All That Ails You: The Adventures of a Canine Caregiver

by Mark J. Asher

  Then, he broke the silence.

  “This isn’t a good idea, you being in my room,” he said, pushing himself off of the recliner to get up.

  I feared the effect of the music was wearing off.

  Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, someone begin to play!

  “Come on, out you go,” he said, pointing toward the door.

  I was on my way when I spotted one of his socks, rolled up in a ball near the couch. I spontaneously ran over, picked it up with my mouth, and dropped it at his feet, hoping, like a crazy fool, for a game of fetch.

  “No, fetch. Get!” he demanded, motioning again for me to leave.

  When I hesitated for a second, he grabbed one of Marjorie’s peanut butter biscuits from the kitchen counter. He used it to lure me out into the hallway. Just before he closed the door, I looked up at him, as if to say: I’m ready for my treat now. Either Walter didn’t understand dog very well, or he forgot to give me the treat, because he closed the door in my face.

  14

  After Marjorie died, I spent more time in the front office with Jane and Theresa than I had in a long while. They gave me love and attention as they always had, getting up from behind their desks, if they noticed me rolled on my back with my paws in the air, hoping for a belly rub, or sensed I could use a new chewbone or toy.

  But Jane and Theresa were extremely busy running SunRidge, not to mention managing their own private lives.

  Sometimes, I’d sit on my bed with my head cradled between my paws, and just watch the two of them. Their days were filled with phone calls, interviews, tours, troubleshooting, and paperwork. It never seemed to end. From a dog’s perspective, human life is filled with too much work, and not enough play. When God created people, he forgot to include one thing—a button you could press to get them to stop everything. I could sure use it some days, just to get Jane and Theresa to leave their work behind, and run delirious circles of joy with me in the courtyard and feel free as a dog.

  Delivery people coming to SunRidge always broke up the monotony of work a bit. Jane and Theresa were friendly with many of them, and they often popped into the front office for a quick hello.

  My favorite of them all was Gary, the UPS driver. It could rain for a month straight without a sliver of sunshine, and Gary would still have a smile on his face. Luckily for me, he loved dogs, and had a few himself. I always followed Gary right to the door when he left, sad to see him go. Sometimes he’d turn back and wave.

  Dogs live for fresh scents and new adventures, so I was super-excited when on one visit, Gary asked Jane, if he could take me out to this truck.

  “I want to get a picture of all the dogs on my route, sitting in the driver’s seat of my truck,” he told her.

  Jane happily obliged, leading me out to the big brown truck, and then unleashing me. I excitedly hopped aboard and sniffed around the front cab area, until Gary climbed into the driver’s seat and called me to him. He handed his phone to Jane through the window, and then huddled close beside me, while she took our picture.

  In time, I began to venture out of the front office as often as I had before Marjorie passed away. A few days earlier in the library after lunchtime, I met a friendly new resident named John Stokely. He wore a fedora hat that looked and smelled as if it had been around the world.

  I decided to go by the library again to see if he was there. Sure enough, John was sitting in the same spot, wearing his trusty hat, and reading a book. Humans, just like dogs, are creatures of habit.

  John was happy to look up from Flowers for Algernon, and see me standing in front of him.

  “Well, if it isn’t my new friend. Hello again,” he said, with a smile.

  I sat down, and then lifted my paw for a shake.

  He put down his book, and accepted my offer.

  “A polite dog, someone must have taught you good manners.”

  I reached over and sniffed the spine of his book, and licked the cover a couple of times.

  “Well-educated too . . . I didn’t know dogs could read,” he said, with a chuckle.

  When John went back to his book, I curled up a few feet away, and went to sleep. I soon found myself far off in a dream.

  Marjorie and I are walking along a winding path, surrounded by rolling green hills, covered with wildflowers. It’s spring—her favorite season—and the air is fragrant and alive. In the distance, the mountain caps are still covered with snow. After we’ve traveled a ways, she leans down and unclips my leash, so I can sniff and mark everything around me, and swim in the nearby stream.

  When I finally rejoin her, she tells me to sit and wait, while she continues alone down the path. When she gets about twenty yards away, a strange thing begins to happen. The further down the path she travels, the younger she looks. At first the difference is subtle, but gradually she begins to appear younger and younger. When Marjorie has become a little girl, she stops, turns towards me, smiles, waves, and then disappears.

  At that point, my body twitched hard, and I woke up. After I got to my feet, and gave myself a good shake, I realized that John had left the library. I followed his scent to a room at the end of the corridor.

  The door was open, so I entered.

  “Boy, you sure are a smart one,” he said, impressed with my tracking skills.

  John was sitting on a large recliner at the other end of the room. I walked over and sat beside him.

  “Your spirit reminds me of an old dog of mine . . . Jake,” he told me, petting my head gently. “He was a mix of Lab and something else. Smart as a whip, and loyal and loving as the dog is long.”

  While John launched into a long story about Jake, I looked around his place. There was something everywhere—papers piled high on his coffee table; stacks of magazines and newspapers on the floor beside the TV stand; clothes draped over his couch; and an oxygen tank, along with another medical device, close to his recliner.

  The walls were covered with many photographs from his life. There was young John, old young, and everything in-between. An old dog looks differently than it did as a puppy, but the change in a person’s appearance over the span of their life can be dramatic. In John’s case, time had been kind to him, and you could still see some of the young boy in the old man’s face.

  When John stopped talking to me, I found a spot nearby and made myself comfortable. The TV was on, so I glanced at the screen. Golf… I watched for a few seconds, and then began scanning the photographs above the TV. One, toward the top of the wall, instantly grabbed my attention. It showed John dressed in a white coat with a large dog standing on a table beside him.

  Oh no, John was a vet!

  The picture looked to be many years old, and I assumed by now, he had retired from his old, invasive ways. Can you imagine though, if out of the blue, he turned to me and said, “Wrigley, I need you to turn on your side for me?”

  After a while, John got up to open the blinds. I followed him to the window, put my head on the sill, and stared out. Across the street, there was a young boy throwing a baseball with his father on one of the baseball diamonds in the park.

  Once John returned to his recliner, he picked up on my view. “You can’t beat that . . . grass beneath your feet, blue skies above you, fresh air, and the pop of the mitt,” he said. “It sure brings back memories of my son, Alan. That was his sport. He was a stand-out second baseman in high school, and broke most of the school’s records for hitting. He had several scholarship offers to play college ball…”

  John’s voice trailed off, and he stopped talking.

  I turned away from the window, sniffed at a medicine bottle on the edge of the coffee table, and settled back in the same spot as before. When I glanced over at John his eyes were teary.

  “Now that I’m an old man, I can say that it’s true . . . you never get over losing a child. It’s not the way it’s supposed to be, you know,” he said, looking back out the window. “Some days it feels as fresh as yesterday, when I lost my boy to cancer. He was my only child, an
d the heartbreak and sadness of losing him eventually broke his mother and I apart.”

  John took off his glasses, and wiped away the tears coming down his face with a handkerchief. Afterward, he stared down at his glasses and the handkerchief on his lap, for a long while, before he began to speak again.

  “I’m not the type of person that looks back and regrets things,” he said, “but I wish I hadn’t worked so hard when Alan was growing up. I always thought I’d make up for it somewhere down the line, but I learned the hard way that tomorrow is for fools and dreamers. Now is all we have.”

  John reached over to the end table beside him, and took a sip of cranberry juice. Then, he looked over at me.

  “Shortly after Alan died is when I got Jake. A friend brought him to me, and I thought it was a crazy idea—what was I going to do with a dog in my condition. But it turned out to be what Jake could do for me. He comforted me as well as anyone could at the time. From the moment I got that dog he wouldn’t leave my side, day or night. When I cried, he would come over and drape his paws on me. When I opened my eyes every morning, he somehow managed to stir the little life left in me to get me out of the house. We took long walks together through the woods. That dog healed me…”

  John winced and swallowed hard, holding back another flood of emotions. Then, a smile came across his face. “A few years later, Wrigley, I remarried and had another son. Guess what I named him? You guessed it . . . Jake.”

  After John talked for a little while longer, I looked over and he was asleep. When I got up to change the position I was lying in, he opened his eyes.

  “Okay, I suppose it’s time for you to get going,” he said, stretching his arms into the air. “I’ve got a few things to do before my card game.”

  Using the arms of his walker, John lifted himself up, and then slowly walked toward the door. When he reached me, I was waiting patiently in the kitchen. I glanced up at the counter, my ritual before leaving any resident’s room, in hopes that John could send me on my way with something good to eat. He smiled at my suggestion, opened the refrigerator, reached into a bag of carrots and tossed one out into the hallway. I happily scrambled for it and crunched on it, while the door closed behind me.

  Visits like this were not uncommon for me. Many of the seniors at SunRidge had unresolved issues, regrets, or deep hurts in their lives. And who better to share them with than the house dog?

  15

  The holiday season is a complicated mix of excitement and angst. I can always feel it in the air as it gets closer. Routines and schedules begin to fall away, and are replaced by a frenzy of activity and festivities.

  It’s always been my favorite time of the year, because it’s the only time of the year when humans collectively match the spirit of dogs. There is so much joy and love and good cheer everywhere.

  Unfortunately, it can be a lonely and difficult time for many of the residents at SunRidge. Some are distant from their family members, either geographically or in their connection to them; others feel the sadness of spending the holidays without a lifelong spouse, who recently passed away. As a result, during the holidays is often when I am needed the most.

  Thanksgiving arrived as it always did—with delicious smells wafting from the kitchen. The SunRidge chefs always created an incredible turkey dinner for the residents, of which about half stayed for the occasion. The others would leave to spend it with family or friends.

  Regrettably, Jane and Ron deemed the Thanksgiving meal too formal for the house dog to attend or even to be around. Ron, in particular, felt it wasn’t a good idea for guests of the residents, who were visiting SunRidge, to have a dog eagerly staring at them while they enjoyed their turkey with all of the trimmings. I suppose it made sense, but to ban me from at least watching the biggest food feast of the year seemed unfair.

  Jane would always put me in what she called a “stay and chill” on my bed, when the Thanksgiving meal was about to be served. Sometime later, she would return with leftovers for me to enjoy.

  It was hard to feel badly about being kept in the front office for special holiday meals, in light of how few rules the Petersons imposed on me. However, there are occasions when too much is stirring for a dog to be still, and Thanksgiving, for me, was always one of them.

  I laid on my bed for what seemed like a good while, before getting up and sniffing around Theresa’s desk. She often ate lunch there, and would accidently drop pieces of her sandwich on the floor. I didn’t come up with anything.

  After another long period of restlessness and boredom, listening to far off voices coming from the dining room, I did something highly unusual for me—I broke Jane’s command, and wandered out of the office.

  The first person I crossed paths with was Pedro, the SunRidge handyman, who didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be walking around.

  “Hey there, Wrigley . . . how goes it?” he asked me, after taking a sit on a chair in front of one of the resident’s rooms.

  He gave me a scratch beneath my chin, and then leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. I slipped between his forearms and gave him a lick on the nose. He laughed, and then wiped my saliva off with a towel he had on his shoulder.

  “Well, I guess someone’s gotta work on Thanksgiving,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “I can’t wait to get out of here and be with my family.”

  When Pedro got up and walked away, I stopped in the doorway of the next room I came to, which was Sandi Schifman’s. Something drew me inside, and when I entered the empty room, I immediately spotted it. On Sandi’s bed there was an old teddy bear propped up against the bed frame. It was the first time I had ever seen him, and he struck me as the kind of bear that would taste much better than he looked.

  Thoughts of tearing apart the decrepit old fella danced in my head.

  I hoped onto the bed, sniffed around the bear, and then took him down to the ground. I began to gnaw on one of his arms, when I suddenly remembered the reprimand I received after destroying Lola Gladlock’s friend, Foster the elephant. I licked the old bear’s nose a couple of times, and then decided to let him be.

  I left Sandi’s room and continued down the hallway. Some of the doors were open, but most of them were closed. I stopped and sniffed at a few of the ones which were festively decorated for the holidays, in most cases, by the residents’ children and grandchildren. For each holiday throughout the year, SunRidge had a competition for the most creatively decorated door. The winner got bragging rights and a gift card from a store of their choice.

  When I got to Walter’s room, I had every intention of walking by without stopping, but I smelled turkey through the tiny crack in his door.

  I veered over slowly, and gently inserted my snout in the crack, until I could fit my head inside. Walter was fast asleep on the couch, sitting upright, and snoring loudly. His neck was tilted to one side, and his breathing sounded like an old train, struggling to move down the tracks.

  Standing in the kitchen, I wondered if I should turn and leave, remembering how my last visit ended with Walter showing me the door, or if I should stay and see, if there was indeed, a turkey dinner for the house dog.

  Before I could thoroughly weigh my options, I found myself at the edge of Walter’s coffee table, in striking distance of his Thanksgiving feast! From where I was, I could see his plate—it was filled with a large portion of turkey, mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, yams, string beans, and a small pile of cranberry sauce. It looked as though Walter had taken a few bites, and then fallen asleep.

  My nose was dancing with delight—I couldn’t turn back now. I lunged over and started scarfing down the food on Walter’s plate faster than Yogi Bear and Boo Boo ever stole a picnic basket.

  I inhaled the white and dark meat on his plate first, and then licked clean the mashed potatoes. Next, I worked on the yams and the string beans. I finished by having a few bites of the cranberry sauce.

  When I was through, I looked up, and Walter was still snoring up a storm.
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br />   It’s hard to say exactly what happened next. I remember walking around Walter’s place for a little while, and then beginning to feel incredibly sleepy.

  The next thing I heard was a man’s voice. When I opened my eyes, I realized I had fallen asleep on the couch, with my head against Walter’s leg!

  “You little devil you. What are you doing in my room?” he asked, startled.

  I quickly sprang up and snapped out of my slumber. The other shoe was about to drop.

  “You ate my turkey dinner!” Walter cried out in disbelief.

  Who me? You may not know this about dogs, Walter, but we have extremely poor memories. I have no recollection of what happened before I fell asleep. Therefore, I’m innocent of any wrongdoing. Oddly though, I can remember the exact spot where I discovered the tasty remains of a rodent on a walk I took three weeks ago with Jane. It sure is nice being a dog sometimes.

  I got down from the couch and looked at Walter, as if to say: I plead the fifth. He picked up the plate and took it to the kitchen. When he turned back toward the living room and met my gaze, he seemed less angry. Begrudgingly, I think he was beginning to develop an admiration for my dogged determination.

  Walter didn’t have to kick me out this time. I left on my own accord, returning to the front office before Jane noticed I was gone.

  16

  Not long after Thanksgiving, one evening after I finished my dinner, I got a surprise.

  I suppose it wasn’t a complete surprise. A dog always knows by observing human behavior, when something out of the ordinary is about to happen. In this case, Theresa kept trying to distract me from seeing what Jane was doing in the corner of the room a few hours earlier, and the two of them, along with Veronica, seemed a bit more giddy than usual.