All That Ails You: The Adventures of a Canine Caregiver

by Mark J. Asher

  I was living with this dysfunctional duo for seven months before a neighbor spotted Norm spraying me with the garden hose, and reported the incident to animal services.

  To be honest, the reason Norm was spraying me was that I had become interested in a strange scent in the backyard. At first taking a few sniffs sufficed, but I quickly realized this was a scent that had to be savored. So, I rolled onto my back and squirmed all over it, wildly flailing my legs in the air. I couldn’t get enough—the second I got back on my feet, I had the irresistible urge to rub on the scent again. When Norm got a whiff of me, he became enraged, ranting about what a horrible dog I was, before spraying me like a civil rights demonstrator in Selma, Alabama.

  When I arrived at the shelter again, I was relieved to be out of a bad situation, but depressed to be put in cage 39, all the way at the end of the row. Being toward the back of the building means you get far less visitors, which increases your chances of getting put down. Instead of laying on your bed and waiting for people to walk by—like you can do in the better spots—you spend most of the day standing, and hoping that someone glances down the walkway and takes an interest in you.

  Being an older dog now, I began to worry about my chances of getting adopted. In a world with more dogs than there are owners to love them, age is a liability.

  I had this one couple who was super interested in me. After our initial visit, they even returned the next day with their chocolate Lab, Jeremy, so I could meet him. We got along great, but eventually the woman turned to her husband and said, “Let’s go see some of the other ones, I don’t know if I want an older dog.” I never saw them again.

  This is one of the toughest parts about being a shelter dog—meeting people that seem promising, but for whatever reason, don’t pan out. In most cases, you get five minutes, sometimes more, sometimes less, in a small outdoor pen to sell yourself. On some visits, you’re so happy just to be free from confinement that you spend the entire time running around like wild man or jumping all over your potential savior, desperate for attention.

  Thankfully, in a few more months, after two short stints as a foster, Jane Peterson showed up at my cage to say hello. She spoke to me in a comforting, soft voice, while poking her fingers through the cage to scratch behind my ears. Sensing she was a good candidate, I did my best to charm her by cocking my head to her questions, and rubbing myself back and forth against the metal door.

  With Jane, I instantly knew I had her, and she had me. A few minutes into our visit, she turned to one of the volunteers and said, “This is the one.”

  Rachel, my favorite shelter employee, took me back to my cement block to grab a squeaky toy I had become attached to, and then we quickly walked past the boisterous serenade of barking dogs, toward the administration building. Jane was waiting for us inside, where she was finishing up the paperwork.

  Hopping into the front seat of her minivan, I had no idea where the next stop in my journey would take me. I only hoped it would be my last one.

  3

  I still remember the first time the Petersons brought me to SunRidge. My senses were on overload with so much to smell—medicine, medical equipment, wheelchairs, walkers, canes, and so many people to see—caregivers, kitchen staff, cleaning crew, and delivery people.

  Then, of course, there were the residents. Forty-five of them to be exact. Each of their rooms was a treasure trove of time-worn odors, knickknacks, keepsakes, and other oddities collected over a lifetime. Like people themselves, no two rooms were alike. Each had its own personal style and feel.

  I was amazed by how many seniors had stuffed animals. Who knew that old people had enough plush teddy bears, pigs, and monkeys to open a large toy store? Being a dog who loves them, I assumed they were mine for the taking. But after I ate Lola Gladlock’s elephant, Foster, and got a serious reprimand, I learned they weren’t.

  Many of the seniors had a family member buy a dog bed to put in their room, so I would be comfortable and stay longer. It became a competition of sorts to see which spot I liked the most. They were all fine by me, but my favorite resident, Marjorie Thompson, had the best one. It was a large mound of mushiness, and every time I collapsed on it, I felt like I was lying on a cloud.

  Treats, of course, were another incentive to keep me around. Some of the residents kept them in their memento boxes, beside their doors, or in jars on their kitchen counters. Peanut butter biscuits are my absolute favorite, but I’ll happily crunch on anything edible.

  I spent a lot of my time visiting with residents in their rooms, but the center of activity at SunRidge was in the large living room, and in an adjoining restaurant-style dining room.

  Unfortunately, the better smelling of the two was off limits to me. I faithfully stayed behind an imaginary line, bordering the dining room, which Jane had trained me not to cross. Sometimes, I would sit and wait for the residents to finish their meals. But having a sense of smell a thousand times greater than humans do, and watching a room full of seniors eating can be pure torture. Imagine being a dog and seeing an 86 year old woman enjoying a piece of chicken in a slow motion, and having to contain yourself from running over, jumping up, and ripping the chicken right from her fork.

  That’s why most times, after a short while, I would retreat to my bed beside Theresa Peterson’s desk, in one of the front offices, next to the reception area. She and Jane were the ones who fed me, gave me my daily walks, and took care of most of the obligatory dog-owner responsibilities. Ron and Tamara, who shared the office next-door, also pitched in to love and care for me.

  The living room was a social gathering spot where the residents schmoozed with friends and family, attended events, or just relaxed. Open and inviting, the space was filled with couches, cushy chairs, a TV, and a great fireplace. The centerpiece of the room was a beautiful grand piano. Ron Peterson, who liked to play, often joined a group of visiting musicians to entertain the seniors.

  The most unique part of the living room was a large fish tank, which was filled with an assortment of colorful characters. There was a particularly plump one with buggy eyes, who always stared at me like he wanted to play chase, if he could only break out of the glass tank.

  SunRidge had other spots as well, where the residents spent their time, and where I wandered in and out on a daily basis. There was an entertainment room with a large-screen TV for movies; an activity room for Bingo, scrapbooking, arts and crafts, and various classes and clubs; a library, and even a beauty salon.

  My favorite place was the courtyard. It was my piece of paradise, where I could sit in the grass and take in the fresh air, mill about, and chase balls. During the wintertime, I had the whole area to myself. When the weather was warm, the residents joined me, and sat in rocking chairs, which were shaded from the sun by the building’s overhang, or beneath the large gazebo in the center of the courtyard.

  Unfortunately, one of my favorite outdoor activities—chasing squirrels—was a limited occurrence. There were spurts when I would see a couple of them, and then long spells with no sightings. Something about the way the courtyard was enclosed, or perhaps how the landscaping was maintained, must have kept them away.

  It’s a shame, because as a dog, there’s nothing like the thrill of trying to catch a squirrel. It starts the second you hear one chirping, or you get a glimpse of those beady, black eyes. Then the stalking phase begins, as you watch them with baited breath, while they lilt and scurry about. When you can’t stand their arrogant, carefree demeanor a second longer, you explode in a full blown sprint for prey. If you’re really lucky, you’ll nab the bushy-tailed buggard, and not get stuck looking up a tree, barking in vain, while your menace dances from limb to limb in taunting glee. But I suppose you’d need to have an undomesticated past to truly appreciate any of this.

  For the majority of my time at SunRidge, I’ve been the only dog. But there have been a few of them that have come and gone. My favorite of all was a small black Lab mix named Satchmo. He was a clown of a dog, alw
ays doing something to make the humans laugh.

  When Satchmo’s owner, Bob Sanderson, passed, there was some talk about keeping him as a second house dog. Jane was open to the idea, wanting to keep Satchmo in a familiar environment, and not wanting to abandon an eight year old dog. But Ron felt that the dog was not well-enough trained in that capacity to be around seniors. He told Jane that Satchmo only responded to reverse-action training—when you say leave it, he eats it. As it turned out, a friend of Tamara Peterson gave Satch a great home.

  Several of the residents had cats, but they steered clear of me. I’d see them peek out of their owner’s rooms, only to quickly scurry back inside whenever I got close. I remember hearing the Phelps’ kids using the term scaredy cat—now I know where it comes from.

  I felt sorry for the residents with cats. A cat’s company, compared to that of a dog, is not much more comforting than having a pet rock, and in choosing to have a cat they missed out on visits from the house dog.

  I can’t say much about the décor at SunRidge, because dogs have no expertise in interior design, except for spotting cozy couches. Not to mention, our perception of colors is limited. But I will say, the Peterson family worked hard to make it a friendly, homey place that felt like a big country house. It didn’t change some of the hard realities the residents faced in the final stage of their lives, but it made for a loving, positive environment.

  4

  I was completely content one summer afternoon, lying in a patch of sunlight that was streaming through the window, when I heard Marjorie say, “Look, Wrigley.”

  I sprang up and looked outside, spotting a young girl, playing with her yellow Lab puppy, in the backyard across the way. The house had been up for sale and empty for a long time, but over the last week a new family had begun to move in.

  I watched with jealousy and intrigue, as the dog chased the girl back and forth alongside a Slip ‘n Slide. His tongue was dangling, and his body was soaking wet.

  “That sure looks like fun, doesn’t it, Wrigley?” Marjorie said, turning to me. “I bet you’d like to be out there.”

  When the two finally got tuckered out, they laid together on the grass; the dog on its side, panting rapidly in the heat, and the girl on her back, with the sun glistening off her wet skin.

  Marjorie swallowed a couple of pills with a sip of water, and then stared out the window for a long while.

  “I can still remember being that age,” she said, finally breaking her silence. “It feels like it’ll last forever. But before you know it, the pages of your life start to fly by. You wake up one day and you’re a grown woman, then a wife and a mother, then a grandmother, and gradually, then suddenly, an old lady like me. It all happens so fast.”

  The young girl and the dog got up from their short rest and were back at it again, slipping and sliding, with water flying all over both of them.

  “It’s a funny thing about life,” Marjorie continued, as I situated myself beside her chair to solicit affection, “the good old days never seem as good until they get old. The struggles of life fade and leave sweet memories. If only we could appreciate the time we have, while we’re living it.”

  As the house dog, I didn’t have a set schedule—I went where I sensed I was needed. But every dog has their favorites, and Marjorie Johnson was mine.

  It’s been that way since the first time we met, not long after I began making visits here. She was playing Bingo with a group of ladies, and I went straight to her side. When the game was over, I followed Marjorie back to her room. We sat together for hours, strangers to one another, but connected in the magical way a dog bonds with a human, when it finds a kindred spirit.

  Even though she was 87 years old and struggling with a series of medical issues, beneath her fragile frame, trembling hands, and weathered skin, Marjorie was still an excitable little girl. I couldn’t understand all of her life experiences, but I enjoyed listening to her talk, and always loved her company.

  She came to SunRidge after her husband, Frank, passed away. She picked up a photograph of him, either in the living room or from her nightstand, at least once a day, and spoke to him. I feel that I know Frank through all the stories I’ve heard about their lives together.

  When the girl and her dog went inside the house, Marjorie picked up the sweater she had been working on for her great-granddaughter and began to knit. Before she could finish a stitch, there was a knock on the door, and Carla, the caregiver, came into the room.

  She walked over and put her arm around Marjorie’s shoulder, and then leaned over and patted my head.

  “Miss Marjorie, it looks like you’re in good company,” she said, while putting a few things down on the end table beside the couch.

  “We’re just talking about life. Right, Wrigley?” Marjorie replied, smiling at me.

  “With a dog, huh?” Carla said with a laugh.

  “Well, I know they can’t offer any words of wisdom, but they sure are comforting to be around.”

  “I’m with you. Sometimes late at night, after my son’s gone to bed, I sit and have the best conversations of my day with our Golden, Smitty.”

  I looked up at both of them, my tail wagging back and forth like a metronome.

  “He must know we’re talking about his kind,” Carla said to Marjorie, looking down at me. She then walked over to the jar on the kitchen counter, and grabbed a peanut butter biscuit. I wasn’t far behind.

  “Does this sweet boy want a treat?” she asked, turning to face me. I gave her my paw, and she reciprocated by handing me the biscuit.

  I happily brought it back over to where Marjorie was sitting, and broke it into two pieces, before finishing it off.

  While the ladies continued to chat, Marjorie turned on Animal Planet. Unless there was something earth-shattering going on in the world, we always watched it whenever I was in her room.

  Not surprisingly, it’s my favorite channel on TV. However, if anyone associated with the show is reading this, I do have two suggestions. First, replace all of the cat programs with dog programs. There simply isn’t that much to say about cats, other than they are aloof and mostly selfish creatures. Secondly, cut down on the number of dog food commercials. Until someone invents a television, where you can smell and taste what you see, it’s simply one tease after another, without any reward.

  Other than that, though, the shows are fantastic.

  This one was on the science of dogs. The narrator was talking about a powerful hormone called Oxytocin, which human mothers release when they breastfeed their babies. It creates a bond between the mother and her child. For an experiment, the researchers tested dogs and their human companions, after they spent time together, to see how their levels of Oxytocin were affected. Incredibly, Oxytocin rose in both the dogs and their owners, the same way it does with human mothers and their newborns. Powerful stuff, don’t you think?

  During a car commercial, I looked over at Marjorie and Carla, and they were still talking.

  “I heard that crotchety old man across the way gave you a hard time the other day,” Marjorie said.

  “He can be a cranky one, that’s for sure,” Carla responded.

  “Did I tell you about our exchange the other day?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I was coming out of my room and he was coming out of his. I said ‘Good morning’ and he grunted ‘It’s morning alright, but I don’t know if it’s good. What’s so good about waking up old, achy, and irritable in a place like this?’ And then he mumbled off.”

  “I wonder if he’s ever been married,” Carla asked.

  “Misery loves company, but I just can’t imagine who would want to be with that man,” Marjorie answered, before pausing. “Oh, I know that’s a terrible thing to say, but he just strikes me as the type of person who likes to create clouds in their life, and then gets angry when it rains.”

  “Jane keeps telling me to give him a chance—that he’ll adjust. She said a relative of Walter’s called to check on him,
and told her he’s got a heart of gold.”

  “If he’s got a heart of gold, Carla, I’m afraid you’re going to have to get past the angry man who’s guarding it first.”

  Before I turned back to the TV, Marjorie got up, walked over to the kitchen counter, and picked up a small vase filled with cut flowers. “I know you hate birthdays,” she told Carla, while handing her the fragrant bouquet, “but I thought you might like these.”

  “Thank you, but you really shouldn’t have.”

  “I know you told me, but I forget . . . why don’t you like birthdays?” Marjorie asked.

  “They remind me of where I’m at in my life.”

  “Young, smart, and beautiful,” Marjorie said, smiling.

  “Hardly… No, I really want my son to have a father figure in his life, and at the rate I’m going, it doesn’t seem likely.”

  “You’ll find someone again, and this time it won’t be a creep.”

  “I feel badly that he doesn’t have what other kids have.”

  “You mean a Dad?”

  “That and the financial means to do some of the things the other kids can do. I work hard to keep him in a good school, but we’re one of the only families who don’t have money.”

  “Is Dylan happy?” Marjorie asked.

  “I think so. I just wish I could give him more.”

  “As parents, we always do,” Marjorie replied. “Listen, Carla, he may not have everything you want him to have, but the most important thing is that he knows he’s rich with love. You’re a great mother. Don’t discount that.”

  “I knew there was a good reason I always look forward to seeing you,” Carla replied. “I’ve got to get going, but thank you again for the flowers. I have the perfect place for them.”

  When Carla turned to leave, I followed her, hoping she’d decide to give me a parting treat. Instead, I settled for a sympathetic smile and a quick head rub.

  When she opened the door, Walter was sitting in his red scooter, in the middle of the hallway, with a scowl on his face. It turned out he was waiting for his son, Mark, who was coming down the corridor.