More middle of the night stuff
After the mildly alarming frog-on-my-throat experience of Tuesday night, I arrived home from work last night looking forward to a long night of uniterrupted sleep. I put on jammies early, ate a cozy dinner of cheese toast and soup, and settled into bed at a more or less reasonable hour, intending to fall into dreamland immediately and remain there until the alarm woke me up at exactly 7:10 this morning.
The Jeeps had other plans. Around two in the morning he started coughing loud enough to wake me up. At first I tried to ignore it, because he does have these coughing fits occasionally and the vet said they are nothing to worry about unless they become prolonged or seem to cause mental or emotional stress to the dog, which so far they have not. Last night, though, I think we finally crossed that line. He coughed until he couldn't catch his breath, and then he started wheezing and choking, as if he were having an asthma attack.
I got out of bed to see if I could do anything for him – although I had no idea what to try – and he got up from his spot on the floor (he sleeps in the doorway to protect me now, since he can no longer jump up onto the bed) and gave his tail a few brave wags, even though he was still not able to breathe comfortably. All I could think of to do was to hold him and give him a massage, and so I did, and after a few strokes his breath calmed and he seemed to relax a bit, and finally he laid back down and wagged his tail again, but weakly. I sat with him for a few minutes and went back to bed.
But after that, I couldn't sleep. I kept waking up every hour or so, listening for dog sounds, getting up to pee, looking in on the Jeeps (Tater meanwhile snoring away on the bed as usual with his head on the pillow and his legs in the air – surely not oblivious, but apparently unconcerned) and wondering if I should take Jeepers back to the vet for another look. Every time I fell asleep I had unsettling dreams about being thrown out into the street alone ... just wanting to go back home, and being unable to. It was a long night.
This morning he'd moved into his bed in the living room and was lying so still I had a moment of alarm, and poked him (possibly a bit roughly) in the back. At this he lifted his head and looked at me with that long-suffering but irritated expression old dogs get when you wake them up from a sound sleep. "Sorry," I said. And left him a cookie on the rug for later.
I've known the Jeeps for more than three years now and have always known that he was an old dog. I've seen him lose his hearing, his eyesight and his ability to sit and stand easily. Now there's this new thing to contend with. Lately I've found myself casually informing friends that we're probably getting a new puppy next summer - trying to get used to (or distract myself from?) the idea that the Jeeps probably won't be with us much longer. But it's one thing to "know" that in my head, and another to start seeing him fade right in front of my eyes.
The other day I burst into tears when I noticed a few white eyebrows on Tater's sweet little black face.
Why is it so hard to talk about aging, and death? I don't have any words to describe what I feel when I think of our dogs – especially Tater, whom I've known since he was still wet from being born – growing old and dying. Partly it's sadness, because I love them and I don't ever want to be without them. It's more than that, though. The only word that comes to mind is "gratitude." There's an expression I used to hear a lot in Mormonism – "my heart is full." That's what it feels like – like my heart is so full it could break wide open. But then it doesn't. It just keeps filling up with more love.
I expect when my dogs die I will open up even more. And then be filled.
I feel like these experiences are helping me to have more faith in the basic okayness of things. It's a sense I'm actively trying to cultivate, but I've always thought of myself as kind of a worrier (not so much anymore, but in the past – definitely) and it doesn't always come naturally to me.
Like when we were planting those seeds last weekend. I've been gardening basically all my life and yet somehow it never fails that when I place a seed in the ground my mind whispers, "Nothing's going to happen." Because it really is hard to believe if you think about it. This speck of dust? Turns into a full-blown plant with stems and leaves and flowers and fruit? And yet every year it happens: the seeds really do sprout, and there's a new life.
In the meantime though I think I will give the vet a call about the Jeeps. If nothing else it will be good to have something official to tell Mr. A when I tell him about this latest episode.
The Jeeps had other plans. Around two in the morning he started coughing loud enough to wake me up. At first I tried to ignore it, because he does have these coughing fits occasionally and the vet said they are nothing to worry about unless they become prolonged or seem to cause mental or emotional stress to the dog, which so far they have not. Last night, though, I think we finally crossed that line. He coughed until he couldn't catch his breath, and then he started wheezing and choking, as if he were having an asthma attack.
I got out of bed to see if I could do anything for him – although I had no idea what to try – and he got up from his spot on the floor (he sleeps in the doorway to protect me now, since he can no longer jump up onto the bed) and gave his tail a few brave wags, even though he was still not able to breathe comfortably. All I could think of to do was to hold him and give him a massage, and so I did, and after a few strokes his breath calmed and he seemed to relax a bit, and finally he laid back down and wagged his tail again, but weakly. I sat with him for a few minutes and went back to bed.
But after that, I couldn't sleep. I kept waking up every hour or so, listening for dog sounds, getting up to pee, looking in on the Jeeps (Tater meanwhile snoring away on the bed as usual with his head on the pillow and his legs in the air – surely not oblivious, but apparently unconcerned) and wondering if I should take Jeepers back to the vet for another look. Every time I fell asleep I had unsettling dreams about being thrown out into the street alone ... just wanting to go back home, and being unable to. It was a long night.
This morning he'd moved into his bed in the living room and was lying so still I had a moment of alarm, and poked him (possibly a bit roughly) in the back. At this he lifted his head and looked at me with that long-suffering but irritated expression old dogs get when you wake them up from a sound sleep. "Sorry," I said. And left him a cookie on the rug for later.
I've known the Jeeps for more than three years now and have always known that he was an old dog. I've seen him lose his hearing, his eyesight and his ability to sit and stand easily. Now there's this new thing to contend with. Lately I've found myself casually informing friends that we're probably getting a new puppy next summer - trying to get used to (or distract myself from?) the idea that the Jeeps probably won't be with us much longer. But it's one thing to "know" that in my head, and another to start seeing him fade right in front of my eyes.
The other day I burst into tears when I noticed a few white eyebrows on Tater's sweet little black face.
Why is it so hard to talk about aging, and death? I don't have any words to describe what I feel when I think of our dogs – especially Tater, whom I've known since he was still wet from being born – growing old and dying. Partly it's sadness, because I love them and I don't ever want to be without them. It's more than that, though. The only word that comes to mind is "gratitude." There's an expression I used to hear a lot in Mormonism – "my heart is full." That's what it feels like – like my heart is so full it could break wide open. But then it doesn't. It just keeps filling up with more love.
I expect when my dogs die I will open up even more. And then be filled.
I feel like these experiences are helping me to have more faith in the basic okayness of things. It's a sense I'm actively trying to cultivate, but I've always thought of myself as kind of a worrier (not so much anymore, but in the past – definitely) and it doesn't always come naturally to me.
Like when we were planting those seeds last weekend. I've been gardening basically all my life and yet somehow it never fails that when I place a seed in the ground my mind whispers, "Nothing's going to happen." Because it really is hard to believe if you think about it. This speck of dust? Turns into a full-blown plant with stems and leaves and flowers and fruit? And yet every year it happens: the seeds really do sprout, and there's a new life.
In the meantime though I think I will give the vet a call about the Jeeps. If nothing else it will be good to have something official to tell Mr. A when I tell him about this latest episode.
2 Comments:
Well, now you know what it's like to have a kid. But with dogs--it must be so weird and poignant to see them aging faster than you are. (And as a person with children, now I know what it's like to have a dog--which is why we are holding off for awhile. Do I really need a third child right now?)
Blogger was giving me crap about leaving a comment—not that I have anything that pithy to say except that old dogs melt my heart. Something about all their years of loyalty to their owners and they're still as loyal as ever even though it may be physically hard for them to keep up and do all the things they used to do.
Post a Comment
<< Home