Absolute Beginners

Chérie came to me a tough girl. Her fire matched my own, and I relished her spirit; some called her crabby, to me she was charismatic. I only half-heartedly discouraged her bossy, hostile takeovers of other pups at play. She was, after all, twelve pounds, and not one ounce more. She ran into rooms to announce her arrival, head higher and prouder than it should have rightfully been. She plowed into other dogs, stood on her mother's back (which drove her crazy) and bullied her brother, who was, ceaselessly and curiously, unfazed by her threats. It was one thing I adored about her most--her clumsy, forceful insistence in dominating her world, taking it over with grit, and no grace.

During our years together, I, too, attempted many a clumsy takeover, asserting my will over others, having even growled a time or two. We were both unskilled at listening, unaccustomed to settling for less than what we wanted.


Despite our mutual independence, we relied on each other; we both assumed the other cared, though we didn't have many outwardly tender moments. She knew I was the girl who waited on her, who encouraged her antics, and I always imagined she gave me the same consideration, and she mostly did, albeit on her own terms.


Later in life, Chérie grew calmer, more thoughtful. And it was strange to see her increasingly dependent, even lovable. It wasn't her choice, it was simply the passing of years that siphoned her strength. After many years, when she was 16, she finally began to show weakness--the first she'd ever shown. Though her spirit was strong, her body began to betray her and so it was, toward the end of her life, when she began to learn to rely on me. 


It was funny, too. I had, up until then, spent a large part of my own emotional life being just a bit too strong, and too in control. I had, in parallel with Chérie, only recently learned to trust and understand that in weakness, there is strength; leaps of faith could be taken. After 16 years, Chérie and I took that leap together. At long last she needed me, and wasn't too proud to show it, and I wasn't afraid to show her that I needed her. At last. 


Together, we were absolute beginners, learning to trust, and learning to love.

Do Not Disturb

We live in a new world, Chérie and I. The years have taken us to the hinterlands of elsewhere, as they invariably do. Chérie's strong, but distant mind is somewhere where I am not. I join her on her journeys in her new world, much different from my own, from time to time. I don't see what she sees, at first.   

 Our ideas of travel have changed. She, in her youth, swung from the sleeve of my shirt--a veritable airplane ride cinched with her teeth as I went round and round spinning her as her legs flew up into the air. Now, on our clankety wood floors she teeters on her toes, tiptoeing in endless circles. Around she spins in a hurry, and I know somewhere in the recesses of her mind she is going places; she just doesn't know she'll never arrive. She also doesn't notice me watching, either. 

I call her name, "Chérie." 

"Chérie," I yell again. 

Spin, spin, spin. Flop.

Her spindles have betrayed her again. Long, slender legs supporting a fairly robust rib cage for a girl her size have their limits, I suppose. And I, the doting guardian, right her and off she goes, spinning into oblivion to places I can only imagine. 

There are other secrets in her mind, too. Lately, she has found the corners of rooms full of mystery. They lure her in where she stays, unaware and uninterested in the art of the simple backward. She stands facing the corner, lost in its invisible depths. 

The white face of a wall, too, is something to be studied. I don't know what she sees, but sometimes I sit with her staring, too. After a while, the mind fills the blankness with vibrant scenes of green, of moving pictures, of other dogs barking, the sour scent of urine, the sun on our backs. Alas, I see what 
she sees.  

I squeeze her and kiss her back. She winces at my touch.

"Do not disturb," she says. "I'm busy."

And she is. Busy exploring her new world, finding the edges of her existence and what can I do but let her inner travels take her where they may.

L'amour de ma vie

Chérie was born in a closet in Denver. Her mother, a humble-eyed mix of schnauzer, terrier, poodle and quiet dignity, pushed her out last. I was there to watch her make her appearance for the first time. Chérie slithered into the world in protest, verbally complaining, bossily squirming past her plumpish siblings who had come before her. At just one minute old, the runt of the litter, and with her brown eyes still closed, Chérie was undoubtedly in charge.

Not much has changed 17.5 years later. She is as vibrant and bossy as ever, often displeased, and still in charge. Her independence, self-awareness, and her uncanny ability to see through people have made Chérie unownable. Unlike other sappy-eyed, tail-wagging loyal companions, Chérie has always regarded me as her equal. I merely facilitate her life, ensure her will is satisfied, protect her health and safety and guard it with all my power and exhaustion. As with anyone I’ve invariably loved, her interests have easily and recurrently surpassed my own.

I guard her wellbeing, taking clues from her, watching, comforting, but always allowing her the space and dignity she’s claimed since the day she was born. I guard and protect her from predators, from manmade machines, from poisonous diets, wanton wanderings, long, curly toenails and overeager children. As her guardian, I offer her adventure, car rides with the windows down, and the opportunistic midnight beach runs where we chase after giant seaweed monsters with bulbous heads that trail with long, skinny tails under a sky of low stars and no moon.

At night, Chérie snores on her pillow next to me, unapologetically. Lately, Chérie has been coughing. She is dying. Her 17.5 year-old heart is thinning and her feisty blood has begun to seep into her lungs. She coughs a little and sleeps a lot. Though she is almost 18 years-old, her eyesight is strong, her sense of everything is strong and she stares back at me when I watch her with sadness. Her eyes go up, then down. She studies me as much as I study her and I feel compelled to turn away and leave her in peace as she's always asked of me.

Life is circular. We all, one day, return to our essence, back to the place from where we came. I'm not afraid for her death. I don't fear it and I don't feel sorry for it coming. She has lived a full life, on her terms. What more could an independent girl wish for? 

I've decided to write this blog at the end of her life to document her spirit so that I can remember her strength and will. There will be no lamenting of limitations or exhaustive explanations of what's changed, what's lost--only celebration of spirit and life, and all the funny, wonderful things we all still have to look forward to until our last day. Perhaps others in similar situations with elderly and aging loves will also find solace in that although the mind and body may go, the spirit never diminishes.

Sostenuto

Sostenuto. A sustained movement of sounds and tones that go on and on, slowly and gracefully. Emanating from these sounds and tones, unfathomable feelings are evoked. They drown in your gut, churning in waves of remembrance and moments passed. 

As with most love stories, I will commence at the beginning:

Chérie and I have a song. Well, actually we have two. Our first song found us when she was only a few months old.  Chérie was stricken with parvo early in her life. A nasty disease, whose survival rate is 50-50, claims most young. Odds are not good, especially not for runts. When this illness tried to take her, she was at the threshold of death. I say it not to be dramatic, but if you've ever seen a creature so weak who can't lift their head or open their eyes, who has resigned to the weight of gravity and cannot stand up, you might be able to understand what it was like to sit by her side while she clung to her life.

In those weeks when death tried to lure her, I played the same song over and over in my bedroom. It was a  melancholy song full of emotion and love, Beethoven's 'Moonlight' Sonata: Adagio Sostenuto. For weeks as she withered, I pushed play and turned it up and poured my love into her, never taking my hands or eyes off her. I stopped going to college and flunked out of history and music nursing her. She shouldn't have survived, but she did. Her indomitable spirit surely had something to do with it. Her's was a deep-seated, incorrigible will to live.

Seventeen years later, as I close my eyes, Beethoven's 'Moonlight' Sonata: Adagio Sostenuto still plays in the backdrop of my mind. While the adagio plays, the notes summon up all my senses as we embark on our new and final journey because it, and she, solicits and ravishes them all. She has always overpowered me, often leaving me in a heap with my heart grossly inflated, red and throbbing in a sack of skin, unable to imagine life without her. 

Sostenuto: a prolonged movement of love that goes on and on, never diminished in measure or tide.