I was reminded, as I filled out the adoption paperwork, of
another geriatric dog I adopted nearly a decade ago. Muffin was my first, an
11-year-old red Pom-schipperke cross that had been brought to a veterinarian to
be euthanized after her person died. The vet, whose name I never learned, decided
to place her in rescue and found Second Chance a month after she was confined
to a cage at the clinic. Her eyes, when she first arrived at my house, were flat;
her mottled coat suggested that she probably didn’t have much time left,
either, but she bounced back quickly. I little bit of love and freedom, and the
light returned to her eyes, followed by a feisty personality. After a month or
two, I adopted her into a home that seemed to be a good fit for her, until the
family called me to tell me that Muffin was biting the family members.
I was disappointed, but not surprised—although I hadn’t seen
that behavior in my home. Eventually, a second home surfaced and then returned
her after Muffin began nipping family members for confining her to a bathroom.
I began to dawn on me that Muffin wanted to retire to my house. And, although I
had no plans to adopt a dog at that point in my life, I did. I allowed my heart
to open up to this little dog that wasn’t going to win any more beauty
pageants.
Three weeks after I adopted her, I noticed a change in
Muffin’s breathing. Visits to the vet. X-rays. Trips to the University of
Minnesota. More tests. Ultrasounds. Ultimately, I learned the source of her
stress. Muffin was suffering from collapsed trachea and bronchi, congestive
heart failure, and chronic pneumonia. Tracheal flushes. Medication every day. Vet
bills amounting to hundreds of dollars each month. I wondered what I was doing.
And vet visit after vet visit, I asked the same question: “Is it time?”
Regardless of the vet, the answer was consistently, “No.”
Muffin, you see, was a spitfire. She was happy in her
retirement home; we were a great team, and she made me laugh and smile every
day, despite vet visits and medications and the fact that her fur was beginning
to resemble a muppet’s. She lived for more than a year longer, until one day
the man I was dating gently pointed out that the medications were no longer
controlling her breathing, that she was struggling to get air. It was time.
Muffin left this world with the same pluck she lived in it.
She did not go gently into that good night, but that was part of our journey
together, too. In our final moments together, I realized I couldn’t imagine my
life without her even though I had only known her for two years. Muffin
enriched my life daily, and I know I’m a better person for having known her.
Now I look at Bear, who has suffered a different set of
experiences than Muffin, but no less challenging. I’ve known him since he was
4-years-old, when I first placed him in a “forever,” but for some reason I’ll
never understand, that wasn’t our final meeting. And he’s not the same dog that
he was in 2004. He doesn’t have the same energy, and his smells are a little
stronger than they used to be. His body is more tired, too. Overall, he’s got
less curb appeal than he did then, at least to the untrained eye.
But to me? I see wisdom in him and a quiet acceptance of his
life. He can curl up in my arms for hours, or anyone’s for that matter. He’s
content to rest his bones sleeping in a patch of sun on the floor, and he’s
happy just to get a meal and a few strokes. He gladly accepts the affection I
give him, but unlike the younger dogs in my house, doesn’t ask for it. Because
Bear asks for so little, I become more aware of him, notice him following me
from room to room or waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I run up them. I try
to give him everything he could want. Often, I carry him up and down the stairs
with me, place soft bedding on the floor for him to lie one, bring him on
visits to people who will allow him to rest in their arms, and indulge his
insistent barking as I prepare his meals, his only obsession.
It’s a quiet, gentle relationship, one based on acceptance
and trust, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. To know a geriatric rescue dog
is to love him, as I love Bear. And whether we have 6 months together, or a
year, it doesn’t matter.
The only thing that really matters is that he’s home—at
last.
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