My very old, very good dog
While I was growing old, the dog in my life was growing older. She’s almost 100, I said, when the little girl across the street asked. This was hard for both of us to understand. In fairy tales, someone who makes it to 100 is often an ogre with a chin growth; age is cruel. My dog, we agreed, is more of a princess.
In this particular fairy tale, she arrived — already no longer a puppy — as the replacement for an only child who rode off to college. The minute that golden carriage turned a corner, a void opened up, a wand was waved, and the dog appeared. Her requests were for two bowls of kibble a day, the occasional marrow bone, long hikes, and a center position on the big bed. She filled my void, and eventually she asked for as much company as was humanly possible to fill hers.
Time has passed and her needs have grown complex (mine, too). Her pill planner sits next to mine on the kitchen counter. Her legs slip out from under her on walks, and stairs are especially treacherous. Some days she seems confused and can’t bear to be alone anymore. The descent is clear but gentle. It could take months, it could take years.
Across the street, the little girl wonders how a dog could start out being so much younger than me and then become so much older. I share the question. Yet, at the same time, she has never been more tender or loving. The fur on her ears is thick with devotion.
It happens that for many decades I have taken an annual trip with an old friend who lives in a different country. Outside of work, his life belongs to his wife, son, and dogs, with a preference for the large, energetic breeds. A few months ago, his dog began to show signs of a degenerative neurologic disorder. My friend consulted specialists, received the diagnosis, and learned about the course of illness. This descent is also clear and also gentle. It could take months. It will not take years.
For the foreseeable future, my old friend and I will not be traveling together. No discussion was held on the topic; none was necessary. Each of us has a dog that does not know about the existence of the other dog. Each dog started younger and then grew older than its owner.
I cannot explain the physiology of this to the little girl across the street, but here is what I can tell her: In any fairy tale, just as in life, one must stay by the beloved.