An Old Dog

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it. Psalm 139: 6

Our grandchildren’s dog Micah, a fifteen-year-old American Eskimo, is nearing his end. He has been hit by cars twice, has bad hips and some mornings has to be carried outdoors to pee. He is stone deaf and is going blind. Under his thick white coat lurk multiple large warts the vet says are merely tumors that come with aging. He says there’s nothing to be done about them and that they are no cause for worry.
The family did worry, however, when Micah finally got to his feet yesterday morning, his head tilted sideways, his tongue lolling from his mouth, and started walking around in circles. Had he had a stroke? Was he going to die?
The children, teenagers now, have grown up with this dog and, despite his annoying habits of incessant barking when left outdoors and, in his better days, chasing the cat indoors, he has been like a troublesome little brother to them.
But when I suggested to Audrey, almost 18 now, the possibility of having Micah put down, she was horrified by the idea.
“Just because he’s old and smelly is no reason to kill him, Grandmother,” she protested. “I mean, how would you like it if someone did that to you just because you’re . . .?”
Dear Audrey’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I meant anyone old, not you in particular,”
I assured her I had taken no offense at being compared to an old and smelly dog.
Actually, Audrey’s way of posing the question had amused me. She’s so young that age is still an empty category for her, like Neanderthal architecture or Farsi. She knows it exists, but has no experience of it. To her, old means wrinkles and iPod ignorance, both of which I own up to. But she can’t imagine herself with either condition.
As for me, I can’t even text on my cell phone. I also resent the use of “text” as a verb.
Learning new tricks, whether by dogs or people, gets harder as we age. Fortunately our own dog, Tilly, an aged poodle, went to obedience school before we inherited her some 13 years ago. She can still respond to commands to heel and sit, if reluctantly. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t teach her to roll over now though.
Most animals like routine and resist change. Our dog expects to be fed at the same time and place every day, to sleep in the same spot, and go out at routine intervals. My cat insists on her saucer of milk first thing in the morning. My six chickens all lay their eggs in the same nest.
Resistance to change isn’t limited to domestic animals. My mother and I once took my grandfather, nearing 90 then, on a tour of the small town where he had grown up. We intended the outing as a pleasant diversion for him, a little trip down memory lane.
It wasn’t. His memories were quite different from what we encountered that day. Of all the places he’d known – his school, his home, even the streets he had traveled -- had changed. Or were now nonexistent. Only the old courthouse still stood, saved from destruction by its designation as an historical building.
My grandfather kept giving my mother directions she couldn’t possibly follow because the roads had been paved and rerouted or renamed. They were lined with stores and fast food franchises that had never existed in his youth.
These changes to his vanished memories confused and angered him. At the time I was irritated by his unreasonable accusations that my mother was deliberately hiding his old haunts from him. Today I understand his frustration better.
I will go to great lengths to avoid having to learn a new computer program. I do not enjoy the adventure of discovering where they’ve hidden the peanut butter when the supermarket decides to shuffle its shelves. Why can’t the tomatoes and spaghetti and tea and pickles stay in the same place?
On the other hand, I am learning some new tricks. To wit: I don’t have to say yes to every request. If I don’t feel well, I can stay in bed as long as I want. I’ve learned that I can ask my doctor questions – and not leave till I get an answer.
Best of all, I’ve learned that I’m not through learning the truly important things. Patience. How unsatisfying blame is. Keeping my mouth appropriately shut. Waiting upon the Lord. Listening for his voice. Releasing my anxieties into the soothing solvent of his love. These lessons are worth getting old to learn.