It's a reflective day. The sky is a uniform grey, rain falls off and on and the temperature is just about right. Not too warm, not too cold, a little breeze and nothing special about that at all. It's Tuesday, and yesterday was Memorial Day, and the day that I finally realized that my beloved puppy is no longer a puppy, and that we're both getting old.
For myself, I'm now at the half way point, mostly. I turned 35 in April. Thirty Five. That's just so old, or at least it seemed so back when I was younger. Now that I hit that age, laid off, childless, married and looking to the downward slide, I'm seeing things differently. I'm not in the best shape I could be in. I'm heavier than I'd like to be. My eyes are slowly starting to get old, as evidenced by my first pair of prescription reading glasses, which I should be wearing now, but am not since I forgot to grab them this morning.
One thing that's been fairly constant, however, is Patches. My puppy. My little girl. The warm, snuggly thing that hops into bed with me on nights that Dana is at work, pushing herself against my back, keeping me warm as we sleep. And yesterday, it finally hit me like a ton of bricks that she is old. Really old.
I got her from an accidental litter when she was just 12 weeks or so old. I'd been in love with Border Collies for years, and always wanted one of those energetic, intelligent dogs. I'd recently moved to North Carolina, alone with nothing but work to occupy me, into a 1200 square foot apartment in Durham.
"A Dog," I thought. Just what I needed. A dog would need me to come home every evening, instead of staying at my desk for 16 hours a day just to have something to do. A dog would be there wagging its tail for me every morning, evening and weekend. A dog would sit in my car with me, head out the window, sniffing at all the passing smells as we went off on one adventure after the next. A dog would be my best friend, and keep me from getting too lonely. A dog. That's what I needed.
And that's what I got. Don't get me wrong... I'm not one of those status dog owners. I didn't buy a BC Puppy because she would impress my friends, or win competitions, or even do anything beyond eat, shit and chew things up. I grew up with dogs in my life and I've always been a dog person. But I did have a thing for Border Collies, so that's what I looked for.
Sh isn't a true BC, not in the pure breed sense. Rather, she's a mix of Border Collie and Chow, but to be perfectly shallow, I picked her for two reasons. First, of all the pups I looked at that fateful day, she was the most curious about me. She seemed to be so torn between checking me out and playing with her littermates. Second, she was the most Border Collie looking of the pups. I didn't even want to take her home that day. I figured I'd check out a few litters and find the one that was for me, but her owner was really looking to get this accidental litter rehomed.
I tried to be polite, but the little ball of fuzz was just so irresistible with her big brown eyes, soft puppy kisses, and that little brown patch over one eye. Is it a surprise where her name came from? Hell, I barely had any money at the time, but I had driven an hour and a half east of Durham to see them. I promised I'd come back, but she made it a point to tell me that this pup, the one that seemed most interested in me most likely would be gone by the weekend when I planned to return. Yeah, it's an old sales tactic, and I know better, but how can you be strong when there's a squirmy fur ball in your arms, nipping at your fingers in that playful puppy way, staring at you with the intenisty that only a Border Collie can muster.
So I brought her home, that day, 9 years ago. Nine years. A lifeime for a dog. 63 years if you go by the old advice that dogs age 7 years for every one of ours. I've never even thought about her age. Even today, in my eye, she's still that squirmy ball of fuzz, all roly-poly. But I realize now that the signs have been before me for a while. I have just refused to see them. She's getting slower. No more late night Border Collie Terror Runs. No more hopping around, barking then running away with her tail wagging as we play a game of tag. No more hours long walks. Her muzzle was always bright white, so there's no dark hair turning white to indicate her stately age.
No clues at all, beyond her increased desire to just nap, occasionally run around the yard, chasing birds, or invisible gnomes, or whatever it is that dogs see in the dark that requires them to bark and chase. That hit home for me yesterday, Memorial Day. I had decided that we'd go on a hike. Just Patches and I, the two of us like it used to be. Side by side, a boy and his dog, walking through the woods on a beautiful day, I packed us some snacks, a few bottles of water, and grabbed the collapsable Old Navy water dish that we'd bought years ago for outings like this. We loaded up into the Miata, just my best friend and me and headed off to the trail head.
The trail I chose was not really what I'd consider a hiking trail. It is more like a walking path. The American Tobacco Trail, like so many similar trails popping up across the country in the last decade or two, is actually an old railroad bed. It's smooth with gentle grades and will eventually run from Silk Hope in Chatham County all the way to downtown Durham. Where once steam engines pulled cars full of tobacco from farms and auction houses to the cigarette factories in Durham, now it offered a smooth, easy walk in the woods for hikers, bikers and horseback riders.
I put on my hydration pack and the hip pack I had filled with water and goodies, put her on leash, and we were off to the races, so to speak. And a race it was. The first few hundred yards saw me and an excited, waggy, happy dog, her straining at the leash, sniffing at everything in site. We stopped at a bench about 1/4 mile in to take a drink. This was the first water she'd had since we left, and the day was warm, so I wanted to be extra sure that she had plenty of water to drink.
After that brief rest, when I imagined she had had all the water she cared for, we set off on the trail again. I didn't have any goal in mind, just a walk. I didn't know how far we'd get. I had planned on maybe 2.5 miles, giving a 5 mile round trip walk along the ATT. We met hikers, joggers, kids and parents. People told me how pretty she looked with her purple bandanna, the brown patch of fur over one eye, and the one ear that forever flops while the other stands at attention, and I could tell she enjoyed the praise as well. Our pace had slowed a bit from good walking pace to meandering, and we'd made it just around a mile in. That's as far as we got.
With a sigh, she looked at me, as if to say "I'm so sorry, Jeff, but I just can't go any further. I just want to lay down now..." and that's what she did. She laid down on the trail and just looked at me. I was horrified. This is the first time she'd ever done this, and immediately, doom came to mind. All I could see was images of her having a heart attack, dying on me, and me having to carry her a mile back to the car, in my arms, crying all the way. I was in abject terror at the thought of my beloved little girl departing for the Rainbow Bridge, all because I thought we should go on a hike.
I managed to convince her, after a few minutes, to get up and walk 100 feet further to the next bench on the side of the trail, and once there, she laid back down. We sat there, her and I, for at least 40 minutes. She drank some water, and I gave her some treats while I snacked on the jerky I had packed. We rested in the shade, Patches panting hard at first, then lightly as she rested on the cool, packed surface of the trail.
Finally, I packed everything back up, and we turned around and headed home. The walk back was longer than the walk in. She dictated the pace, and it was even less than meandering walk. Whenever she needed to lay down, we'd stop, just her and I, and watch the passing pedestrians and cyclists. Each time we'd stop, I'd give her some more water, and we'd sit, listening to the sounds of nature. It went like this, bit by bit until we finally got back to the parking lot. I put everything back in the trunk, opened the door, and she crawled into the car.
The drive back was beautiful, and I had taken the top down on the little Miata. She loved this, the windows down, wind blowing her fur every which way, and 360 degrees of view and smells. She sniffed and looked at the sights as we headed home, but mostly, she just sat there, or laid down. For me, it was a long drive home, knowing that this meant that she was aging, no longer the unstoppable ball of lightning that she was. All I could do was remember all the things we've done together. Camping, hiking, walking on the shore, her hiding under my Jeep on a sunny beach day while I fished. Riding in the car, holiday trips, family events and on and on. It won't be long before we don't have that anymore. Maybe not for another 5 years or so, but I know from here that she's farther down the slope than I am.
My puppy is not a puppy any more, and I think she was trying to tell me that when she suddenly just laid down on the trail. She looked as though she wanted to apologize for not being able to outlast me. As though she was sorry that she just couldn't go on, and it hurts me to think about this. She's been with me almost her entire life. She's been my surrogate child, my sounding board, my confidant, and my teddy bear. And finally, I had to admit to her mortality. I had to admit to myself that we are both getting old, both headed toward the same conclusion. And that was the hardest thing of all to admit. We're both going to die.
Das Aggregator!