A Winter's Tale

by Dean Kramer
December, 2004

It’s the winter holiday season, a time when people gather with those they care for. All the celebrating, no matter what the spiritual tradition, honors the return of light to the world which has been in darkness. But this Christmas on Cripple Creek looked to be bleak indeed…

(Mid-Morning) My beautiful companion of 16 years is going under the knife today and I’m sitting here weeping because there are such risks that she may not make it back and yet if she doesn’t have the surgery she will surely die of infection. She’d been feeling bad for quite awhile but she’s such a stoic that she never let on and I was too preoccupied with my own affairs to notice until things had progressed far enough that it was very clear she needed help.

Now she’s in surgery and I look at her unused breakfast dish on the counter beside the water she didn’t drink this morning and wonder if I’ll ever prepare a meal for her again. I kissed her when I left her in the doctor’s hands and I walked away. And that might be the last time she’ll ever be aware of my kiss.

I wish we’d had more time to talk it over. I tried to tell her how I understood that she was in pain and hadn’t been herself for some time. I told her I loved her and wanted her to be well again. I told her I would come as soon as they called me, would help her recover and would try to be a more mindful companion. But I doubt she understood any of that. She just saw me leaving. She’s my dog, Griffin, and words about the future don’t signify.

I know she’s been depressed lately. She dozes under the kitchen table waiting for me to come home from work when she’ll get up to greet me, rubbing her muzzle on my trousers, wagging her tail, dancing a little and glad to see me. It’s true, though, that she doesn’t “see” anymore. Cataracts and an immune system disorder have left her mostly blind. I treat her eyes with ointment twice each day. My voice is probably very dim in her ears, too, as she’s become increasingly deaf. And, always somewhat arthritic, she’s been on NSAIDs for years. But lately she has trouble walking around the yard, stumbling, staggering, falling occasionally (not unlike myself).

When we first met I promised her I’d always be there for her and I feel as if I’ve let her down. She was my main lady until 4 years ago when another human and her dogs joined our household. Griffin was already old then. None of the new-comers really respects her. They never knew her when she was winning AKC titles and functioning as a registered assistance dog. Her sparking personality was quickly subdued by their scorn and refusal to be engaged. I wanted the new pack members to feel welcome so I didn’t insist on Griffin’s supremacy. I encouraged us both to efface ourselves.

As a result of death and upheaval in my life I went to work away from Cripple Creek, leaving her alone for hours. I’d come home too tired and symptomatic to do much more than eat dinner and perform minimal maintenance tasks. Many of those kept me on the computer upstairs. At first, Griffin would come up to hang out with me, but the big dogs had taken over her former lounging spots and she wasn’t accepting of my alternative offers. So back down she’d go to her bed by my seat at the kitchen table. Lately, due to the arthritis, she seldom even attempts the stairs

Health problems began to crop up which became critical because we weren’t together enough for me to notice them initially. There was a corneal ulcer last summer. And now she has a raging oral infection requiring antibiotics and surgery to remove unsalvageable teeth. Because she’s so old and is somewhat depressed the risk is that she may not survive the anesthesia. So here I sit weeping, waiting to hear the outcome, berating myself for my lack of attentiveness and praying for the opportunity to do better.

Everyone tells me I’ll know when it’s time to let her go. If she enjoys being alive I want whatever time she has left to be as pleasant as possible. But if she’s suffering awfully from her combination of health issues I, of course, want her to be relieved. She still loves getting her meals, is eager for treats and seems content to nose around outside in the mulch and shrubbery. She shows great enthusiasm for walks with me, I on my scooter, she ambling on her lead. Yet she’s so faithful, patient, and devoted to me that I’m afraid she may be waiting for me to release her, just as I used to do in the obedience ring when her work was finished. Perhaps she’s just making the best of things, as she always has, until I wise up. I have no way of knowing, and the responsibility is completely mine.

MS has had an impact on my body and my life. I can’t pretend otherwise. I don’t move the way I used to, can’t run or jump. In fact I can barely walk. I have minimal feeling in my feet and my right hand. Certainly we all age and lose our youthful selves. But MS, not age, is what has taken my grace, flexibility and fleetness. I’m not a dog though. I remember what I was and can imagine what I might have been, especially when I see others my age doing what I might have done. I still enjoy my meals. I love to get treats. I’m enthusiastic about being out on my scooter or wheelchair nosing around socially. I’m not looking to be released any time soon.

Today, irony of ironies, after I left Griffin at the vet’s, I dropped a final draft of my will off at the lawyer’s. In the Advance Medical Directive section I took pains to make sure no one would have to make the decisions for me that I have to make for Griffin.

(Later that same day) The vet called. Griffin came through her surgery beautifully. She had only one badly rotten tooth to be removed. It was the source of her discomfort and it’s expected that she’ll be a much happier creature without it. She’s awake, alert and can come home in a few hours. I’m still weeping, but joyfully now. On some level I believe she had the opportunity to go and she chose not to. She still wants to be here. This Christmas the light of Griffin’s spirit will still shine in my world and I am blessed with more time to enjoy her.

I feel as if I’ve taken a walk through the shadowy valley of King David’s psalm and looked hard at the baggage that compromises my journey. If it is God’s will, and I am able to let my anxieties and regrets go, then when the time comes to walk there again I hope to be a compassionate partner to my beautiful dog as she trots from my side into eternity.