Walter and his mom, Jenny, above and Walter, below
How do you prepare yourself for the day your beloved companion is gone?
JENNY BLOCK | Contributing Columnist
jennyeblock@icloud.com
I went to the SPCA to play with the kittens. Actually, I went to take my girlfriend at the time to play with the kittens. As soon as we walked in, though, I saw him — or them, actually.
“What is that?” I said pointing to the blob of matted fur encircled by plastic gates.
“Puppies,” the SPCA employee replied.
I shook my head, sure he had misunderstood what I had said or where I was pointing.
“No,” I said. “That. There.” And I pointed again.
“Puppies,” the employee said again, this time with a mix of frustration and disbelief that I was — or at least was acting — so stupid.
“No,” I said again, shaking my head. “The… ”
This time the employee cut me off: “Go in and look for yourself,” he said, by now truly exasperated as he opened the pen and waved me in.
I was sure it was a pile of ferrets or some other random and/or mildly wild beast. But it was not. It was puppies. Two puppies. Two mangy, shivering, terrified, emaciated, sore-covered puppies.
I gasped. “Can I…” I gestured as if I was picking one up.
“Suit yourself,” he said, shaking his head and walking away. Quickly.
I picked up the tiny creature, and he clung to me. He seemed barely alive. He was ugly. In that Lyle Lovett ugly sexy way.
He was ugly cute.
“I’m taking him home,” I said to everyone and no one.
That was 16 years ago. His name is Walter.
I called the next day worried about his little brother I had left behind. But he had been adopted, much to my relief. I didn’t need one dog. I definitely didn’t need two.
I didn’t need a dog because I had recently gotten a cat, Spencer. But he didn’t take a shine to me.
I had imagined Spencer curling up with me when I wrote. But Spencer was a loner.
Walter was not a loner. Walter was my shadow from the very start. That hasn’t changed, although nearly everything else about him has.
Walter is gray now and slow moving. No more long walks. He used to walk five miles a day with me, always leading the way. But to the end of the driveway is about all he’s up for these days.
He’s almost completely blind. He’s nearly deaf. And the doctor says he has a touch of doggie dementia. He always seems a bit confused and will drink water until he vomits if you don’t stop him, because he finds comfort in the familiarity of lapping at the coolness.
Thank goodness for his little sister, Aurora. She nudges him up in the morning and lets him know when it’s time to bark at someone walking across our yard. She snuggles him in the doggy bed and keeps him calm in the crate when we have to leave them. She’s his connection to doggy reality. And I — well, I guess I’m his constant.
It’s hard. The puppy requires so much more attention. She demands that you pet her and walk her and pay attention to her.
I worry that Walter thinks I love her more than I love him.
I don’t. I couldn’t.
I wonder sometimes if I am subconsciously preparing myself for the inevitable. I mean he’s 16 years old. He’s a chihuahua terrier mix. Do I have six months? Do I have five years? Do I have weeks, days, minutes?
I can’t imagine my life without him. It feels like he’s been my life for those 16 years. In that time, I’ve had four books come out. I’ve gotten divorced and remarried. My daughter has graduated college and moved out.
My world is totally different and his, in most ways, is the same — me. He’s my constant. I don’t know if I’m supposed to prepare for him to not be or if there even is a way to prepare, or if I’m supposed to just keep on keepin’ on.
Many mornings I check to make sure he’s breathing. Sometimes when he’s napping the afternoon away I’ll check too. If he seems particularly still, I hold my breath while I check. A million things go through my head in the split second it takes for me to confirm his slow, rhythmic breaths.
And it’s in that moment, I know I can’t prepare, I won’t be prepared, there is no preparing.
I believe in talking to the dead, and I believe they listen. I believe they visit us and that they send us messages. Some more than others, of course.
So, I feel confident when Walter does cross the Rainbow Bridge that we’ll still be in touch one way or another. A shiver went down my back as I typed that line. I guess that’s my sign. I’m not prepared. I’ll never be prepared. There’s nothing I can do to prepare.
So, for now, I’ll just enjoy the time I have with him. He’s an old man now. And I’m no spring chicken either … .
