Three old creatures inhabit my house, two humans and one canine. Our combined human ages are 181 years, almost two centuries! The 12-year-old dog is equivalent to 64 human years, according to the new way of measuring dog years.
Old human creatures have a common trait … they are no longer young. Body parts are wearing out, some at an accelerated pace. Numbers of medications increase. Activities start to decrease. We begin to have “Thoughts of when I cease to be …” (I just looked up the Keats poem to check on my memory and he actually wrote “fears” not “thoughts.” An amusing but optimistic mistake!)
That very old face in the mirror? I accepted my old face years ago but am still startled at times. A standup comic made me laugh when she said she had no idea who that strange woman in the mirror was but figured it was the one who hid her keys!
The future? Limited in years. We all know the mortality rate of being alive is 100 percent. But silly, optimistic Marilyn has a goal. I am determined to see each day as a gift. I ice my creaky knee, try to remember a forgotten name, and live my life as best I can despite my aging body and brain.
All three of us, both human and canine, have health “issues” the delicate way to describe the effects of those decrepit body parts. We all take a bunch of pills each day and we see our doctor as required or requested. We all have plumbing problems and decreasing stamina.
But we three get up and take our walk together every morning even though we are the slowest walkers in the neighborhood. We upright ones cherish our mobility and want to keep it as long as possible. I consider it a victory every time I can bend down to gather Mindy’s poop in the dog waste bag. And get up again!
At this point in time the sickest of the creatures is the dog. My beloved Cavalier King Charles spaniel came to live with me 12 years ago. She has enriched my life from the moment I picked her up at the airport. In my arms for the first time she tremblingly whimpered and kissed my face after her ordeal in the crate. Loud noise and a sensation of falling will make every baby cry. Puppies too, but they stop whimpering to kiss you.
Sadly Mindy has congestive heart failure, common in this breed. She actually takes more pills than I do (and old dogs do not have Medicare Part D).
Her symptoms have been helped by medication, but the veterinarian has gently told me she cannot be cured. We realize she is on a downhill course. Would you know it if you saw her today? No. Every morning she eagerly wags her tail in greeting when I open the curtains to watch the first finches arrive at the feeder outside the window.
Mindy takes her medicine as prescribed. One pill is chewable and she considers it a treat. I dip a wooden coffee stirrer into the peanut butter jar to get a small dab that the other pills stick to. Mindy eagerly swallows the pill-studded dab and then positions the end of the wooden stick so her teeth scrape up every molecule of the peanut butter!
She knows the route we walk by heart and tugs the leash to sniff each favorite rock and bush. Some days she is frisky, other days she walks more slowly. She still plays Red Dot, the game of chasing a laser pointer up and down the hall, but some days doesn’t run as fast as other days. She chews more slowly and has to peer to find a morsel of people food that falls on the floor that she formerly pounced on in a nanosecond. She is forgetful, but who cares about the occasional diuretic-induced accident on the carpet? Not us!
She sleeps much of the day. Because she is deaf (like I am without my hearing aids) when she is asleep I must approach and caress her very gently or she startles anxiously until she realizes who it is. She skips an occasional meal but is always eager to get an occasional treat that both humans are just as eager eager to provide.
All she worries about is that we come back when we leave the house. Her love of us is profound, deep and unconditional. She doesn’t know we are old, so she doesn’t fret about losing us.
We humans are watching “Victoria” on PBS. Queen Victoria was given a King Charles spaniel named Dash when she was 13. TV showed the young queen coming back to her chambers from a royal event to find Dash stretched out dead on the floor. This is factual; the dog died at age 10 and was buried by the queen herself. When I saw the dead dog (who looked like Mindy’s twin) tears rolled down my cheeks.
But after drying my eyes and on reflection, what better way for a beloved dog to die? At home when the owner is not around to rush her to the veterinarian. Never in a doggie ICU. Best of all sparing me from the ordeal of deciding Mindy no longer can live a quality dog life so I must now take her on that last sad trip to the veterinarian.
We humans understand the concept of a future and of death. Almost every one I know says they do not fear death; rather they fear loss of independence, autonomy, mobility, brain function.
Mindy does not. She assumes we will always care for her and love her. And we will.
