Counting Time

When you live with an elderly or terminally ill dog, you find yourself counting time in interesting ways. Some are more “normal” than others, some are more fun, some bore your friends to near-madness (but it is fun watching them pretend to be interested), and some are just ridiculous. But no matter how ordinary or how far removed from normal ways of tracking time, all have to do with how far you and your elder companion have come, or how much further you may yet go.

If you have followed this blog or have spoken to me about Bailey, you are already familiar with some of the more typical ways that I have counted time since learning of her diagnosis. I originally counted it in relation to her prognosis of “most likely four-to-six weeks”, “maybe two months” or “an outside chance of three months, but you should not expect that.” Once Bailey outlived all of these expectations, I began counting the months since her diagnosis, the number of seasons she greeted, and the number of events-that-were-not-supposed-to-be. I also began counting down the number of weeks or months until future events or goals that I had created for no real reason other than to have some goals. And I sometimes joked about her being “x months past dead” (her current age is 8 months past dead).

These manners of counting time are fairly normal, however, in that they all use measures typically associated with time—days, weeks and months. But I also found myself counting time in less traditional ways. When given an end date and then going far beyond it, but while always acutely aware of the real, final end date that grows nearer and nearer, you fall on many new measures of time—ones that typically have nothing to do with time, itself. Using some of these measures, the current time is…

•  130 pounds of kibble past diagnosis
• 14 medication refills past diagnosis (filled every three weeks) 
• 1 unexpected 6-month elder-care check-up past diagnosis, and 1/6^th to the next one
• 3 broken promises of no more baths past diagnosis (and a 4^th one coming very soon—sorry, Bailey)
• An unthinkable number of treats past diagnosis, resulting in...
• 9 additional pounds past diagnosis

Since Bailey’s diagnosis, and without trying, so many mundane events became ways of counting time. But one surpassed all others as my favorite, both because of how firm a marker it is, as well as because of how absurd it is.

The current time is:  840 poops past diagnosis.

That’s right—while you count hours and minutes, I count poops! No, I have not gone mad—I have not counted each and every turd Bailey has dumped for the last 10 months (and I definitely have not weighed, measured or otherwise evaluated them any further than every dog owner does). But, as circumstance would have it, I am able to estimate with a fairly high level of accuracy, the number of poops Bailey has produced since her diagnosis.

Two days after Bailey was diagnosed I received a shipment of poop bags that I had ordered two days before the diagnosis.  

That is 60 rolls. That is 900 bags. And that is absurd, given that I was just told to expect Bailey to live no more than 6 weeks. Absurd!

But, here is what remains of those bags:

60 bags left. Sure, I gave 3 or 4 rolls away, but I also borrowed many bags during the last 10 months. And (dare I admit it), I may have failed to recover a turd or two, whether unintentionally or not. Still, no matter how you count, what once seemed like an absurd order has now proven to be nothing other than bargain shopping.

So join me in raising a bag to toast 840 poops passed, to hail the next 60 dumps to which Bailey is currently committed, and to cheer for many more turds to come. And as time moves on and Bailey is currently standing at the door anxiously, I think the time is now 841 poops past diagnosis.

Good girl, Bailey.

On Weekend Mornings in the City

I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning before the city awakens from its nightly slumber. All is quiet and still, save an all but inaudible buzz emanating, I believe, from the hundreds of thousands of snores from the tens of thousands of apartment dwellers in the thousands of units in the hundreds of buildings that line the dozens of streets in my in-town neighborhood. It is peaceful and quiet and calm. I can close my eyes and imagine being in an open field, on the top of a mountain, or deep in the woods—it is that calm and that peaceful. But I keep my eyes open as the stillness is treasured even more here, standing in such sharp contrast to the cacophony of sounds, tensions and bustle that filled the city only a few hours before, and that will soon explode again. For a short time, it is just Bailey and I, and the occasional passersby, almost always accompanied by a dog at their side.

I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning when the street lights change for no apparent reason, with no one to stop for the red, no one to go on the green, and no one to ignore the yellow. A thirty-something man frantically trying to hail a cab to National has yet to dry from his shower. An early twenties girl, disheveled, hung over, and having to think far too much about remaining upright while walking, has yet to wipe the stupor from her eyes and fully remember whom it is lying beside her. They will appear soon, as will many others. Soon, a young couple will tie their laces and stretch their tired muscles in preparation for a morning jog. Soon, a middle-aged woman will speed by, marching primly and orderly to the market so as to get the absolute best pick of the absolute choicest vegetables proffered. Soon, from all the brunch places that line 17th, the chatter of overly enthusiastic, brightly attired young gay boys will combine with the clinking of Mimosa glasses and the clamor of flatware and plates. And soon a woman looking far older than her actual years will shuffle through the contents of her cart, carefully rearranging the remnants of her life, before slowly strolling the streets of the city for another day. But for now it is just Bailey and I, and the occasional passersby.

I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning, when all I hear is the clicking of canine toenails against the concrete sidewalk, and the ting of dog tags clapping against each other. The clicks are more rapid this weekend, far faster then in many weeks. And the claps come so quickly as to become hard to distinguish one from the next. I cannot explain this change, and don’t particularly care to give it much thought. For now I prefer just listening to the round of applause Bailey’s clicks and claps offer to this new day.    

I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning when the sun is gentle and the air is yet to be thick and wet. I love walking with Bailey early on a weekend morning when all is quiet and calm. I love walking with Bailey on a weekend morning when the city is just beginning to awaken and the air is effervescent with the hope of a new day.

Six Months

Six months and a day ago I called my sister to tell her the news that had, in an instant, transformed a day full of optimism into one of despair. I told her about Bailey’s unexpected diagnosis and the even worse prognosis. And, in an attempt to provide comfort, she reminded me that veterinary prognoses were nothing more then best guesses, and that Bailey could well make it longer. “After all,” she noted, “this is Bailey! She’ll live another 6 months.”

Six months and a day ago, and for several days following, others offered similar words of encouragement. “She is so energetic—she is bound to live longer.” “Everyone is dying, just at different speeds.” “She looks so healthy—she’ll beat this.” Her three different vets seemed certain in the their advice to plan for no more than 4-6 weeks and to hope for an outside chance of maybe 3 months. But everyone else seemed to think that Bailey would live much longer. Maybe they were just being kind and supportive. But they all generously offered such encouraging words—thoughts that I did appreciate even though I was not quite able to accept the words. But that is not really accurate.

Six months and a day ago I did not want to accept encouraging words. I know… that must sound harsh (I feel like an ass even writing this thought). But it is the truth. It is not that I did not appreciate the support offered--I really did and still do. And it is not that I was wallowing in my despair or getting into my grief. Just the opposite. Now knowing that in a very short time I would or even might lose my most faithful companion, I wanted to savor every minute. And seeing Bailey with a newfound energy following the introduction of a pain medicine, I wanted to take advantage of every opportunity for both of us to live fully and enjoy what would be or even might be our last days together.

Six months and a day ago I did not want to adopt any thoughts that risked leading me down a path of denial, or that I could (and likely would) use to minimize what I was feeling. I wanted to experience both the pain and the joy of the situation to the fullest. And I most adamantly resisted any thought that Bailey might live longer, lest I start putting things off with notions of “there will be time”.  Six months ago I wanted to live each day as if it could be Bailey’s last, and I wanted to make each “last day” the best it could be.

My last words to my mother were, “We’ll speak again tomorrow.” She had called at a time when I was busy with mundane things that I did not really care about. Even though I knew that she was dying, I put her off. I said, “We’ll speak again tomorrow” without a thought that there might not be a tomorrow. And there wasn’t.

Six months and a day ago I decided to live as if Bailey had no more than 4 weeks left to live. And I am very glad and very proud that we—Bailey and I—did just that. It was a remarkable four weeks. But, five months and a day ago I held on to hope that Bailey might be able to swim one more time in the Potomac River. And four months and a day ago she did just that. And nearly three months ago Bailey celebrated the birthday-that-was-never-supposed-to-be. And two months ago she greeted another season that I never dreamed she would see. And one month ago, with a newfound un-realism, I ordered a ridiculously large bag of dog food with the absurd hope that Bailey would live long enough to eat it all.

Six months and a day ago I greatly appreciated the support and comfort that you all gave so freely, but I did not accept any encouragement for a longer life than the vets so confidently predicted. But six months and a day have passed and Bailey is still very much alive, albeit six months older and somewhat weaker. Six months have passed and what had seemed like an absurdly large order of 900 poop bags now just seems like everyday over shopping. Six months have passed and that large bag of dog food is nearly gone. Six months have passed and I am now absurdly hopeful for another six months.

Six months and a day ago I needed to think only in terms of days and weeks. But six months have passed. Now I can truly thank you all for not only your words of support, but also your words of encouragement. I suspect that at the time you may not have fully believed them yourself, but I am very glad that your predictions were right.

Six months have passed, and Bailey has not. Well done, Bailey. Good girl, Bailey.

Fourth of July

On the morning of July 4, 2000, Bailey arose to her third day in her new home just across the river from the District of Columbia, barely a mile upstream from the Washington Monument, where they light one of the largest fireworks shows in the world. She was excited to see me, and even more so to romp after Fred, who dashed to safety after a warning spit and hiss failed to deter the unwanted addition to his home. She had no idea of the turmoil that would soon explode the night like nothing she had yet experienced in any of the 60 nights that had come before. But I did know what would come, and I was determined to turn it into a positive experience that would not cause her to shrink and shake every Fourth of July to follow. It was time to get something out of all that advanced psychology training!

During the day of the Fourth, I introduced Bailey to a new game—I would make a sudden, loud sound and she would get a treat. She caught on to getting the treat very quickly, as dogs do, so I soon began making the sounds louder and more startling. A couple of shakes and concerned looks, but these lasted no longer than the fraction of a second it took to get the treat to her mouth. After a few repetitions of the game throughout the day, she came running to me with excitement whenever she heard a loud noise. She was ready for the real test.

That night, I stayed home for the 4^th of July for the first time in many years. With Bailey asleep in my lap, I watched the concert on PBS, not for any real interest in the concert, but because I knew that when it reached the final song, the fireworks would start. I then muted the sound on the TV and listened carefully, giving Bailey a couple of freebie treats to get her primed and to capture her attention. The first firework came almost instantly followed by a treat, cheers and an excited look on Bailey’s face as she waited expectantly for another treat. Then the next blast, the next treat, the next cheer and the next yelp of excitement. And then another, and another and with increasing speed, another and another. And when the finale came and the blasts were too rapid to separate into distinct stimulus-response sequences, Bailey pranced with great excitement and glee as she knew the pace of treats would also increase—and they did. The fireworks ended not with a trembling pup frightened by the startling sounds in a still strange environment, but by a happy and excited Bailey who raced around the room and showered me with kisses between each lap (also by an unhappy Fred lying on top of the TV looking down with disgust and contempt at the overly enthusiastic intruder).

Along with numerous planned outings to loud events with lots of commotion, similar early games left Bailey nearly impervious to startling noises. She never feared fireworks or thunder or the demolition of a a large chunk of roof and an exterior wall (thankfully followed by the construction of an incredible new kitchen and deck). For years, Bailey either stayed home on Independence Day without incident, or came with me to get a closer view of the fireworks. And while she did develop a still not fully explained reaction to wind, Bailey never feared thunder and lightening. These were never problems… until she got old.

Last year, it was too hot to bring Bailey for the short walk up to Meridian Hill where I watched the fireworks with a friend. For the first time, Bailey must have become frightened by the noises. When we returned home, we found her trembling in the guest room in which she had somehow managed to become trapped. Since then, Bailey has also become less than fond of thunder. Perhaps it is because of a change in her hearing, or her reduced eyesight or just a slowing in processing and responding to stimuli. In any event, my dog who used to have almost no startle response, now becomes fearful very easily. And while she can barely hear me call her name, she does hear and reacts to loud, percussive sounds.

So tonight Bailey and I will spend what will almost surely be our last Fourth of July together, much like we did our first Fourth—at home with plenty of treats and even more love.

I hope you have a great Fourth with sky's filled with dazzling fireworks. Even more, I hope your Fourth is as special as I know mine will be.