LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: This is not a dog story |
by Fay Jacobs |
Before you flip the page, saying "she's writing about the damn dogs again," I beg your patience. This is not really a story about the dogs. It's about fragile human connections, cruel fate and unconditional love. Okay, this first part is about the damn dogs. My house has been in an uproar since last summer when my spouse Bonnie got sick and nobody in the house was quite sure who the alpha dog was anymore. Historically, Bonnie had always been lead dog, while the pack consisted of Moxie (Schnauzer #1), Paddy (Schnauzer #2) and me. Well, according to our latest canine trainer, with Bonnie hospitalized a good part of last summer, then spending weeks on the sofa, Moxie felt the need to protect her and take over as Alpha Dog. Unfortunately, it was a position he felt responsible to assume but insufficiently courageous to handle. His false bravado translated into irrational barking at anything outside, near the front door or entering the house. That included the riding mower, mailman, trash hauler, vacuum cleaner and any intrepid visitors who could get past the gauntlet. Prior to this new Moxie Braveheart, we actually needed a doorbell. In fact, we got a cool electronic device to sit atop the doorbell and respond to every door chime by amplifying and relaying the sound to other rooms. Well now, with Moxie's frantic early warning system, the hair-trigger electronic chime responds not only to the doorbell but to Moxie's bark, so all day long, between the barking and chiming, you don't know if you're at Westminster Cathedral or Kennel Club. Paddy, already neurotic, would take refuge in the closet, sniffing Doctor Scholl's foot powder. His addiction escalated to gnawing leather and one day I came home to discover he had munched one each of four pairs of shoes. My shrieking set Moxie and the door chime off and we all nearly lost our minds. Bonnie and I were obsessing over our household tribulations when the phone rang. Now I don't know if it's the same in your life, but I've started to view the new millennium as Reality, Part II. Part One was The Epidemic. Many of us had loved ones who died of AIDS and we got a premature taste of life's cruelties. How many times did we hear it said that we were too young to be going to our contemporary's funerals. Well now we're into a stage in life where bad news and illnesses are starting to seem slightly more age appropriate. When we sit with our contemporaries talking about our various aches, pains and conditions, we call it the "Organ Recital." But kidding aside, life is starting to feel increasingly fragile. This time the phone call was about my college roommate. A victim of the hideously cruel Huntington's disease, she now needs round the clock care in a nursing home. Huntington's is like the equally cruel Lou Gehrig's Disease, where your motor skills all deterioratebut with Huntington's, your mental skills also go. Frankly, I don't know whether that's better or worse. When I called my friend at the nursing home, I was thrilled to hear that, while her voice was slowed and speech somewhat slurred, her memory and sense of humor seemed intact. First, some background. Lesley and I have been part of each other's lives pretty regularly since we were 18. I spent some of her honeymoon with her in France, after wiring funds so she and her new, now ex, husband could pay their Monte Carlo casino bill. Following my divorce, she, in turn, took me to Provincetown, sat me down on a bench and told me to take a great big look around. Without that push, I might still be in the closet. Long a vegan (one serious vegetarian) and animal welfare advocate, Lesley sat around in plastic shoes, putting up with my carnivorous ways, and I agreed to put up tomatoes with her. If not for her, I'd never have been near a farm or a Mason jar. And she'd have missed several plays and a boat trip. "Are you going to bring the dogs to see me?" she haltingly, hopefully asked when I called. "Please..." So despite the recent household reign of terrier, we scheduled a road trip. Reclaiming her authority, Alpha Bonnie seat-belted the rest of the pack into the car and we took off. Eight long hours, two pee-breaks and several rawhide chews later (no, I did not. This pack member had cheese doodles instead), we arrived on the shores of Lake Seneca in Geneva, New York. Miraculously, we'd found a Ramada that welcomed pets (regular rates plus ten bucks per dog, no AARP discount for them). After check-in we headed for the nursing home. The smile on Lesley's face as a team of fuzzy grey Schnauzers burst into her room was worth its weight in kibble. Up on Lesley's bed the pups jumped, dispensing kisses and unconditional love. Obviously, my dogs felt no obligation to protect us, the nursing home, its occupants or visitors, since my pooches turned into perfect little angels. As we took Lesley down the hall for a haircut, Moxie perched on her lap in the wheelchair, sitting erect and regal like a prince. Paddy, the royal footman, heeled alongside the carriage. All along our route, patients looked at our entourage, with smiles and sparkles in their eyes, waving, talking and sometimes merely grunting to the dogs. People who seemed mired in lonely silence only minutes before reached out to pet and pamper my dogs. It made me cry more than once. I'm not going to pretend that the weekend was easy. Seeing this once beautiful, dynamic woman dependent on aides and confined to a tiny, waning life was tough to handle. But given the circumstances, the weekend was far better than we could have expected. There was an outdoor bar along the lake at the hotel, with live music, where Bonnie and I sat, in the cool evening air (with the dogs!) listening to a chanteuse and sipping Smirnoff. It was all very European. On Saturday we spent a long day back at the nursing home, our dogs adorning Lesley's bed like the New York Public Library's lions. When conversation was too tough, or cheeriness hard to sustain, Moxie and Paddy rescued us with their antics. By Sunday morning, after our emotional farewells (and a quick check to make sure all the nursing home residents still had all their shoes), we humans were emotionally spentand the dogs were just plain spent. It was a long ride home, with time to discuss life's cruelties and the need to make every single day count. The dogs, of course, know a thing or two about stopping to sniff the roses. While we suffered beach traffic and EZPass, they awoke only for shards of hot dog and a potty break outside Philly. This afternoon I was preparing a package with a portrait of the pooches to mail to Lesley for her room, when friends rang the doorbell. Moxie went off like the hound of the Baskervilles, the door chime did the Bells of St. Mary's, and Paddy raced to the foyer with half a Reebok in his mouth. And you know, I didn't care.Fay Jacobs may be contacted at CampoutReho@aol.com |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 11, No. 11, August 10, 2001. |