The inconstant gardener and her dog
January 22nd, 2006
We’ve had a peculiar stretch of spring-y weather lately, and I have decided that it is a good day for yard work. The only problem is that I don’t really understand the concept of “yard work.” I am not sure what to do with myself. So I amble about aimlessly, checking out the muddy scene, with my beloved almost-fifteen-year-old dog trailing behind me.
I figure tackling the dog poo is a good start. My dog agrees, and follows me as I go and fetch the pooper-scooper. He has had a rough few days, another relapse. His hind legs are very weak and keep crumpling underneath him. The day before, when he got past the baby gate and managed to climb the stairs, he got stuck on the way down. Since he’s too big to lift, I had to brace my hands against his chest and coax him to hop his way downstairs with his front legs only, one step at a time, while his hind legs thumped uselessly behind the rest of him.
“Trust me,” I told him, over and over on the way down. We did our best to ignore the indignity of the situation. We go way back, he and I. I want us to go way forward. But Mother Nature has other plans, and she is beginning to make them known.
As I fetch the pooper-scooper from the shed, my old boy hobbles around the perimeter with his head held high, determined to keep an eye on things. He knows better than to leave me to my own devices.
I make my way gingerly around the backyard, picking up mushy globs of poo and hurling them into the woods behind the shed. I do my best to clear the area, knowing that the sensation in my dog’s back paws is not good and he frequently steps in his own mess on the way back into the house. He is a proud guy, and I want to spare him the humilation of having his feet scrubbed with paper towels and dishwashing liquid, if I can.
When the poop’s been cleared, my boy and I survey the scene. I have seen people rake things. I don’t know why people rake things, but it looks simple enough. So I get the rake and scratch and claw the ground with it. I push around clumps of wet leaves and pine needles. I rearrange them, move them from one side of the yard to the other. I tell myself that I am “aerating the soil.” I tell myself that this raking is more useful than raking one of those little desktop Zen gardens. I must be doing something useful.
My dog watches me. He seems amused by my sudden fit of pointless raking and looks like he might say something, then thinks better of it.
He makes his way up his ramp into the house, then turns around and wanders right back outside. I greet him again and put down the rake.
We walk around to the side of the house. There are terrible, terrible things growing at the base of the stone foundation. Malevolent-looking red vines, tangled through the skeletons of, what? Shrubs? Do we have shrubs? Why can’t I remember if we have shrubs? Shouldn’t I know if we have shrubs?
I reach for one of the reddish vines and win a handful of thorns. “Yow,” I say. “Damn plant.” My constant companion glances at me, then walks stiffly and slowly to the front of the house to see if there’s more interesting action on the street.
I do not like Mother Nature and her plans. I do not like these nasty red vines. I am carrying around a pair of red-handled scissors from earlier, from snipping something inconsequential, and I decide to avenge. I start hacking at the thorny weed. I want to make it bleed. But it is making me bleed.
My favorite fellow returns. Nothing good to watch on the street, and his crazy person is trying to snip a vine to death. If only we had Pay-Per-View is what I imagine he is thinking. He plods into the backyard and squats with difficulty, trying to go. I remember when he was just two or three months old, his gangly puppy self peeing like this, before he mastered the macho canine way, one proud leg lifted skyward. His trembling hind legs just won’t cooperate. I look away quickly, before he can catch me looking. He doesn’t need me to see that.
The vine is winning. But I refuse to give in. I head back to the shed and root around until I find the gardening gloves that I bought last summer in a particularly idealistic frame of mind. I attempted a gardening session once that summer, but wound up recoiling in terror when I unearthed a gigantic Darth-Vader–headed beetle, who rose up on its back legs (four back legs? six?) and jabbed at my airspace with its sinister front bits in retaliation.
At that instant, I abandoned all dreams of a recklessly lovely perennial garden (what, that old thing? I barely touched it, just lucky I guess!). “There are terrible THINGS! You don’t know what’s out there! You don’t know what I’ve seen!” is what I believe I was overheard yelping.
I decide I will show them all. I will show the beetle. I will show Mother Nature. I will take out this noxious vine, I will brandish it over my head and yell TAKE THAT at whoever happens to be listening.
Mister Whoever is already listening, or doing his very best to listen. He is beside me again, smiling and panting and monitoring my crazy levels. I am not sure what he hears now, but I talk to him anyway. I smile supersized smiles for him—I throw in some supersized panting, too—as I am not sure what he can see now and want to make myself perfectly clear. If he can see my face, I have made it perfectly clear that I am still his goofier half.
He never asked to live out his golden years in a house full of shrieking toddlers. The last few years, he’s accepted his move to a supporting role graciously—he and his saucy, foxy-faced red-headed counterpart—but from time to time, I catch the melancholy in his eyes. I said this would never happen if kids came along, but of course it happened. We are not so original around here. I’ve shoved him out of the way. I’ve snapped at him, even though he’s never snapped at me, even though he’s never so much as curled his lip in my direction. I’ve scolded him too much for his nervous licking—a habit he’s developed with age, a habit that makes me more nuts than usual. I’ve lost his brush, I’ve lost his medical records, I’ve lost the chance to be just what he needed, just when he needed it. I did right by him, sure, but not all the time. We had a strong enough start, but nearing the finish line now, my heart hurts. I’m not sure I have enough time left to make up all the ground I’ve lost.
I take it out on the vine, sawing with the kitchen scissors. I dismantle it, I yank it from the ground, I cheer when I pull up roots. I stuff the vine carcass in our garbage can. “Ha!” I say. “Ha.”
My dog surveys the carnage. He seems surprisingly relaxed, considering his discomfort. The wind is picking up, and he raises his gray muzzle to catch a good whiff. I smile at him, and he smiles back. We’re having a pretty good time out here, doing our yard work together.
David appears on the back porch, sipping coffee. I decide to impress him with my plant identification skills.
“What is that nasty weed on the side of the house, the one with all the thorns? Wild nettle? Brambles?” I am so smug. I am so smart. I know words like nettle and brambles.
“Guess again,” he says.
My old boy politely takes his leave of us and wanders over to the shed. He is a tactful dog.
“What?” I say. “What is it?”
“Wild raspberry.”
I don’t understand. “Wild raspberry?”
“Yup.”
“Why doesn’t anybody tell me these things? I trashed the wild raspberry bushes? Are you telling me that’s where Sophie got those berries from?”
David takes another sip of coffee. “It’s very hardy. And there wasn’t really enough of it to do anything with.”
“Except DELIGHT OUR CHILD.” This is bad. This is very bad. I have trashed my daughter’s favorite plant. There is no outsmarting Mother Nature.
“It’s okay,” says David.
“Is it?” I say.
He retreats into the house, leaving me alone with my botanical guilt, a garbage can full of ruined raspberry bush, and my dog.
“Huh,” I say to my boy. “Huh.”
He is a nonjudgmental sort of fellow. He watches me, waiting for a cue, a hint of what might happen next.
I watch him, waiting for the same cue. Stalemate.
So I touch his head. I ruffle his ears, I scratch his chin. This, I can do. This, I understand. When I stop, he looks to me for more of the same. His brown eyes are cloudier than they used to be, but just as keen. His body is failing him, but he is all there where it counts.
He’s all there. And he’s all here, for now.
I pat his back. “Let’s go,” I say.
We head for the house. We don’t look back at the scene of the crime. We know better.
Entry Filed under: Uncategorized, See Mommy laugh. (Favorites)
32 Comments
1. mom on a wire | January 22nd, 2006 at 11:49 pm
That was absolutely heartbreaking. Give your dear old dog a good tummy rub from me, ok? Please.
2. s | January 23rd, 2006 at 12:09 am
Our neighbours have five dogs. One big one and four that look like over-grown rats. They (the dogs, not the neighbours) crap all over the backyard all winter long. And in the spring, the neighbour’s teenaged daughter lies on the lawn with her boyfriend. I think they are tanning. But I also think they are CRAZY.
3. Simon | January 23rd, 2006 at 12:52 am
Mine are three years and nine months. Affection has been hard to come by. Constant source of aggravation between me and muh missus.
Part of me is looking forward to the golden years. Perhaps, when it’s not so much an exercise in tolerance, I won’t.
4. margalit | January 23rd, 2006 at 12:56 am
Having an old dog go downhill is very heartbreaking. I lost mine when he was 18.5 and he lost his back legs, too. Your guy knows you love him. He understands that kids are part of your life, and if he’s accepted them, then he gets that he’s still your love as well.
As for the raspberries, they’ll be back in the spring. Unless you took out every sucker, they will come back. And if you feel really guilty, you can buy cultivated ones as well.
5. Meghann | January 23rd, 2006 at 3:53 am
This post was so well written I had to comment.
It’s amazing how much we can love those furry friends isn’t it? Even when they sniff someone else’s butt.
6. Imperfect Mommy | January 23rd, 2006 at 7:41 am
Crying, then laughing (in that order)… you sound like my kind of gardener.
7. the Mater | January 23rd, 2006 at 8:54 am
Well, I plopped down at the computer this morning with a bowl of cereal in hand … hmm … a new entry from Jenn! By the time I read the first few paragraphs, I put the bowl down and could not eat. The tears are flowing down my cheeks. What a beautiful essay, such a fitting tribute to our proud patriarch.
You asked, pleaded for a dog your last year in college. We conceded. He was a handful at first but he did become your constant companion (except for that year in Hungary when he became MINE) and I was amazed to see how he welcomed the babies into his life … so gentle, so protective and ever so tolerant of their roughhouse pranks as they grew.
Give the old boy a right-fine scratch behind his ears. I miss him and I am so glad you’ve celebrated his presence in this beautiful, beautiful essay.
8. Patti | January 23rd, 2006 at 9:22 am
Truly beautiful. I was feeling rather teary already, but this brought back so much. Thank you!
9. chris | January 23rd, 2006 at 9:26 am
a post from the heart that really touched my heart today. my 41st birthday present is 10 years old today, and just recently is having trouble with the stairs. it rips me in half, i would put him in the snugli i used for the kids, if i thought he would stand for it for a minute. there are no words to describe the relationship that evolves when a dog joins the family. thanks for putting it out there!
10. Kelli | January 23rd, 2006 at 10:03 am
Your timing couldn’t have been better with this essay. My family & I just lost our beloved family pet on Friday. We had a good, long run for 17 years & Mother Nature knew it was time for him to go - with a little dignity. Still, it’s never easy to loose a good ol’ furry friend & reading your story made me feel a little better about Pepper.
11. jennifer | January 23rd, 2006 at 10:11 am
speechless. my old dog, your old dog. sad. darn you, mother nature.
12. s | January 23rd, 2006 at 10:12 am
Ummm … somehow, the rest of my comment is missing.
It went something like this:
You probably don’t lie in the crap on your lawn. And I am not a ‘pet person’ but you post is beautiful, touching, poignant, wonderful.
I almost want to adopt a pet.
13. kris | January 23rd, 2006 at 10:14 am
Call me lazy, if you must, but I plan to stock up on these if our house has a yard of any sort:
They actually work exactly as they say they do. Can’t beat it.
14. Dawn | January 23rd, 2006 at 10:54 am
I still have a box with the ashes of my cat of 20 years on my dresser counter.
Family is family , furry or not.
And don’t worry about the Raspberry. You just encouraged it. Really, you can’t get rid of that stuff. I promise. If not, I’ll bring you the clump I have been fighting for 8 years in my yard and re-plant it in your yard.
15. geogirl | January 23rd, 2006 at 10:58 am
For a minute there when you mentioned thorns I thought they might be rose bushed and I started to panic for you…..
The rest of this post just made my heart hurt.
We recently suffered the loss of a pet too. My mom’s dog died a few months ago and she decided to have him cremated so she could scatter his ashes in the ocean which he loved so much. At Thanksgiving the family gathered together on the beach and waded into the surf to say our final thoughts. It was a lovely moment….well, right up until the roque wave came and sent us screaming and scattering in all directions. As we gathered together again, soaking wet and laughing our a**es off, we realized that the dog had given us one last gift; a moment of family togetherness with laughter.
p.s. we’re not entirely sure what happened to the ashes in all the confusion but we feel certain that they made it to the water somehow…
16. Stephanie | January 23rd, 2006 at 12:00 pm
Hi Jen,
I sat down to read this and ended up crying here at my desk. Please give him a big hug and kiss for me.
17. anon | January 23rd, 2006 at 12:22 pm
I was in the same situation once. Vet gave my dog 6 months from the hip displacia. I started giving him Glucosimine (sp?) tablets. He made it another 2.5 painless years before we both knew what was best for him. He and I had been through so much, it was only right that I was there for the end. Painful, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Even though it was the last time, I was there holding his paws and talking him through it when he needed me the most.
18. Sarah | January 23rd, 2006 at 12:32 pm
Dang, Jenn. I am going to have to try to finish reading this at home because I am sitting here crying my eyes out at work! F. has more soul than most people.
19. the Mater | January 23rd, 2006 at 2:06 pm
Geo, what a terrific story … and I don’t doubt that your deceased pupper sent that wave cascading over all of you … his final prank and loving goodbye to the fmaily :>)
20. Spot the Wonder Dog | January 23rd, 2006 at 3:29 pm
Well Jenn, I’d tell you to give him a hug, but squeezing him would probably make him poop on the floor.
With respect to your wild raspberries… we’ve got wild grapes here, and I feel no remorse at all about tearing them out or hitting them with the Weed-b-Gone. Wild grapes have a Kudzu-like quality, in that they tend to take over your entire yard and entwine themselves in all of your other trees and shrubs (not to mention climbing your house and any other outbuildings). You can’t just prune them off either, because that only makes them come back stronger. The grapes are tasty, but not seedless, so their utility is limited.
But that’s enough whining about grapes.
If you want to make it up to Sophie, plant some radishes. Kids LOVE to pick radishes; carrots, too (although they always pick them too early).
21. JustLinda | January 23rd, 2006 at 8:28 pm
Your post brings to mind my big ol’ dog from my childhood… how the steps got to be too difficult for him, all that stuff. Oh, how sad it is to lose a good dog. I hope your guy has a full life, a comfortable one, before his time comes.
Your post reminded me of one I read a few months ago in another blog I enjoy… in this case, she had to make the decision that many pet owners are called to make and her words expose her broken heart over it. http://hellojosephine.blogspot.com/2005/10/beauty-is-gone.html
I suppose, still, it’s better to have that sort of grand pet even in the final analysis of losing him than to not have had him at all.
22. Katieface | January 23rd, 2006 at 8:41 pm
I love him…even when he does that gross nail eating thing…
23. sogal | January 24th, 2006 at 12:07 am
oh dear. tears for the deaths of my three dogs (childhood) and my two cats (adulthood) still flow…thanks for the great essay… i now have two more cats - a mother/kitten duo - although they are as different as night and day.
pets are wonderful for giving us unconditional love and when we need it the most - even if we dont think we want it at the time.
its so great to have you back ….
24. roo | January 24th, 2006 at 2:08 am
I was waiting to hear you’d decimated the rosebushes.
25. Jess | January 24th, 2006 at 1:43 pm
This was so moving, that I feel compelled to delurk for the first time. Please scratch your pooch behind his ears for me. I’m sure he knows his place in your heart.
Love your blog.
26. Sarah | January 24th, 2006 at 9:43 pm
This was such a beautiful post. I am another one who swore things wouldn’t change when we had a baby, but of course everything did. Just this afternoon I was so mad at our dogs for barking at the mailman and waking the baby from her nap…your post reminds me to give them a break and take a little more time to enjoy them. Thanks.
27. The Homosexuals | January 26th, 2006 at 4:25 pm
Nice use of what people in the po biz call “objective correlative.”
Oh, Mr. F…
28. Julia | January 27th, 2006 at 12:20 am
I, too, have a ‘furry’ guy. He’s only 5 and a half and just started suffering with hip dysplasia. Tonight when I got home I knew there was something wrong. I’m a mother of three girls and every animal we’ve had has been female. But then my husband brought home our little guy, who was dumped on a construction jobsite with his brothers and sisters at only 5 weeks old. We loved him from the moment we saw him and what we thought was going to be a small dog turned into an 85 pound bundle of fur. He is so much fun, even when he gets in trouble for digging up my garden. I know he is only trying to help. Your essay touches on two things I love to do, work in the yard and spend time with my guy. So with him acting the way he is tonight, moving slow, not wanting to walk or stand, I hurt to know what he must be feeling. I can’t afford surgery so I’ll be giving him alternative treatment. Anyway, I was just researching hip dysplacia on the web and came across your site. You share a touching story. Thank you. (oh, I know exactly where that spot is behind the ears).
29. Coley | February 4th, 2006 at 4:28 pm
sigh. I know only too well how you feel Jenn! A lovely read which bought back memories if my collie cross!!
30. Nieka | February 5th, 2006 at 3:28 pm
Give your pup a big hug from me! I have two middle-aged (read: set in their ways) cats. Reading your essay, I realized for the first time that someone else understands the incredible guilt I feel at relegating them to second- and now third-fiddle status. When I married a non-cat person, they got banished from the bedroom, whisked off the counters, and uninvited from mealtimes. Since Elliott came on the scene, they’ve had to figure out ways around babygates and their laptime is so, so limited. It makes me so sad and yet I don’t know how to make it better. I wish I could explain it to them…
Nieka
31. OddMix | February 7th, 2006 at 12:16 pm
What a wonderfull essay. Having a pet get old is suc a sweet sadness. Sweet because that bond only becomes better with time, and sad, of course, because that time is limited.
Don’t worry about the rasberries - your husband showed a mastery of understatement when he called them “hardy”.
And for Julia and others - there is a product called MSM, originally for horses. It supports joint health in an amazing way. We used it on a boxer dog with bad hips and had fantastic results. Our current dogs are both likely to be dysplastic and we will use it for them as well.
32. MissMary | February 14th, 2006 at 6:02 pm
Here’s the deal… Find someone who works at a vet’s- or better yet, THE vet, and become their new best friend. That will at least get you the family rate for the best old arthritic dog-pal stuff on the planet. My old Sammie (fondly known as Sammich to the parrot) has awful hips and was beginning to lick his poor old stuffed animal fur off his feet. My vet buddie let me know about Benadryl- the same stuff people take- for the licking, and two awesome drugs for old dog duffers that help them get around: Cosequin and Metacam. They are pretty spendy, but I’d go without food to get them for Sam, because he does 500% better on them. The Metacam is like magic. Sammich even does the happy hello dance again! Talk to the vet! Take that, Mother Nature, you beeyotch!
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