I have
not had this experience before. I’ve had animals who were getting up in years,
and then suddenly became ill and I had to let them go. I did it. It hurt, but
from it I thought I learned to be tough. I thought I was prepared. I am not.
This is hard.
It’s hard for two reasons. I worry every time she seems not quite herself. I wonder when the time will come, and on a not-so-good day, I think, with my heart in my throat, “Is this it?” I hover over her, gauging her daily activities and mood to make sure she’s ok. I am apprehensive when I leave home for a trip. I pray for her to make it through until I return. I’m concerned that she’s in pain, or that she’s troubled and anxious because she can’t hear us anymore and her sight is failing rapidly.
And (second reason), I see her as the touchstone for my future. Who would have thought I would have a window into my progression into old age through my dog? But I do. I know I have many, many good years ahead of me. And she might too. But I can see the similarities between us already. We’re stiff in the morning, we sometimes forget things (she will go in and out of the house over and over again -- and the irony is I have to set a timer when she goes out because I will forget about her) and I can see her frailty escalating. Because she can’t hear and barely see us anymore, she nips at our hands as they come close to her face. I too, currently nursing a sore shoulder that’s not healing as fast as it would have a few years ago, am feeling more vulnerable in the world.
But there is another side to her aging I also find I can relate to. She has a sense of abandon she never had before. This part I like. She used to be very wary of confined spaces. Now she will traverse anything -- be it the space between the truck and the garage door, a ridiculous threaded path through the outdoor furniture, or most recently, a head long plunge between a living room armchair and my cello on its stand -- even though I provided ample space in the living room for her to walk through. Yes, she is losing her sight, but there is more to it than that. She is unafraid. When I load her in the car, she no longer cowers and trembles. Tail up, she is ready to go. She is less interested in challenging other dogs (she has always been particular about who her dog friends are) and more interested in who they are.
As I enter the second half of my life, I find I have a similar outlook. I care way less about expertise and way more about the experience. Though I'm a cello novice, I’m planning to accompany on my cello two friends who play violin and viola in an upcoming Christmas concert at our favorite wine shop. It is a joy to play with them. If I flub up, I don’t care. I apply for jobs online regularly -- “selling” myself and happy if a company or agency “buys”, but equally OK if they don’t. So far I’ve garnered two freelance writing jobs from this “what the hell, give it a shot” attitude. What do I have to lose? I am much more friendly with store clerks, strangers in elevators and whoever else wants to strike up a conversation than I have ever been before. And I’m often the initiator of these conversations. Why not? Much like my dog, who doesn’t pick fights with other dogs anymore -- she just offers a friendly nose (when she realizes they are there) -- I am opening myself to life and other people in a way I didn’t when I was younger.
I have learned a lot from my dog over the years: live in the moment, take all the love you can get, be loyal. I am now learning how to age gracefully. Though she sleeps through most of the day, she is full of puppy energy for a walk. If she can stay bouncy through the aches and pains, so can I.
It will be a sad day when she goes, but it will be one more lesson from her. Live life to the fullest, hang on as long as you can and know that love is what counts the most.
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