The poodle is sixteen. She is fading out too fast now; every day something more disappears: hearing, strength, eyesight, awareness, & even her fur on her sides & lower back (due to Cushing's, which an idiot vet assured me two years ago that she didn't have -- surprise, another vet this year finally recognized it as an atypical type that the standard blood test didn't catch, & wasn't it too bad they hadn't treated it back then when she was stronger: yes, now tell your partner in the practice, not me). She gets an array of pills every day, like any other old lady; & like any other old lady, half of them deal with the side effects of the others, & none of them can be stopped, & still they are not enough.
Coming home, these days & nights, is as frightening as in her early puppy days. I was the one who had talked her breeder, an old friend, into having poodles at all (he was considering cocker spaniels); I helped raise his dogs, her mother in particular. I was the one who realized that her mother was pregnant (after a couple of years of refusing to mate) & I was the one who dog-sat on the Fourth of July, two days before the puppies were born, since the pregnancy was unexpected & many months earlier the owner had gotten tickets to a special fireworks cruise on the river. No one ever saw her parents mate (counting back, I figured it was probably prom night), so we weren't sure when the puppies were due.
Her breeder had been a nurse. When I suggested setting up a whelping box, he got a basic cardboard box with padding & the mother jumped right in & started nesting. This triggered some sort of human nurse reflex & every day the setup grew more elaborate, with stethoscopes & IV equipment hanging nearby, & a carpeted viewing platform from which, the owner fondly hoped, the puppies' father could cheer the mother on during labor. (Fat lot he knew about dogs; the father spent the day of their birth in the furthest corner of the room, looking appalled, & the mother snarled at him if he got near the litter until their eyes had opened & they could walk. But nice try anyhow.) And I spent the boiling hot evening of July 4th in an un-airconditioned East Village apartment, sitting on the floor with a very pregnant & very affectionate (& far too warm) poodle firmly settled in my lap, & her mate running around the apartment & making nests in my hair when I tried to lie down.
On July 6th, my phone rang early in the morning; the owner had woken up at 5:30 a.m., after all his research & planning, to find that two puppies had been born already, & the mother was in no need of help at all. I went by on my way to work that afternoon; the litter, six puppies total, was doing well, & their mother was too. She appreciated the beef I brought her & didn't object at all when I got near the litter to choose one for my own. I thought that the softest thing I had ever felt was the mother's abdomen when she was heavily pregnant -- like silky suede; but it was rough compared to newborn puppy fur. I picked out the reddest & smallest female (there were four dark apricot puppies, one cream, & one black) & went to visit her every few days in the next weeks. She didn't seem interested in me, other than one tug-o'-war session with my hair, & certainly not in her littermates or other people. This was not encouraging.
But the neighbors, understandably, began to object to the racket six puppies & two adult dogs could make, & when she was about nine weeks old I got a panicky call demanding that I pick her up the next afternoon at the latest "or I will be evicted." This meant a trip that evening to the nearest pet supply place to buy everything she might possibly need, & another the next day to pick up the puppy, a baby gate someone from work was giving me, & a friend who came along for the ride. Three taxi rides, & fortunately the puppy didn't vomit up her kibble until the third one, & not on the seat (on me, actually) -- friend had bailed out by then & both of us were exhausted.
I got her upstairs, showed her the paper setup (Mr. Nurse had neglected to get any of them vaccinated, & her feet weren't to touch the ground outdoors until she'd had her shots) & her food & water; then I threw an old quilt on the kitchen floor & we both fell asleep on it, with her tucked in between my shoulder & neck. An hour or two later, I woke up & that fearful, neurotic introvert was standing next to my face, quite perky, tail wagging, waiting to see what we would do next, & clearly quite pleased with her new situation. As, of course, was I.
But she was so fragile; at birth, she fit in the palm of my hand, & she was perhaps the size of my foot when I brought her home. She adjusted well to apartment life, & didn't object too much to being left at home when I had to work, provided she got to play hard beforehand & received a bribe when I was leaving (deli roast beef, which was reserved only for my departures; if I was at home for too many days, she would trot back & forth between the refrigerator & the front door, casting meaningful looks at both, because dammit, it had better be roast beef time soon, didn't I want to go somewhere?).
Every night, on my way back from the office, the reel began of all the terrible things that could have happened: what if she fell off the bed, electrocuted herself, got into the toilet bowl & drowned, made it onto the windowsill & pushed out the screen, was killed by a burglar, ate poison? Every night I opened the door & if she didn't come to greet me at once, I was convinced that all those disaster fantasies had come true. It was irrational then; not anymore.
Now when I come home, since she is deaf & sleeps very deeply, she seldom comes to the door. She is usually on the bed with the engineer -- at least she isn't alone for very long, since we have different work hours -- & sometimes I have to look very closely to see her chest move & to be sure she is breathing. When she was a puppy, she was vulnerable; now she is brittle, or frail, something much worse anyhow; & one of these days the disaster is coming for real.
I don't want to hear any "circle of life" drivel. I know about death; I've buried enough people over the years (even my friend who bred her died when she was about a year old). I have sat in hospitals & watched my friends & my father die. Twice I had to tell the doctors to pull the plug, to let someone get on with dying. Quite likely I'll have to do it again, & certainly I hope it'll be done for me, if required.
But just as for sixteen years I have had to choose what she ate, where she slept, where & how we walked & played & lazed about doing nothing, whom she saw & even how often she had a bath, now I have to decide when she dies. (Unless, of course, one day I come in or look over & she is not breathing: what I dreaded in her puppy year is now the best outcome possible.) There is a vet who will euthanize dogs at home (my neighbor downstairs just did this for his two elderly dogs). I carry his name in my wallet, rather guiltily.
Best to have it if we need it; the problem is knowing when. She sits & stares at things no one else can see; she must wonder why we never talk to her (of course we do, but she has been deaf for about two years); she roams the apartment for hours, if not stopped, & gets lost in the same rooms where she has lived for years. Last year she went with us to my in-laws' house in the country, & since she has never been a flight risk, I took her out for a nighttime pee near the house, off-lead. By then she couldn't see well at night. She panicked & bolted; calling her did no good, poor deaf thing, & she began to run in bigger & bigger circles, farther away into the dark. As an aftereffect of LASIK, I can't see much at night myself, so I could barely follow her. Finally I ran her down. One more loss: no more being outdoors without a leash (no more visiting strange places, either). Now she can see motion, sometimes, in strong light, & perhaps shadows, but nothing more, & she is perpetually confused -- perhaps dementia or perhaps just not enough information anymore.
But when I come home, eventually she does wake up & notice me (by scent? do I stink of office?), & she comes down the ramp off the bed & stays by me wherever I go in the apartment. She is very pleased when I finally go to bed, of course, but she will not go without me unless it is very late indeed, & even then she comes back in a bit to make sure I am still there. She meets her dog friends on walks -- she has several -- & for one little male poodle mix who adores her, she even goes into the play bow & starts to bounce, although her heart is failing & she stops after a few minutes & coughs.
She has collapsing fits, probably due to her heart as well, & three times she has fallen after a fit & briefly stopped breathing. She wanders off the edge of the bed if not watched, & has stumbled while going down the ramp, & fell two weeks ago on the stairs & couldn't use her right front leg for a couple of days. The vet said meaningfully, "it's not broken, but you do know that at her age, a broken bone will never heal, & her heart is so enlarged ... ." Yes. I do know. And some days, shamefully, I wish it would just end, so that I could be on the other side of the moment when all my worst fears come true. Hurry up & get it over with; but slowly, just a bit longer.
Yet she sings (in that deaf-dog flat howl) for bits of chicken when the engineer is eating, & digs up the blankets into a nest, & sits for a treat immediately when we run into Cynthia the Mail Lady (another dog person). She eats kibble from my hand (the dish is beneath her dignity), & rolls over when she wakes up so that I will tickle her, even though lying on her back for more than a minute or two makes her choke. She washes the engineer's mustache thoroughly, & she insists on licking the water off my legs when I get out of the shower.
So not today.
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