That old saw that you can't teach an old dog new tricks? It should not be taken too seriously. At the age of 70 I went with my husband, Taku, to the Petfood Express on the corner of Telegraph and Alcatraz because he had learned they were having a dog adoption event. We had been thinking of taking in a dog. We were not anticipating finding one quickly because we wanted to make sure to do it responsibly and we knew it would become a serious commitment.
Right off the bat, we came upon five little girl chihuahua-Jack Russell pups - born together in Manteca just weeks before - we later learned that many like to use the designation "Jack Cheese" (or Jack-Chi's) for this particular mixed breed little dog. My eyes went straight to Miki, Taku's to Bounce, and we were blown over by the reality that we were both experiencing love at first sight.
It took a couple weeks for the adoption to go through. They needed to be spayed and vaccinated and we needed to be cleared. But there we were, one day two guys looking to build a family, the next day honest-to-god daddies with two little creatures we were to nurture and love for the next thirteen (with Miki) or fourteen and a half (with Bounce) years.
And then feel as if we had been struck by lightening when they were taken from us by death.
I had been around dogs and cats all my life and was no stranger to human-animal friendships. I once had a cat I loved dearly I had to give up when moving to Japan. I found her a good family with two kids that loved her but she died of leukemia two weeks after I left. I felt shock and terrible sadness, especially for the kids, but I managed in time to tuck the event away into the "that's life" drawer and move on. The loss of Miki and Bounce was of another order of magnitude.
When I spoke of old dogs learning of new tricks, what I was referring to was learning, at the age of 70, how important it was to find yourself in a place of responsibility for another living creature's life. Parents - the decent ones, which I take to mean nearly all of them - learn this and you don't have to look too far to find people who will tell you they would give their lives for their children. Something in the nature of creation inclines us to love those for whom we play a caretaker, life-or-death, role. Taking those two helpless little creatures into our home and our hearts gave me new insight into the horror that is child abuse and child abandonment. How anyone could do such a thing is now virtually inconceivable to me.
I won't take on those who reject the thought that one can love an animal as one loves a child. Those of us who do don't need to convince those who don't; it's enough to know such love is widespread. I've seen it often with dogs and cats and horses. I've seen it with birds, as well, and one of my favorite vlogs features a guy who calls himself Ruben Namibia. He grew up on a farm in Namibia with a baboon named Cindy he calls his sister. Have a look and prepare to be delighted.
Miki came down with a disease called Cushing's Disease. We watched its progression carefully for several months before it became clear at some point that she was not going to make it. When she went into critical distress I insisted on keeping her home with me. I didn't want to risk letting her die among strangers by rushing her to emergency. Taku had gone to visit his mother in Japan, but our friend Bill was here when she went and his presence kept me from going off the deep end. The doubts nagged on and I had to face the possibility that I was projecting my very human fear of dying in a strange place alone, and in pain, and letting that fear drive my decision.
Her ashes were returned to us and they sit in a prominent space in our living room. Neither Taku nor I felt the need for us to discuss the fact that we would now spoil Bounce rotten. She would come to dictate, for the additional year and a half that she outlived her sister, almost every coming and going. We jumped to open the door when she decided she wanted out; we smiled, and never got annoyed when she would then change her mind mid-stream and not go out, only to come scratching again minutes later. We loaded up on carpet cleaner for those moments when Bounce, now in a weakened state, would leave barf and pee stains on the carpet. We took her with us when we visited friends - and thanked the stars we had friends who showed no hesitance to welcome her in.
Bounce had been on pain medication for arthritis for ten months, and I think one of those medications ended up doing damage to her kidneys. Taku left for Japan on the 12th of this month with considerable concern about the fact that Bounce was not feeling all that well. She had not eaten in three days and I promised him I'd take her to the vet the next day. His mother suffers from his absence and he had to twist into knots to be given this time off, so I encouraged him to leave on schedule. I waited one more day and when our regular vet learned Bounce had not taken in any food in four days, he urged us to take her to a specialty vet for an ultrasound. That led to the revelation that she was dealing with a tumor, and the lack of desire to eat, it turns out, was from a pretty serious blockage.
Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I wish we could go over Taku's decision to travel. Bounce died two days after his departure. Twice, now, within eighteen months, Taku has gone to Japan to see his mother only to have one of his daughters die in his absence. I don't think I could conceive of a crueler irony no matter how hard I tried. The term "benefit of hindsight" is not a simple phrase having to do with the human condition; it sounds in these ears like the worst taunting of a bully I've ever known.
I want to use this space to think out loud about such things as coming to terms with the challenges of life and about the truism that grief is a mirror image of the amount of love you pour into a relationship, and about the fact that death comes to us all. I don't want to make this a pity-party for me and my doubts and the possibility that I might have made some colossally bad decisions - or the possibility that I might have made some good decisions it is still too early to recognize as such.
But I do want to acknowledge that this has been a week that strikes me as a series of events conceived, designed and produced in hell. I am not a theist, but I do understand why so many of my fellow human creatures are able to personify good and evil as God and the Devil. I feel I've been through what in the Judeo-Christian tradition is known as "the valley of the shadow of death." It's not an exaggeration; it's a cry from the depths.
I've been a difficult person to deal with, having put several friends on hold while I nurture my pain alone, insisting on going through it, and not around it. My life experience suggests denial and wishful thinking are traps to be avoided at all costs. I've had talks with myself where I've asked myself how it is that I could face my responsibility to care for an all-loving all-vulnerable living creature by making the decision to take her life. Should I be listening to a doctor who suggests euthanasia is "the best gift you could give your loved one" that I have just met? Should I not keep Bounce sedated and get a second opinion? Am I responding to some corner of my mind where the question of the cost of surgery lives?
I have not yet resolved this dilemma. I am hoping the time comes - and that it comes sooner rather than later - when I can focus on my decision to avoid the risk of pain and isolation as a loving act that I should credit myself for instead of the allowing the doubt over whether I made the decision prematurely to rest at the top of my thoughts.
I am writing this with the dilemma raging full force. In time, and I think time cures all, this dilemma may be resolved. I am not inclined to accept blame and I need no pity. I am blessed with many loving friends, many of whom are urging me to not stretch out this time of doubt.
What can I say?
I just need the time it's going to take.
