Of Dogs and Men
Our nine year old lab, Bosco, has gone totally blind. Lest you think this has changed his altogether affable personality one bit, rest assured he is as bouncy (albeit now bruised) and congenial as ever. In fact, if not for the frequent collisions and the eyes that look like the ‘snow’ on the TV when the cable goes out, you would never know that there was anything wrong with this 85 pound bundle of dopey brown fur. The one who seems most affected (read: disturbed) by this disability is not Bosco but his eleven year old sister, Bailey; she is neither nurturing nor understanding but instead, annoyed and intolerant.
Bosco can no longer run around in puppy circles all over our lawn, diving under bushes and through hedges to escape the chase of his ‘alpha’ sister. He can’t see to try and grab the rope out of her mouth when she taunts him, a game that used to excite her endlessly. And occasionally he makes the mistake of stumbling onto her bone, or near her water bowl, or tagging a little too close behind (a result of his adapting his nose to take the place of his eyes) and in the process bumps into her butt. Then she will think nothing of whirling around and taking a bite of out of his ear and giving it a good wag before letting go; she has made him bleed more than once; this from a female dog who has never bit anyone, man or beast, in her life. In fact, when people come to the door and see the size of the dogs and ask if they’re friendly, our usual reply is ‘Oh yes, they generally like to LICK their victims to death.’ But now we’re not so sure. If this gentle, good-natured eleven year old dog can morph into psycho she-bitch with her lifelong companion can we really assume that she is to be trusted at all?
Once again, my theory that illness claims the family as victim along with the patient is proven out. Not to trivialize my father’s dementia, but I see so many parallels with his decline and that of our brown lab. He too, forgot where he was, where he was going, and why. He too, became a source of annoyance, with frequent outbursts that made no sense. Bosco cries a lot. We think it’s because he no longer has the visual cues to see that I am on the couch or my husband is in the chair or that Bailey is on her bed. My father believed he was much younger than his eighty-five years and that he had important meetings to attend. He often demanded to be taken to those meeting much in the same way that Bosco demands to be let out, fed, stroked. And I find myself coping with our blind dog much the way I coped with dad. I recognize that it isn’t just about the person, (or the canine) and it isn’t just about their misfortune and loss. There aren't any answers and even less satisfaction in going down the road of ‘why’ and ‘what for’. Just like with my dad I realize that sometimes it’s about the lessons for the rest of us. What kind of person am I in the face of a disabled family member? What kind of character do I have?
Bosco is a good dog. I know he didn’t ‘deserve’ to go blind, just as I knew my father didn’t deserve to lose his dignity. I don’t go there. Instead, I try to appreciate the inconvenience as a challenge to be a better person. When Bosco cries or Bailey snaps, I try to take a deep breath, and crack a smile, and say out loud that we are living in a loony bin. I remember that my dad is no longer around to take to fantasy meetings and that makes it a little easier to go and wipe up the blood or let Bosco out for the twentieth time today.