by Jackie Tricolli
I am slow to rise in the morning, no urgency to start the day, no task to get me moving. I am slow to rise from a bed I just bought in a home I just made my own, daylight peeking through windows bearing no blinds, a slight jolt as I open my eyes, slits against the glare, waking in new territory. Slightly hunched over as I gingerly step onto the carpeted floor, weary bones snapping into place, straightening my back before making my way to the bathroom. As I stand over the sink to wash my hands, a bloated face barely recognizable, puffy eyes, dark circles, stares back at me. Blah. Getting old . . . Slowly, I make my way down the hardwood stairs, looking for my loyal companion.
Hunter’s milky left eye blindly searches for me as I call his name. The open floor plan of the house plays tricks on him as he attempts to locate the sound of my voice. Foolishly, I wait for him to respond in spite of our separation by walls and connecting hallways. The acoustics ping back and forth from floor to floor and around corners, taunting him at the early seven-o’clock hour.
No longer able to climb stairs, seeing only shadows and shapes, depending on one clear eye to guide him around the corners of a home he’s only known for two short years, Hunter spends his nights alone. Once agile, he has lost his ability to jump onto a king-sized bed, hogging coveted covers and snoring blissfully. Now Hunter spends his nights alone on the first floor surrounded by more darkness. Occasionally the gentle sounds of his dreams rise up to my room, comforting ambient noise; he has made it through another night.
Each morning, he cocks his soft, golden head, ears perking up a bit, as my footsteps pad lightly towards him. A familiar voice, and his tail thump, thump, thumps against the floor, appeased by sound where his vision has failed him, assured by the voice of the person who cares for and loves him. Through the fog of his altered vision, he waits for trusting hands to guide him over the threshold from one room to the next, a reminder to both of us that home has taken on a new look.
Hunter too is slow to get up, arthritic hind legs pushing him upward, gentle hands lending support, an urgency to get to the door to relieve himself after a long, quiet night of sleep followed by a breakfast he can barely finish in a bowl he can barely see. A dose of Galliprant for his arthritis, laid out in a pill case designating which day the dose is due, and a CBD supplemental chew to ease the discomfort in his hips and joints. He takes his daily dosage like the good boy he is. I pop a few vitamins into my mouth in solidarity.
The morning walk has slowed in pace, shortened in duration as he drags his right hind leg along the paved street, an awkward gait, nails scraping against the macadam as he struggles to find the stride of his youth. Two twenty-minute daily walks to maintain his muscle mass, part of his daily regimen as prescribed by the vet. Eager to be outside beyond the gated courtyard, Hunter makes a jaunty sprint down the driveway before running out of steam. He seems to reserve his energy for awkwardly rising to stand, visible discomfort displayed in his deep brown eyes.
He is geriatric, this gentle Golden Retriever, no longer the roly-poly puppy who came tumbling across Connie’s linoleum kitchen floor the day we picked him up, a butterball of blond fluff crashing into chairs in his haste to meet the two little boys who would take him home to meet his Golden Retriever Brother from Another Mother, the same stud siring them both, a brown-striped tabby cat who would become his best friend, and another tabby, gray striped with white feet, who ages in sync with him now, making Hunter the baby of the pack. His energy, his enthusiasm for life, for us, made him a natural fit to our family. This day is a distant memory, but the intoxicating puppy smell lingers in my mind.
During his thirteen years, there have been countless emergency visits to the vet for sock-extractions. Stapled stomach, wearing a tee shirt to catch the ooze of internal fluids, getting stuck in doorways wearing the Cone of Shame. Comical and exhausting. Hunter was not partial; mittens, gloves, or headbands sufficed for instant inhaling, but the vet warns, after two surgeries, he will not survive another. We become diligent in our attempts to keep him safe and adept at serving doses of hydrogen peroxide to induce vomiting when he is too fast for his own good, snatching an unsuspecting guest’s sock before we can tell them to zip their bag. It hasn’t made his life easy, but as an old man, Hunter has outgrown the sock-swallowing phase of his life, and we no longer need to put our socks in our pockets when they are not on our feet, a habit that took years to break.
Hunter’s life has changed monumentally in the past two years, first losing his beloved Brother from Another Mother to old age, and a year later losing his best buddy, the brown-striped tabby, to heart and kidney failure. In between these two losses, we moved to the acoustically challenged house, leaving behind a sprawling yard where he could chase squirrels, bark at joggers, and wait for the mailman to give him a treat. Now he is confined to a gated courtyard with no grass and no view and a world where he lives on one floor. His world got smaller as he got older, or did he get older because his world got smaller?
In the ebbing summers of his life, Hunter has become a pawn in a custody battle he is unaware of. Per a court order, every few weeks from April to October, from Thursday to Monday, at designated drop-off and pickup times, at a specific location, Hunter is delivered like a package to my ex-husband’s car, leaving his bed in our new home empty for days. His absence echoes throughout the acoustically challenged house until he is returned.
Hunter makes it to another year. One more annual checkup, only to have the vet hedge, admit he doesn’t want to be the one to say it out loud. But it must be said. It’s the truth I already know, so I say it. Hunter can’t see, can he? Yet in spite of his vision loss, Hunter uses his best Spidey senses, finding the door in this sterile environment, where he hovers anxiously waiting to escape the scrutiny. When this tactic doesn’t work, his intuition leads him to me. We comfort one another, my Golden boy and me, as my eyes can no longer contain the tears now streaming down my cheeks, blurring my vision as the diagnosis is decreed in this tiny exam room with two young veterinary students looking on. The vet finds his voice again, recommending outdoor time to stimulate Hunter’s aging mind and suggesting not to move the furniture as he will memorize the patterns in our acoustically challenged home.
Hunter can no longer get into the car on his own, so as we leave the vet, I struggle to lift him into the backseat, where he can recline comfortably on the short ride home. I nuzzle my tear-streaked face into his soft yellow fur, tucking his bushy tail inside before gently closing the door. With arthritic stiffness in my back and heaviness in my heart, I know Hunter will be my last big dog, my final Golden Retriever in a series of Goldens.
Changes abound, but we establish new habits reserved for aging in place; it works for us. In the late afternoon, we nap in tandem, wake to have dinner, take one more walk to close out the day. Upon our return, Hunter struggles to get settled in reverse order, making slow, steady circles to take his cumbersome body and arthritic legs down to the floor. I stretch on the floor alongside my Golden boy, the one I thought would be my forever puppy, to relieve the aches and pains in my lower back that have accumulated throughout the day. A collective sigh, and we rest our weary bones for the night.
As I wait, not want, for Hunter to die, I know the pain I will endure—again—the day he quits, looks at me with milky eyes, willing me to make the decision no pet owner ever wants to make. I have made this excruciating decision twice in the not-so-distant past, so I remember. It is heartbreak on repeat, but a home without a dog is just a house.
As I wait, not want, I smile as I feel the warm spot his seventy-six-pound body leaves on the floor after he gets up, I enjoy our daily walks as he is greeted by fellow dogs and their owners, and I pet him repeatedly each time he tap, tap, taps me with his paw, letting me know not to stop the good scratches. I sit quietly at night, Hunter at my feet, hoping my presence provides comfort in his waning days.
As Hunter and I age in place together, I wait but never want.