Puppies and babies are lovely and fine, their energy and freshness revive us. But I have a soft spot for oldsters. Our elder statesmen, our grande dames. I asked some friends to write on this. I asked for, “Short stories about old pets, experiences with them, grief, your special love. Maybe it’s just a glimpse from the clouding eyes. Not necessarily a memoir, but it could be. Whatever you feel you have to share about the elders. Their world is your oyster.”

I’ll add to this post as they come in. Thank you friends, for sharing your tender hearts here.

Romeo on wall

Romeo

Erica Silverman

There are two kinds of cat people- those who let their cats out and those who don’t. After Chelsea was killed by a pack of dogs, I joined the indoor-only camp and I stuck to it for the first three rescued kittens. It was so much easier – not worrying about dogs, coyotes, hawks or speeding cars.

Then a neighborhood stray, a tabby our neighbor had dubbed Romeo set his sights on our house. I hadn’t planned on a fourth cat. Four meant crossing the line into crazy cat territory. But Romeo lingered at our stoop.  He gazed at me with intense cat concentration.

Late one afternoon, as I was feeding him, a coyote slunk by, just feet from the stoop.

I scooped Romeo up and closed the door firmly behind us. Romeo leaned into my arms. Despite some hissing from the three indoor cats, Romeo found himself a chair and settled in. But the next day, he stood at the front door, scratching to go out.

“No,” I said. “If you live here, you’re an indoor cat.”

He meowed.  He howled.  Finally, he sprayed.

My resolve dissolved.

Romeo spent his days outside, ruling the street, keeping other cats at bay.  Despite the fact that he was neutered, he was a macho guy, getting into scrapes, hunting creatures almost as big as he was, coming home with bloody wounds and abscesses. He chased a hawk off a rabbit. He regularly shimmied up and down a very high palm tree, jumped onto the carport and made a four-foot leap straight up onto our back deck. Then he stood at the glass doors and meowed to be let in.

I never stopped worrying that he would meet an early and violent end, the kind street cats are prone to.

At age twenty, Romeo was diagnosed with heart disease. We gave him two kinds of pills.  At first, pilling him was high risk.  My arms bled.  And many times, hours later, I would find little pills hidden in the crevices of the sofa.

He lost a lot of weight.  His legs seemed a bit wobbly.  I watched him make the climb up the tree and leap the four feet straight up onto the deck,  my heart in my mouth.  I thought about building him a ramp.

In his twenty-first year, I started preparing myself for the inevitable, telling myself he wasn’t going to live forever, trying to savor the time we had.

Romeo found car travel traumatic and was terrified of the vet.  Although I suspected he was starting to have kidney issues, I made the decision not to medicalize his old age. I’d had a cat that had calmly accepted and been helped by subcutaneous fluids.  I knew Romeo would find it hateful. And he was drinking lots of water, keeping himself hydrated.

I wanted to keep him inside, but he went out every day. He slept a lot, but he still chased off male cats that tried to encroach on his territory. I still had to go running outside to break up the fights.  He still followed me when I walked the dog.  He still hunted.  In his last month of life, he caught two small snakes and sat on the front stoop, meowing up at me proudly.

I knew he was truly old – that even he knew he was old – when he finally stopped climbing the palm tree, finally stopped jumping from tree to carport, finally stopped making the four-foot leap straight up onto the back deck. He slept most days on the front stoop in a circle of sun.

He came in every night, as always.  And every time I looked at him, my heart  silently said good-by. He’d been on heart medication almost two years.  He was slowing down. He was so so skinny. I thought about taking him to the vet, but I knew how much he would hate it.  He didn’t seem to be in pain. I thought about keeping him inside, but he loved going out so much. His street.  His hillside. His front stoop.  Neighbors stopped to talk to him.  He was always there, just outside our door.

And then he wasn’t. One morning, I let him out for the day and he never came back.  I’m quite sure his heart finally gave out. I hope he found a comfortable private place under a bush and went to sleep. I hope he didn’t suffer.  I tried to allow him a dignified old age.  He died as he lived, on his own terms. I hope he knew how much I loved him.

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Just when I think I’ll never stop
Seeing her face
I suddenly can’t remember
Her smell.

Luna

I sat in front of the astrologer, listening dubiously as he described the “dark, swarthy stranger” that was going to enter my life. The reading had been going so well up until now. He was not oblivious to my dismay, as my eyebrows raised and floated somewhere above my skull, like Dennis The Menace.  I was happily married, marginally interested in humans let alone another man. What gives, Star Boy?He rushed to explain that this was not a romantic relationship I was going to have, but a life-changing one nonetheless. As he put it, “Just be open to this person, because he is going to change everything, forever. He’s not from this culture and you need him in your life.”

Well, I certainly needed something in my life. After 15 years of being a paramedic in a busy urban system, I found myself deeply depressed and numb to the endless parade of human suffering. I was in trouble and I knew it. But another man? I don’t think so.
Two days later I drove to an agility trial to meet the breeder of my new puppy. I had never seen her in person, but from across the crowded parking lot I saw one car that I knew held my puppy. They were so far away they were little dots, but it was like the car had a glow around it. When the little dots began to slowly make their way to the trial field, I knew it was him. My man. My swarthy stranger. I felt my chest open and my sad dead heart soar out and across the field to him, around him, through him. Mine. My son.
In the nearly 12 years since, Sterling and I have lived a lot of life. He has seen me through that depression and bouts of lesser evils.  We endured the sudden and shocking death of our female Poodle, Luna. We achieved the honor of being a certified search dog team in California.   He stood guard over my heart and head the entire time. In 2007, shortly after Luna’s death, Sterling was diagnosed with cancer and underwent surgery and radiation therapy. We were there, together. He’s slower now, and a little stiff at times.  I don’t take him for the long runs much any more. He can’t see as well or hear as well, and the radiation has dried up his nose. Now it’s my turn to guard him, which I do with some, hmm, intensity.  Sometimes I think dogs must consider us to be magical beings, as we never seem to age compared to them. And, as I watch my dear dog son slow down and become uncertain, the one thing I can give to him is my presence and the promise of no pain or fear, in the end. A searing gift, but an honor to be able to offer it.
In his work life, Sterling went on many searches, looking for the lost and the dead.
But, the first life this dog saved was mine.

– Lynne Benson-Colbert

“You gotta try your luck at least once a day, because you could be going around lucky all day and not even know it”.
-Jimmy Dean, Texas sausage king.

Sterling

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So we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

Marley

Monica Payson

Yesterday, New Year’s Eve, with deep sadness we let Marley go from this earth. On December 20 he was diagnosed with a large mass in his chest, probably a thymoma. It was impinging on his heart, lungs, and trachea and was making breathing and swallowing difficult. We decided not to pursue further diagnostics or treatment. Marley fought his fight with the lymphoma two years ago. When he finished chemo in April 2008, I promised him I would never ask him to do anything that hard again. We managed to keep him comfortable with palliative measures through Christmas. This past Tuesday night it became clear that he was ready to be done and, as difficult as it was, we decided to honor that.

Yesterday morning we gave Marley a big breakfast with an extra helping of Nancy’s Honey Yogurt. He was lighthearted and happy. After eating he marked the entire yard, though he needed help getting back up the stairs to the back door. Ken built him a fire in the fireplace. Dr Eckstrom came at 12:30. Marley greeted her at the door with his tail wagging. She gave him a sedative and we got him settled on his bed in the living room while we talked and she explained to Haley what was going to happen. Shortly before 1 the mailman came and Marley lifted his head and barked one last time at the only person he ever disliked. Then Dr. Eckstrom put the needle in and he passed quietly.

We each took our time with him saying goodbye, stroking his soft head and kissing his muzzle. In the afternoon we all drove him to the crematorium where Ken put his body in the oven. Haley and I watched from the car. Later in the evening Ken went and retrieved his ashes. Marley is home.

I loved Marley every moment of his life. I knew we belonged together the first time I saw him at five weeks. He was my companion and my partner. He made me a better person. He did everything I ever asked with a smile, including chemo. He gave his whole heart to anyone who needed it, and a lot of people did. In his 7 years as a working therapy dog, he helped people of all ages in all kinds of settings. Some of the work we did was very challenging and he always rose to the occasion. I never had to direct him in his work, he just knew what to do. I was always proud to be his partner. We did so much more than I ever imagined possible. Ramona is a continuation of that. Everything we do grows out of the foundation Marley built.

Marley spent the last year and a half of his life visiting kids and families at the Ronald MacDonald House. He always wore his “I’m a Cancer Survivor” bandana. Visiting at the House made sense of his cancer and chemo for me. He loved being there. On his tenth birthday, I talked for almost two hours with a young girl on chemo for leukemia. We traded names of chemo drugs and compared our least favorites. Toward the end of the visit she took off the hat that covered her sparse hair and put it on Marley’s head. It was the best birthday present ever.

I am grateful to many people for their part in Marley’s life. Carol and Kay for trusting him to me. Anne for helping me figure out who Marley needed me to be and how to help him be the remarkable dog he became. Laurie and Nancy just for loving him. Dr. Gillings, his oncologist, for giving us the miracle of two years after lymphoma. Dr. Hamilton for giving him a life worth living after chemo almost killed him. Judi for seeing that Ronald MacDonald House was where he needed to be. My brother for hugging me when I learned Marley was dying. My brother in law for being there to help me move Marley’s body if Ken couldn’t. Ken for supporting everything I ever did with him and for playing “get the poacher”, Marley’s favorite game, even when it hurt. He brought many wonderful people into my life, and I had the joy of sharing him with many more.

I miss his warm, loving eyes. I miss the feel of his big, strong body. I miss the softness of his ears. I miss the thump of his tail on the floor. I miss everything about him. But I’m happy that he’s free.

Marley

October 28, 1999 – December 31, 2009

Canine Good Citizen Delta Pet Partner 2001-2009 Reading Education Assistance Dog Project Canine Therapy Dog, Off Leash Certified Snohomish County Critical Incident Stress Management Team 2006-2009 Delta Society Beyond Limits Award National Finalist 2007 AKC Award of Canine Excellence, Honorable Mention, Therapy Category 2009

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Coco

Linda Wraith

Okay, maybe I am ready to speak of Coco and the last time she went down, four on the floor, and looked up at me with pleading eyes that shot right through me. Ms. Coco never minced words. Her front legs were betraying her (the back legs had already checked out) and that was the final insult to her dignity. She accepted that I needed to hoist her boney poodle butt into the car. For a while she let me help her up the stairs and lift her onto our bed. When she decided to sleep downstairs, sometimes in her nest of blankets on the couch and sometimes on the floor, I wanted to pull her back and live our life together all over again. To those who knew her, she was The Elegant Ms. Coco. A refugee from a wealthy family who fell out of the sky and into my life when she was three years old. She was on the downhill to 16 years when I held her and let her go. She loved the beach. Wide open spaces and salt air.

November 2007

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