The last patient on my rounds is elderly, cognitively impaired and wonderfully complimentary. The nurse is dedicated. Dutiful interns like mine go places. She loves my dress. We joyfully acknowledge these statements because we dread the next, heartbreaking question: “Do you know I have a dog?”
Lizzy is a corgi named after the late Queen. For 10 years, they have lived and grown as one, watching television, pottering in the garden and sleeping side by side.
Their daily walks have kept the patient on her feet and visible to her neighbours. But now, she is falling, no longer deemed safe and awaiting residential care. Even as she seemingly appreciates the regular meals and cheerful care, nothing stems her longing for her dog.
“When can I see Lizzy?”
“I can’t say.”
“Maybe she will come today.”
“Maybe.”
Lizzy is safe, but despite our advocacy, no one can arrange a meeting between our patient and her dog. I wonder if people (rightly) worry that if she saw Lizzy, she wouldn’t let go. Better to hope that she forgets her past than try to link her to some of it.
The geriatrician says there is no point reminding her of “the facts” she can’t retain: that Lizzy is safe; that it is not us but the rules that stand between her and happiness. Meanwhile, I come to resent spending exorbitant sums on meaningless interventions but not the one thing which would improve the quality of her remaining days.
When hospitalised patients pine for their dogs (and sometimes, their cats), I used to respect their sentiment, but now, I feel their distress.
I was a reluctant dog-owner. My life was complete without a dog. And I took to heart the admonitions of my friends who said never to believe my children’s pleas: “You just have to buy it, we will do everything else.”
In the last four years, I have racked up the most steps walking Odie. At 6:30pm, no matter where I am, I wonder if he has been fed (nearly always). I take him to the vet and hold his quivering body against mine as his lovely doctor slathers him with attention before listening to his heartbeat, palpating his tummy and scooping him away for his vaccines.
At four, Odie has a vocabulary – small but pragmatic.
“Bone” sees him dashing to the kitchen where he dances at the freezer, breathless with joy. “Up-up” (said in a slightly exasperated tone) is his signal to stop sniffing around the trees and launch himself into the back seat of the car, otherwise the school drop off will happen without him. When this doesn’t work, “Bye, Odie” (used sparingly) does the trick.
It’s thought that what separates animals from humans is the concept of time, but it hasn’t stopped me from trying to train Odie, whose entire life would be one long walk if possible.
When I am going to work early, I see him taking hopeful steps towards the garage just in case I change my preference from patient care to pet duty. I say “later”, meaning that one of the kids is home and he will get a walk. As he tempers his advance towards my car, my subliminal message to Odie is: “Go ask the kids.”
Later, I will feign sympathy when someone complains that Odie annoyingly scratched at the door, jumped on the bed and woke them up. May the universe grant all dog-parents many such “we will do everything” moments.
Odie knows another phrase: “Future later”. Offered in an apologetic tone, it means that everyone is out today and an outing really must wait. I tell myself that despite his cup half-empty expression, he surely appreciates his established routine of two walks on most days.
But Odie’s most favourite phrase in the whole world, the one that makes him delirious; that has him scrambling on my laptop (and deleting entire sections of writing); reaching ever higher to lick the kids; making his trademark bark-moan-beg sounds if we don’t quickly get our act together, is: “Walkie time!”
To offer to walk Odie is to taste pure happiness.
Every day, we walk Odie along the same paths. He eats the same food at the same time. We use the same words to the same effect. For a life so circumscribed, how is it that our bounties feel so limitless? In a life of ups and downs, perhaps it is the uncomplicated nature of the relationship that we have come to love.
Our dog is intelligent, but he can’t (yet) read. He doesn’t know that for the last four years, my year-ending column has been about him.
Today, on his fourth birthday, he is oblivious to the fanfare of the “Odie column”. My children have tracked its gestation and sent me a hundred cute photos where one will do.
Odie would be content with his usual quota of love but today, the kids are baking him a cake with banana, oats, egg and peanut butter – it sounds better than my breakfast.
Then he will begin a new year of receiving and giving joy in the same ways as the last four years.
It’s a simple life. And therein lies its beauty.
Dear readers: As 2024 ends, a heartfelt thank you for your warm support and valuable comments. I wish you a happy holiday season and look forward to writing for you next year.
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