All That Ails You: The Adventures of a Canine Caregiver

by Mark J. Asher

  I picked up on the sound of young kids whizzing by on their skateboards, and spotted a long, white line trailing a plane in the sky; and was fascinated by a large dancing sandwich on the street corner, promoting lunch specials.

  Walter saw a changing world.

  “Look at these kids today with tattoos on their necks, their backs, their calves . . . they’re everywhere,” he bemoaned. “In the old days, sailors, bikers, and servicemen used to have them, but one, two tops. I don’t understand why these kids want to plaster their bodies with this permanent, ugly crap. Birds in a tree on your back might be hip today, but what’s it going to be when you’re seventy? A mistake, that’s what. And it’s more than just tattoos with this generation . . . you have men punching huge holes in their ears, and all kinds of other crazy piercings. Something’s not right here.”

  Conversations with dogs are obviously one-sided, but that never stops people from talking to us, as if we could respond.

  “Look at these young girls, Wrigley. What are they, twelve, thirteen years old at the most?” he asked me, while observing a group across the street at the convenient store. “They look like they’re ready to date . . . all sexed up and sophisticated like that. Jesus Christ, you have the rest of your life to be a grown-up—be a kid while you can.”

  Sometimes people waiting at the nearby bus stop would come over and ask Walter if it was okay to pet me. He seemed amused by all the attention a dog could get sitting next to an old man in front of an assisted living home.

  One day an attractive young woman spotted me, and walked over, giddy with excitement.

  “Hello, sweet thing,” she said to me, kneeling down, and cupping my head with her hands. “Are you keeping your owner company?”

  “He’s not mine,” Walter told the woman. “He’s the house dog here.”

  She didn’t acknowledge Walter, and continued to interact with me.

  “You are so cute!” she told me, while I sniffed around her. “I had to leave my dog at home, when I came here to go to college. I miss him like crazy.”

  I kept trying to sniff at her backpack, so she took it off, and put it in front of me to explore.

  “Where are you from?” Walter asked the woman.

  She didn’t reply. Instead she began massaging my back, while I looked up at Walter, soaking in her affection, with my tongue hanging out.

  “I wish you could meet my Beagle, Sam,” the young woman told me. “You guys would have so much fun together. He’s with my mother, but I’m sure he’s not complaining . . . she’s the super-generous grandparent that spoils him rotten.”

  Walter tried to initiate conversation with the young woman another time, but she was too smitten with me to bother. After a few minutes the young woman walked away, but not before she gave me a big kiss on the top of my head, and thanked me for giving her a much needed dog fix.

  Walter was puzzled by our exchange.

  “I don’t know that I’ve seen that before,” he told Veronica, stopping at the reception area, once we came back inside.

  “What did you guys see?” she asked.

  “This young lady just came up and carried on an entire conversation with Wrigley, without saying a single word to me, and I’m the one who can actually talk.”

  Veronica did her best to help Walter understand.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Walter,” Veronica told him. “Maybe she thought Wrigley was a better listener than you. I’m sure she thought he was cuter.”

  When Walter first arrived at SunRidge, a comment like that would have gotten under his skin. But now he just chuckled and drove away.

  Since returning from the hospital, there was a noticeable change in Walter. He asked for things more kindly, and said thank you when he was given something. Believe it or not, he even played Bingo one afternoon.

  It was a shock to everyone, including me, when I looked up from my spot next to Tamara, where I began sitting after Marjorie left us, and watched him walk in. He didn’t make a fuss about anything, and made small talk with the others in the group, who were all women that day. Unfortunately for Walter, his social skills turned out to be better than his luck, as he didn’t win any of the games.

  Despite his Bingo outing, Walter was still a solitary man, preferring to stay in his room and watch sports on TV. I walked into his room a few times, and he seemed happy to have my company.

  It didn’t take long for me to learn that baseball was Walter’s favorite sport, and the Chicago Cubs was his team. If you saw him watching a game—with his baseball cap on and a scorecard in his lap—you would have thought he was a kid. He never paid much attention to me while the Cubs were playing, but one day Walter made a connection between my name and his team.

  “My God, how could I not have realized this before,” he said, his voice rising with excitement. “You’re Wrigley, as in Wrigley Field, where the Cubs play. If a black cat walking onto the field cost them the pennant in ‘69, you might be my good luck dog, who finally helps them win the World Series!”

  Humans sure can stretch things when they want to believe something.

  From then on, Walter took it upon himself to include me in the team’s triumphs, and commiserate with me after their defeats. I quickly learned that with the Cubs there was a lot of commiserating.

  I wish I could have shared Walter’s enthusiasm for the game, but I found watching baseball—for any length of time—to be incredibly boring. It’s better than golf, but not by much.

  One afternoon, however, while dozing in and out of sleep during a Cubs game, I had a brainstorm that could save baseball from being so dull!

  What do you think of this idea? Each team would include a mix of humans and dogs. The humans would only hit, the dogs would only field, with the exception of pitchers and catchers, who would need to be humans.

  Okay, let’s play ball: a human batter hits a fly ball to centerfield, and a Golden Retriever catches the ball. That’s one away. The next batter hits a line drive over a German Shepherd’s head, who’s positioned at second base, and it bounces a few times, before being chased down by a Chocolate Lab. The runner is rounding first base, heading for a double. If the Chocolate Lab gets to second base before the human does, he or she is out. If not, the player is safe. Make sense? All you’d need to do is make the ball lighter, so it could easily be caught by a dog, and you’re ready to go.

  You could equip the dugouts with dog beds and chewbones to keep the canines busy, when they’re not in the field. The bullpens would be used for human pitchers to warm up, while the dogs play chase. Teams could be by dog breed or all mixed together. The possibilities are endless…

  The more time I spent with Walter, the more positive effects I saw as a result of our newfound bond. He seemed calmer and less agitated when I was around. And although he probably wouldn’t admit it, he enjoyed the rapport he was beginning to have with the other residents. I’m sure the incident with Corina had a lot to do with the changes, but the house dog deserves a little credit as well.

  I even noticed that Walter began to imitate one of my habits. One day, while I was doing my ritual downward facing dog pose, and leaning forward to stretch out my hind legs, he said to me, “Boy, you sure must be limber with all that stretching you do.”

  A few days later—after I finished my stretches—I looked up and saw Walter slowly prop his leg onto the arm of his recliner, and gently lean forward.

  Who said you can’t teach an old man new tricks?

  20

  After firing Corina, Walter contemplated what to do about replacing her. He decided to take Jane’s suggestion and have Sally Riggins, who worked alongside Carla during the 6:00am to 2:30pm shift, watch after him. Rudy, the private caregiver who had been working earlier in the day, changed his schedule and began helping Walter in the evenings.

  Looking back on it, Sally probably would have been a better choice originally, rather than Carla. She was in her late 40’s, and had the experience and resolve to handle someone wit
h Walter’s prickly personality. And Sally had another thing going for her—she was from Chicago, and grew up rooting for the Cubs.

  Despite what some might have seen as a cold or tough exterior, Sally was never anything but cheerful and kind to me. She always talked about the two loves of her life—a fawn-colored pug named Winfrey, and a chocolate Lab named Duchess. I had been around Carla more than Sally, mainly because she had a close bond with Marjorie. But among the SunRidge caregivers, there wasn’t a bad one in the bunch.

  Even though Sally was aware of Walter’s reputation for being difficult, she was brazen enough—some would say crazy enough—to broach the subject of his heavy smoking habit. The conversation came up after Walter had a coughing attack, once we returned from the front patio, where he had just finished a cigarette. It started as a couple of dry hacks back in his room, but continued until he was choking, and having a hard time catching his breath. Sally heard him from the hallway, and came quickly to give him a couple of firm pats on the back, until he was okay.

  “My mother smoked up to the end of her life . . . literally,” she told Walter, while bringing him a glass of water. “I had the unenviable task of lighting her cigarettes during her last days.”

  “Well, it looks like that’s where I’m headed,” he replied.

  “You never know, you might surprise yourself, and quit,” Sally responded, with an encouraging tone.

  “I doubt it,” Walter replied. “I’ve been smoking for a long, long time, and people don’t change. We’re all hopelessly who we are… Besides, at my age it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference anyway.”

  “For starters, it would help your circulation,” Sally offered. “And you wouldn’t get out of breath so easily.”

  “Tell me this,” Walter replied, ignoring what Sally had said. “If smoking is as bad as they say, how come I always hear about people who smoke, drink, and eat donuts every day for breakfast and live to be 100?” Before Sally could respond, Walter answered his own question. “I’ll tell you why,” he said, “because it’s all in the genes.”

  “It’s that, and also how you take care of yourself,” Sally replied. “I’ll tell you this… Doing this job, I’ve seen plenty of smokers who end up in real tough shape.”

  “Thanks for the uplifting conversation,” Walter said, sarcastically. “I’m afraid we’ll have to finish it some other time. My son’s coming soon, and I’ve got a few things to do before he gets here.”

  Shortly after Sally left the room, Walter’s son, Mark, along with his girlfriend, Michelle, visited him for the first time since the argument they had in the hallway, when Marjorie was still alive.

  Mark pulled up a chair beside Walter’s recliner, and the two men talked about his hospital stay, while Michelle sat on the couch reading a magazine. Seeing what Walter had been through, and that they hadn’t seen one another in some time, I was surprised at how quickly the conversation became tense.

  In my time at SunRidge, family dynamics were the most difficult for me to comprehend. There are so many complicated emotions, and so much history involved. I’ve seen several family visits begin cordially, and with a word or a look, turn ugly and filled with anger. In some cases, a single argument, stemming from an old, unhealed wound can separate family members for years or forever. It’s one of the sad and puzzling aspects about human relationships.

  Listening to Walter and Mark, I couldn’t understand all of the logistics of what was being said, but it seemed like another battle in a long war, and the issues probably weren’t as big as the wall they had built between them.

  Michelle did her best to act as a buffer between father and son, but she was no match for their intensity. I decided it was time for the house dog to try to diffuse the situation. I lifted my head off of my bed, and began to growl in a deep low voice. When my intended result—an end to the bickering—didn’t occur, I launched into rapid bark mode.

  “Damn it, shut up!” Mark yelled, glaring over at me, showing a glimpse of his father’s temper.

  “Look, you guys are upsetting the poor dog,” Michelle said. “Try to calm down.”

  “Michelle, I told you, I need to discuss this with my father,” Mark responded, forcefully.

  The conversation between Walter and Mark quickly returned from a momentary simmer back to a boil. It was time for Plan B.

  I walked over to the coffee table, grabbed a tennis ball, which Jane had given to Walter a few days earlier, and dropped it at Mark’s feet. He didn’t acknowledge my attempt for a game of fetch, so I nudged his hand with my snout. He finally stopped talking for a second, picked up the ball, and tossed it toward the corner of the room. After I retrieved it, Mark tossed the ball for me again, and I quickly chased it down, catching it after one bounce. Michelle cheered, and Walter commented on my impressive fielding abilities.

  Shortly after our little game of fetch petered out, I went back to my bed, rolled on my back, stuck my paws in the air, and let my head dangle to the ground.

  “You guys, look at Wrigley,” Michelle said, laughing, before coming over to rub my belly.

  “Silly dog,” I heard Mark say over Michelle’s shoulder.

  “Looking at that,” Walter chimed in. “I’d have to say dogs must not get headaches.”

  The conversation went on from there, heading off in a different direction.

  It wouldn’t surprise me if the issues Walter and Mark had been discussing lived to see another day—human problems are as pesky as flies on dog poop—but at least the tone was more civil when Mark and Michelle left that day.

  Once they were gone, Walter became quiet and withdrawn. He sat on his recliner for a long time, staring into space, and looking sad.

  I tried to cheer him up by putting my chin on the arm rest, and looking at him with an intensity and cuteness that is too cute to deny. But it was of no use, Walter was beyond reach.

  He finally moved forward in his recliner, pushed off against his cane, and stood up. I followed alongside him, as he slowly made his way into the next room. He sat down on the side of the bed, put his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes. For a second, I thought he had fallen asleep. Then he reached over, opened the drawer in his nightstand, and pulled out a small photograph. I found a spot below his dresser, and sprawled out on my side.

  I watched as Walter slowly rubbed his fingers across the photograph, and began talking to it. “I tried my whole life to please you, but I never could,” he said, defeated. “You pushed me so hard, but when I did well at anything, there was no praise, no pride, no love. Only criticism of how I could have done better. My biggest regret in life is that I went to work for you after college. That was my chance to break away. I wanted to get a job in advertising, but you insisted that you needed me in the family scrap business. All those awful, wasted years at each other’s throats. How many times I wanted to leave, and I should have, but eventually I had a wife and kids to feed, so I stayed, and I paid dearly for it.”

  Walter stared at the photograph for a moment, with tears welling up in his eyes, and then began to speak again. “It would have made such a difference in my life, if you could have told me just once that I was good enough, that I made you proud. I tried my damnedest not to be like you with my sons—to catch myself when I treated them the way you treated me—but I failed.”

  Walter began to sob heavily, and I could feel his emotions turning to anger. He closed his hand, making a fist, and crushed the photograph.

  “Why does a father denigrate and belittle his own son, his own flesh and blood?” he asked, his voice trembling. “Why? God, tell me, why?”

  When I got up, and went to Walter, he was hunched over, facing the headboard with his elbow on the bed. I gently leaned against his leg to let him know I was there. He put his left hand down, and rested it on my shoulder.

  After a few moments, Walter wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve, gathered himself, and walked back into the living room. He stood by the window, looking out, lost in thought.

&n
bsp; “I guess the pain of some things never goes away,” he said, turning back toward the living room, “and all you’re left with is the torture of time to think about them.”

  Walter walked over to his CD player, pushed the play button, and classical music filled the room. He went back to his recliner, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  21

  My most exhilarating experience at SunRidge came from out of the blue. I was asleep on my bed in the front office, when I heard the sound of Walter’s scooter. I opened my eyes, and saw him talking with Jane in the doorway. After they finished, Jane called me over to her. She was holding a black and red vest in her hands.

  “Let’s see how this thing fits, Wrigley,” she said, draping the vest over my back, and connecting the clasp under my belly.

  “Oh my God, that’s too funny,” Theresa said, looking on from her desk.

  “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea,” Jane responded, with concern.

  “It’ll be fine,” Walter assured her. “What’s the worst he can do?”

  “What does his patch say?” Theresa asked Jane.

  “My name is Wrigley. I lick, love, protect, and serve.”

  With the vest in place, I gave myself a good shake, and licked Jane’s face. She clipped my leash to my collar, and handed me off to Walter.

  “You ready, boy?” he asked me, wrapping the leash around his hand.

  You could have harnessed wind energy from my tail swooshing back and forth. For a dog, there’s nothing like the excitement of knowing you’re about to go somewhere that you’ve never been before.

  I walked beside Walter’s scooter, and we exited the front entrance. The SunRidge van was parked a few feet away. Ron loaded Walter’s scooter onto the lift, and Walter and I, along with several other seniors, got on board for a ride!

  On either side of the center aisle, there were two seats in each row. Walter took a window seat, and I hopped up next to him. As we started to drive, I put my right paw on his lap and leaned toward him, in order to get a better whiff of the breeze that was coming through the small window above.