagine him rolling his eyes.

Well, I tell him, I guess you'll have to see for yourself when you get back.  Ain't reality something.  

 

The Start of the Last Days

 

It's between that time when the sun is halfway up and but the sky is still dark that I rouse both the dogs and lead them to the back door. The tiny one trots along ahead of me, showing off his strut and anxious to start his day, The little dachshund takes it far slower – one cautious step at a time to compensate for his lack of sight – and carefully hesitant. I stay close to him and coax him along and eventually he makes it to the back door where after a moment of consideration, he finally steps through the doorway and with both front paws on the deck but both back ones still in the house, he hikes his leg and pees on the doorstep then looks up and over his shoulder at me with a clear expression of pride and accomplishment. There's nothing to be done except to laugh, ruffle his coat and tell him he's a good boy.

“Close enough,” I tell him and give him a hug, It's far easier than the unbearable sadness of seeing him old and tired and slow and trying so hard. I tell myself it's just the beginning and we still have plenty of time but the truth is that he's in his last days – fourteen, a little deaf and nearly blind from cataracts, less agile and less active, preferring to sleep and dream his days and nights away, often right next to me but more often stretched out on his side by the air vent, his beloved Lambchop close by but no longer played with. I frequently reach out and make sure he's still breathing but I am not at all sure my heart can stand this for very long. The thought of losing him, inevitable as it is,

paralyzes me.

Of all the dogs I've had, this is the happiest, the most loving, the most curious, even tempered, and well behaved. He is a true gift from God. Watching him decline is agonizing.

“How lucky am I, to have something that makes saying goodbye to so hard.”

A.A. Milne

Sixteen Years and Three Months

 

She wasn't anything special – just one of a thousand stray kittens born on the downtown streets, seeking shelter in doorways and scrounging for food in the back alleys. At about 6 weeks, she made her way to the back entrance of the camera store and got herself noticed. For several days they took her inside during the day, gave her food and water, and then put her back out at might until at one point, I had an errand at the store and stopped in and discovered her. She came home with me that very day.

She was a pretty but shy animal, submissive and somewhat of a loner, not a sign of the usual feistiness you so often find in stray kittens. Just a garden variety tabby who adapted quietly to a house full of dogs and other cats and never gave me a moment's worry. She lived her whole life as part of the background – calm, dignified and hardly ever demanding or arrogant. She was content to be fed and sheltered and cared for and only rarely would seek the comfort of my lap where she would curl up and snooze. She mostly kept her thoughts to herself. She traveled well, never provoked her siblings, never tried to escape out the back door or misbehave in any way. Until she got sick, she was a perfect little lady.

When she was diagnosed with kidney disease, we changed her food and added medications. She improved for a few short months but I could see her deteriorating. The initial weight loss was barely noticeable but by the time she died, she weighed just a little over 4 pounds. She stopped eating, stopped vocalizing, stopped playing with the dog, and retreated to a basket bed by the back door. The only signs that she ever left it, were the regular puddles of pee everywhere. She could still jump from flat footed to the kitchen countertop to eat although she rarely did. I cleaned, mopped up and sprayed after her every day, gently moving her to the litterbox whenever I caught her in the act and

learning to live with it. It was a difficult time but each time she managed to climb into my lap and consent to be petted and stroked until she fell asleep, I thought well, we can do this a little longer.

It's an inconvenience but it's not fatal. Until, of course, it was.

I wrapped her in a bath towel and carried her to the vet. She rested her head on my arm the whole drive and when we got to the vet and laid her out on the exam table, she didn't cry or protest, but lay still, her emaciation and slightly labored breathing the only signs of her struggle. The first injection sedated her and the second stopped her heart. She died quietly and peacefully and I held her until she took her last breath. After 16 years and 3 months, it was a final kindness, the only kindness I had left to give her.

Rest in peace. little girl. I was blessed to have you.

Maria

 

“Embolism. I am numb. Maria is gone.”

I read the post from my friend, Greg, several times but couldn't comprehend it. I had seen them together only a day or so ago – both so happy, completely in love, vibrant and as always, all smiles. How on earth could Maria be suddenly and shockingly “gone”. Social media exploded with messages and condolences and images of the couple. They were huge supporters of live music, known and loved by all in the music community and seen everywhere around town, posting cheek to cheek selfies at every event, so clearly good people and a loving, happy couple. All I was able to think was that this couldn't be real.

For the next several days, social media posts blazed with sympathy and shock as more people heard the news. The primary reaction was disbelief - followed closely by prayers – we just couldn't make sense of such a tragic and completely unexpected death, couldn't make it real. She had gone to work that morning, went to lunch and to pick up a prescription, and somewhere in between,
died. Greg was totally shattered and incoherent, barely able to make a whole sentence, not able to even imagine what his life would be without her. Friends called, delivered food, tended his dog and checked on him regularly but he was a shell, haggard and brittle with grief and not at all reluctant to admit it.

The service was comforting and bittersweet. It's hard to accept the pain of loss and celebrate someone ascending to heaven at the same time. Maria had been a person of faith, of goodness, and of kindliness and grace. Heaven or not, we'd all have preferred her here with us.

Waxworks

 

“So,” my young and undeniably attractive doctor says to me with a smile, “They tell me you can't hear in stereo. Let's see if we can't fix you up.” He inspects my ears and mutters a muted tsk, tsk. “My, my, my,” he says cheerily, “Now that's impressive.”

“Wax?” I ask hopefully.

“Did you ever see that episode of 'The Twilight Zone' with Lawrence Harvey and the earwig?” he asks and for a nanosecond, my heart nearly stops, then he gives me a wink.

“Scared the living daylights out of me, let me tell you.”

“Me too,” I admit, “It was terrorizing. But you're not old enough to remember that!”

“Sling TV,” he shrugs and gives me a grin. “Give us a few minutes and we'll have you right as rain.”

The nurse filled by ears with some kind of wax softener and some 20 minutes later, used a pressurized spray bottle to blast through the now malleable wax. It wasn't a pleasant experience but there was no pain and after a couple of sprays, I was cured.

“It's a miracle!” I proclaimed.

The doctor came back with a pleased expression in his eyes, examined both my ears and pronounced me unimpaired and earwig free. Unlike Lawrence Harvey, I emerge structurally sound and live to fight another day.

Liquor, Lies, and Lost Causes

 

He was unsteady on his feet, slurring his words, bleary eyed, two hours late and not able to manage fitting his house key into the lock. I listened with a growing sense of despair – this most recent bout with sobriety was clearly over. I didn't feel up to the inevitable battle and snatching up my purse and keys, slipped out the back door. By the time he finally got inside, I was well on my way although I had no certain destination in mind. I wanted no more than to put some serious distance between me and this latest broken promise.

It was, fortunately, a Friday night and no work the next day. I drove aimlessly for an hour or so, completely confident that he wouldn't lift a finger to try and look for me, and finally checked in to a modest hotel off the turnpike, ate in their shabby little restaurant and went to bed. Sleep was elusive and I spent more time restless and awake than sleeping. Should I go home or should I run? As long as he had beer money, I doubted he'd care one way or another but in the end – as had happened countless other times – it was my animals that brought me back. I didn't think he'd harm them intentionally but leaving them in the care of a drunk was risky. He worked, slept, ate and drove drunk – who knew when he might plow into a tree or black out or fall asleep with a cigarette and set fire to the whole house.

God knows, I'd wished for all of that at one time or another, if only briefly. Feeling dismal, hopeless and broken, I headed for home to my beloved cats and dogs. I knew nothing else would be salvageable.

It turned into one more cold war. We lived under the same roof but slept apart, kept our distance, came and went as if everything were perfectly fine, and didn't speak except for the occasional lashing out or snarl. He would sometimes leave me nasty notes about one thing or the other and I would respond in kind. The language was ugly and accusatory and hateful and hurtful on both sides. Each day I prayed he would tire of this venomous game and just leave and I suspect he thought the same thing about me. But addiction had us both and we were like animals caught in a bloody steel jaw trap – the only way to freedom was to gnaw off a limb or simply die.

After several months of this peculiar isolation and rage, we got past it. Funny, but I don't remember who initiated the peace or why. I had discovered AlAnon by then and went to regular meetings several times a week, even after I learned that these new friends were not going to teach me how to make him stop drinking. I learned the Serenity Prayer, magic words if ever there were ones, and began to listen to suggestions like detachment and self care, patience, how to avoid the quicksand of a quarrel and how not to make threats I couldn't possibly have followed through on. Small rules but enormously important – instead of “The next time you drink I'm filing for divorce” became “If you drink, I will not ride with you.” Mostly I learned to shut up and not compete with the Budweiser. I imagined a shouting match with a can of beer and finally saw the futility of it. Addiction is a disease, I reminded myself constantly, not a bad habit. And you don't have to drink or drug your own self to catch it. Sometimes you marry it because, simply put, sickness calls to sickness.

Somehow we managed to survive the next several years, move to Maine and get new jobs, and finally move to Louisiana and more new jobs. This was where after a number of bad years, I came to the end. Disease or not, I'd had enough and one day after a particular violent argument, I told him I was done, finally, positively, irrevocably and for all time, done. I would not spend one more second watching him self-destruct, not tell one more lie to cover for him, not figure out one more enabling strategy. I reported all my credit cards stolen and took his name off the mortgage, the life insurance and all the bank accounts. I called an attorney, packed his every belonging into trash bags, and had the locks changed.

I can't remember a time I was ever more terrified or more calm. A few months later, the divorce was finalized and I walked away from the courthouse on my own and alone for the first time in over 24 years. In no time at all he had remarried, been arrested for domestic abuse, lost his job and his new wife and finally left Louisiana for good. A few years after that, the alcohol finally won out and he was dead from cirrhosis of the liver. It wasn't a pretty ending and I had a moment of sorrow, then one of bitterness, then one hoping he'd finally come to peace.

“What brings us to tears will lead us to grace. Our pain is never wasted.” Bob Goff

A Good Ending

 

My friend, Russell – musician, attorney, and all around decent guy – died yesterday morning after a month long siege of COPD. He touched a great many lives and social media is awash with memories and tributes. There will be a memorial service in his honor on Sunday with food and friends and stories and much music. He was passionate about music, trusted and celebrated it his whole life and appreciated those who made it. I suspect it will be standing room only.

I'm finding it difficult to process the idea that he's gone. We weren't especially close but he was a familiar face around town and I'd known him a very long time. We shared a love for Guy Clark's music and song writing. I watched him care and devote all his time and energy to his beloved wife for months until he finally lost her to cancer. There was always a touch of melancholy to him after her death. He was a liberal and a left winger in a town of right wing activists, no easy task. And I watched him struggle and fight and eventually beat the bottle.

And so on a warm May afternoon, we will take a break from the chores and to-do lists and gather to remember a good man. People will tell stories and there are bound to be tears but there will also be smiles and laughter and music. It will be a good ending and I think he will be pleased.