A Moment Of Grace: Part 3

Grace (noun): (in Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.

My dog is old. Aside from its name (which I doubt I’ve blogged) it earned the nickname “Elderdog”.

It’s the best dog I’ve ever had. Not everyone gets a dog like this one. I’m lucky. Almost a year ago I wrote an essay about “Elderdog” and how its aging was leading me in my life as I age too. I never posted it. It was too personal. Too sad.

The morning of “day 21” Elderdog could not stand up. I’ve known this day was coming. I’ve been preparing for it. It is old. I’ve never sugar coated to myself what would happen when the time comes.

It couldn’t have happened when I was less prepared. Coughing and almost incoherently sad I fretted over the dog. It struggled to stand but couldn’t get up. I brought it snacks. Goldfish crackers. I put them near it’s mouth. It happily gobbled up whatever it could reach. It wasn’t in pain.

It was I that was in pain.

Beside myself with grief and very ill, I went outside. It has been a bad winter and a brutal spring. I leaned on my truck, which wasn’t going anywhere, and looked over my field. There were two wild turkeys. They weren’t spoked by my nearly spasmodic coughing. I hope they breed and multiply so I can go turkey hunting. I had the same hope for three rabbits; which I watched all winter and are all dead. (I monuitor my forest carefully and had found the carcasses several weeks ago.)

Then, the kid came out and grabbed me. “The dog is on its front feet!”

I ran, coughing all the way. Gently I lifted it’s back, and the dog was standing. It was shaky and obviously not well… but it was standing. It still wasn’t in pain.

Mrs. Curmudgeon and the kids went off to school and work. I took the dog for a walk.

“Keep standing. Keep moving.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to myself or the dog. The dog didn’t notice the turkeys only a hundred yards away. It walked around, vaguely, smelling something in the air that I couldn’t see.

“Keep standing.”

The dog took me on a tour of our homestead. It walked to each place, paused, and looked at me significantly, as if to tell me something. Then it walked on.

“This is your truck, you go away in this and come back.”

“This is your workshop. You build things here.”

“This is your office. You work here and complain when the phone rings.”

For years, since it has become Elderdog, I’ve been taking it to the mailbox every day without fail. (Even Sundays when there is no mail.) The driveway is long. Not a suburban driveway. But it’s flat and easy walking. Plowed in the winter too. For both me and the dog, there will come a time when we cannot make it that far. And that will be the end. Keep moving.

I didn’t bother getting the mail. It didn’t matter. This was all to keep standing, keep moving. At the end of the driveway, where it meets the dirt road, Elderdog breathed deeply of the air. The first hints of spring were in the breeze. There have been many trips down this driveway where I’ve wondered if I would know, on the day of last walk, that the time was nigh.

It looked off at the horizon. There was nothing to see. Nothing to smell. It breathed deeply, as if scenting a place I cannot follow… yet.

We walked slowly back to the rest of the homestead. Another tour. “This is your truck. This is your office. This is your shop.”

I don’t usually let the dog in my shop. Everything not sharp is poisonous, or at least something that will get in its fur and make a mess. It usually doesn’t want to enter. It doesn’t like loud noises such as circular saws.

But today the shop was silent and recently cleaned. Today I’d take the dog anywhere it wanted to go.

We entered and it sniffed around looking satisfied, as if to say it was happy with this location. Then, it leaned against my beloved woodstove (which was stone cold) and sat down. Then it lay down. It was panting. It wasn’t in pain but it didn’t look like it would move again. It watched me contentedly but also distantly.

I slumped into an old chair by my workbench. This was it. The dog wasn’t in pain but it wasn’t going to get up again. I’ve always planned that I wouldn’t prolong this moment.

I thought of shovels. A gunshot. I’d always planned to handle this moment myself. As befits a man and his dog.

But it was too much. I tried to rally but… nothing.

“I can’t do it.” I mumbled. “I can’t dig a grave today.” I shuddered. Which led to another round of coughing. I was very ill. “I’m sorry but I can’t do it today.” I repeated.

When the coughing ended I felt a little better. I’d said it aloud. All my intended dignity and a proper passing for the best dog I’ve ever had… it was gone. I was beyond me. This problem was no longer mine. There was nothing I could do.

If the dog died and I spent the rest of the day sitting in this chair, coughing and wheezing, alone and beaten and unable to even dig a hole. So be it. This was God’s problem. I was out of it.

I sipped some week old cold coffee from a thermos I found on the workbench and waited. For the first time in weeks I felt at peace. The dog looked peaceful too. I used my camera to snap a blurry snapshot; a last image before it was over.

I looked over at some papers on my workbench. I’d listed prices for baby chicks. I’d planned two dozen Buff Orphingtons; half pullets and half straight run. You can’t order chicks just any old time. I’d need to get them from the feed store today or tomorrow. The season is fleeting. It was almost too late.

There was also a printout of a Craigslist ad for feeder piglets. I’d planned for two. Possibly three if I could negotiate a good price. Like the chicks, purchasing a piglet is a time dependent matter. The clock was ticking.

The clock is always ticking.

I deliberately cleared my mind and considered things. I was very sick. I have a day job. The zombie apocalypse hasn’t happened yet. I’ve got a freezer full of pork and venison. I can choose to buy food at the grocery store.

I slid the papers into the firewood bin. They’ll do a fine job as kindling.

I’m no longer a homesteader. Not this year.

That reduced some of the pressure. I felt palpably relieved. The cold coffee felt good on my throat and I coughed a little less. The dog and I waited.

Then a miracle occurred. Elderdog stood up! As if nothing had been wrong at all! Slowly and stiffly but decisively it led me back to the house, where I collapsed on the couch and the dog laid down and watched.

That’s its favorite post, guarding a sleeping person on the couch. Especially me.

The clock is always ticking. But sometimes there is grace.