But, then that thought of running away.   The way he looks at me, those almond eyes, looking at me to fix this.  Surely, I can try.  We will run away from all these medical people.  I’ll gun the engine and outrun our dual plagues.  Those outrageous blood test results. His liver disintegrating, his dying cells leaking enzymes.  No wonder he’s  lost so much weight, something at first I thought was only because he was an old dog, a drop in appetite.

My own mortality also poking its nose out.  Major surgery,   hip replacement. Oh gasp. Plastic and metal and ceramic to replace the “total” hip joint, that word, total.  I don’t want to lose my own body part. I don’t want  the risk of surgery and long haul to recover.  And pain.

I go into the bedroom, to check on Joey.  He’s curled in a ball in his little bed. He only half-raises his head.  Weaker than just a day ago.  His nose is dry, hot.  Sharp in my chest when I try to draw a deep breath. It hits me. The foolishness that I could even try to outrace both our maladies.  That they won’t catch up with us before we reach the county line.  That Joey would die in even more pain. That I will experience even more myself of the burning grind of my bone on bone hip.

But I have to move, I have to do something.  I pack the dog in his crate, drive only blocks away, to our neighborhood park.  A favorite place of his.  A true terrier, he still has a little prance when he walks, though he loses a step now and then. By most afternoons now, he can hardly make it to the mailbox.

This is still morning.  This is here for us.  Cold and icy, March came in like a lion.  All vegetation already budding stopped in its tracks. The magic of being outside on familiar ground,  Joey takes off fast. My fingers turn purple but I let him march ahead on the retractable leash and sniff to his satisfaction, every blade of grass, every tree trunk. The bit of sunshine that comes out, the way it shines on his pointy ears, always erect, they move a hundred ways depending on his mood.

His personality, the way he used to flip a leaf on a potted plant as we made our way out of the house. His joy that we were going out. His mother was named “See, See I’m Free.” And he has that same lighthearted whimsy about him.

This moment,  I stop in the cold and he turns his little head towards me,  as though he’s saying, 'are you acting pokey again, come on old lady, much more to smell and see'.  We walk and walk, me with my cane, he with his faltering steps. Moving forward, enjoying each other and this time we have together.

The last time like this. My friends say he is giving me a gift, giving me the space I’ll need to recuperate by his early exit. I’d do anything to prevent this but I cannot let him suffer.  I must do what’s right for both of us. I must be strong.

Spooling out in front of me, 16 feet, on his retractable leash. Dressed in his little brown padded winter jacket.  We’ll both have to keep our dates with fate. But for this moment, we walk in the sunshine. The trees around us are just beginning to bud pink.

©2018 Sonya Zabulowski for SeniorWomen.com

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