My English Springer
Spaniel, Penny, is about to turn 14.
Penny has persistent
arthritis, growing cataracts, frequent ear infections, and a skin allergy that
requires us to make her food by hand every week. This month, in spite of the
lengths we go to in order to prevent her from doing so, she had a fit of
scratching and accidentally damaged the cornea of her left eye.
Now, as a result, she’s
totally blind in that eye. Just add that to the poor dog's list of unfortunate ailments.
If Candide had a dog... (little literary joke for my Lit Major friends out
there!)
A Google search will
reveal to those who are interested that the average lifespan of an English
Springer Spaniel is also 14. It’s a good thing Penny doesn’t use Google (Poodle?).
Those among us who have
presided over the aging process of a beloved animal know that the experience is
not for the timid. Aside from the expense of veterinary bills (I recall Penny’s
$3,000 knee replacement surgery when she was 10), the aging process is
characterized by notable slowing in activity, increased grumpiness, an
escalation in the number of naps, and a waning interest in recreation.
The older I get, the
more I recognize these symptoms in myself.
However, in spite of the
tangible evidence reminding me and Penny which side of the hill she is on, Penny
behaves as though the end is far from sight. Then again, this could simply be because she’s half-blind and everything is far from sight. Still, I can’t help
but cringe, seeing her limp at times her arthritis is bad or feel troubled at the
increasing frequency with which I have to wake her up to remind her it’s dinner
time. Once upon a time, it was her job to remind me.
I'm keenly aware of her
suffering each time I’m baking her cauliflower or chopping potatoes or cutting
up salmon for the weekly slop we prepare for her. In spite of how much I hate
to spend my time that way, I wouldn’t trade places with her for anything.
Yesterday, while home
alone, I watched Penny sitting by the back sliding glass door, looking through
the screen window, presumably working to focus her one working eye on something
out there in our yard. I couldn’t help but wonder what it was she was looking
at or, perhaps, looking for. Maybe she wasn’t looking at, or for, anything. Maybe
she was just thinking, pondering her dog thoughts or canine philosophies or
just trying to weigh the benefits or drawbacks of rising on her tentative legs
to investigate the uncertain drama caused by lizards or birds or rabbits by the
bushes along the fence.
Since her cornea
incident, and in the recent months before it, Penny has fought to adjust to the
body in which she is trapped. Her mind is still eager to make it all work,
whatever “working” looks like to a feeble, but loyal, old dog.
As a man of a certain
age, I can relate. Like Penny, I too see a little less well than I used to. I
take more naps. I rally against the trappings of a body that doesn’t move like
it used to. At some point, like an old pocket watch, we all start to miss a few
moments, struggling against the cogs that fail to turn as they used to. And
still, like her, I look to what lies ahead with enthusiasm. I think about
what’s next and I work to be more defined by what I can do than by the things I
can’t (or won’t) do. And, like her, I spend a little extra time contemplating
whether an effort is worth it—certainly more than I used to.
But what I also notice
is that, in spite of her discomfort, in spite of the protests of her
uncooperative, factory-manufactured knees, she still harbors an irrational enthusiasm revealed between lengths of inactivity. She still manages to enjoy the promise of occasional
treats, the smell of the summer through the screen window, the cool of the hardwood
floor on a hot day, the presence of her family, the value of her life.
And it’s clear to
me—clearer than the vision of her one working eye—you may not be able to teach
an old dog new tricks, but old dogs can still teach us a thing or two.
© 2016 Herb Williams-Dalgart
