My Last Dog?

I’m old enough to find myself wondering if I’m driving my last car, watching my last college football season, visiting my brother for the last time.

As I write, my sixteen year-old border collie is lying on my feet. She’s not entirely blind but often surprised when approached from the side. Similarly, she doesn’t hear much, but she seems to pick up the sound of a chair sighing as we stand, raising her head to see if she needs to try to stand.

It’s hard to see her struggle in those moments, and I’m constantly wondering when I ought to make a decision to ease her pain. But then, as we go off into the meadow for a walk, she springs and hops happily, not as elegantly as she did when her herding skills were at their peak, but eagerly. Good days and bad days. Good enough often enough to let her lie as she is now, deeply asleep.

She’ll be hard to rouse when it’s time to put her outside. The first attempts to come to the surface are awkward. She can no longer raise herself in one motion; she teeters on her front legs until she can get purchase with her weaker hind legs. She negotiates the slight drop at the kitchen door, but can’t manage the living room steps or the door off the porch. I carry her out when it’s clear she needs to get outside but can’t get past the pain she feels in approaching the step.

I’ve learned to listen for the sound of her nails clicking when she walks in circles near the doorway, letting me know she needs to go out, but can’t face the pain of managing the step. She looks up as I approach. I still ask if she wants me to pick her up even though I know she can’t hear me; I hope she knows I’m asking out of concern for her dignity.

She may be failing in every other way, but her appetite remains healthy, and, in this chapter, we prepare elaborate meals for her. She has come to expect chicken and cheese with her kibble. The rich diet has helped keep her sharp, but it has also added some extra weight, weight I have to heft in order to carry her without causing pain. I try to lift with my legs and hope she doesn’t squirm.

Is she my last dog?

Here’s the thing: Every puppy becomes an old dog, and every old dog dies. We grieve; the loss is almost unbearable for a while. So, why would we put ourselves through the process again?

Because it is worth it. Because loving is worth it. Because every good dog has something to teach us, and every good dog can change us.

I have a friend who is accustomed to ranting. He has been a fist pounder and large voiced complainer for many, many years. He has known he frightens people close to him, has tried to moderate his responses, but has fallen back into shouting again and again.

Until he adopted a dog who had been trained to assist a deaf owner.

When her owner died, the dog was relatively young and was placed with my friend’s family. She is affectionate, responsive, and gentle. She puts her head on my friend’s knee and suggests that he ruffle the fur on her chest. He has come to love her entirely. When he shouts, however, she shrinks from him, cowers, ducks her head.

What he could not do by himself, he can do with the help of this dog. He has learned to calm himself before shouting. As he puts it, he can now respond rather than react. He has learned to change in order to protect a dog he loves.

What have I learned from the dog at my feet this morning? I’ve learned that courage looks like stumbling on a doorstep, falling, rising slowly, and going on. I’ve learned that loyalty goes both ways. I’ve learned that love means keeping promises. I’ve learned that loss is inevitable.

But she’s at my feet today.

I may not have tomorrow, but I do have today.