All That Ails You: The Adventures of a Canine Caregiver

by Mark J. Asher

  Staring out the window at the passing scenery, the route we were taking looked familiar. It was the same one the Petersons took to go to the dog park. But with a vest on, and a van full of seniors, I didn’t think that was our destination. So, where were we going?

  I was amped up with anticipation, getting more curious the further along we drove.

  Finally, the van exited the freeway, made a couple of turns, pulled into a large parking lot, and came to a stop. Ron came back and moved me to an empty seat across the aisle. He tied my leash to the metal rail, and then assisted all of the seniors out of the van. When I was the only one left inside, I began to fear the group was going to leave me behind. But, seconds later, Ron got back on the van, and came to retrieve me.

  We were all outside now and ready to go. That’s when I looked up and saw that we were standing in front of a super market! Over the years, I had made many trips with my various owners to places like this, but unless it was a pet store, I always had to wait in the car. Now for the first time, I was going inside!

  The beginning of the experience turned out to be anticlimactic, as Walter shopped for toiletries and other household stuff. But after we got the boring part out of the way, we turned down an aisle, and my olfactory system went ballistic. Every nook and cranny of every shelf was stacked with food!

  Although my vest made me feel like we were on a mission, and encouraged me to behave with a reasonable degree of decorum and restraint, I definitely had more spring in my step than the average service dog, who had been down these aisles before.

  A lot of the products I had seen before in places I’d lived, or in commercials on TV, but it was amazing to see them all in one place. Now I know why they call these stores Super markets!

  We went up and down one aisle after another, passing meats, cheeses, cereals, and breads. Then we came to the pet section! Walter grabbed a chewbone for me and dropped it in the front basket of his scooter. I got as close as I could, gave it a good sniff, and then licked his hand in approval.

  After a bit more shopping, we got to the end of an aisle where there was a woman handing out samples of beef jerky. Wait a minute—is this a dream, or did I die and go to heaven? The lady was tall with red hair. She was wearing a black apron with a name tag that read Faye.

  “Would you like a sample?” Faye asked. “It’s from naturally raised beef, right here in the valley.”

  She was talking to Walter, of course, but I was responding.

  “It looks like your four-legged friend wants a piece,” she said to Walter. “Can he?”

  “I suppose it’s okay,” Walter replied.

  Faye didn’t have to bend over very far. I gladly met her reach, and inhaled the beef jerky without chewing. I immediately began to plead for another piece, looking up at Faye intently, then over at her tray of goodies, and then back at Faye again.

  “I think we found our canine spokesperson,” she said, laughing. “He seems to like our product.”

  “The only trouble is I bet he’d like your competitors’ products just as much,” Walter joked, before thanking Faye, and starting to drive his scooter away.

  Before he could get very far, I began to whimper.

  “Wrigley, none of that,” he instructed me.

  It’s not every day a dog finds himself inside of a super market, standing in front of a tray of beef jerky samples. So I started whimpering again.

  “Wrigley, you had a piece, now let’s go,” Walter told me, while tugging on my leash to move me along. I held my weight against his effort, and looked at Faye with a pout that could have melted a dictator’s heart. Walter and Faye exchanged glances without saying anything to one another. I inched forward and offered Faye my paw. She leaned down, gave me a shake, and slipped me another piece of beef jerky.

  Persistence is cuteness when you’re a dog.

  With everything on Walter’s shopping list checked off, we got in one of the checkout lines. While the cashier scanned each item, the bagger, an enthusiastic boy, commented on Walter’s baseball cap.

  “Sir, I like your hat.” the teenager told Walter. “Go Cubs!”

  “That’s what I say,” Walter replied. “But it was a rough season.”

  “Well, like my Dad tells me every September, wait until next year.”

  “I hope so,” Walter told the boy, as he loaded our groceries into the front basket of the scooter. “I’m afraid I don’t have that many more to wait.”

  Back in the parking lot, Ron packed away everyone’s purchases, and helped all of the seniors get situated on the van. Then we drove back to SunRidge—smelling much better than when we left.

  A week later, I overheard Jane and Theresa in the office talking about our outing. It turns out that Michelle had made the vest for me, but the idea was Mark’s. Seeing that I was a good thing for his father, he wanted to strengthen our bond.

  Walter and Mark were no different than any hardened relationship I had seen between parents and their children at SunRidge. No matter how much hurt and anger existed between them, somewhere in their hearts there was love. Sometimes it’s buried so deep they can’t feel it or don’t believe it, but even in their most heated arguments, I’ve sensed it.

  22

  Over the next few months, I grew closer to Walter than I, or anyone at SunRidge, ever could have imagined. Although I visited with the other residents, as I always had, Walter enjoyed, and perhaps most importantly, needed my company the most.

  In some ways Walter reminded me of a shelter dog that had been mistreated, and as a result, had become mean and angry. Just like with an abused dog, I felt if I showed him love, it would eventually be reciprocated.

  But love is a two-way street, and in all my visits to Walter’s room, he had not crossed the threshold that closely bonds a dog with a human—I had yet to be allowed on his couch or on his bed. I realize some people aren’t thrilled about having dog hair where they sit and lay, but there’s a reason it’s called FURniture—it was made for four-legged creatures. That’s not to say that a human loves a dog any less, if they don’t allow them on their couch or bed, but it’s a dog’s preference. It says: what’s mine is yours, and I want to be close to you.

  I tried jumping up on Walter’s bed a few times, mostly when he was reading during the afternoons. He always immediately told me to get down. One time, when he was napping, I quietly hopped up and found a spot on the corner of the bed. I thought I was home free, but moments later, he opened his eyes, and I was a goner.

  “Listen,” he told me, after I complied with his wishes, “this is my bed . . . your bed is over there.”

  Any smart dog knows that the idea of a human assuming the alpha role in your relationship is wishful thinking, spread through the years by overpaid dog trainers. Human will—no matter how well motivated or coached—is simply no match for plain old dogged determination. So I knew it was just a matter of time until Walter caved in.

  After the quiet approach of sneaking up on Walter’s bed didn’t work, I opted for jumping up in excitable bursts—when Walter wasn’t on it—and then jumping off before he could say anything. An innocent, but effective human conditioning maneuver, handed down from one generation of dogs to the next.

  Next, I picked a few times when I knew Walter might not respond as strongly to me breaking the rule. I would jump up, sit right next to him on the couch, and give him what I call the puppy pose—my tongue hanging halfway out, and my ears up and perky in play mode. You know the look—the one that says, Aren’t I cute? Try to resist me, I dare you.

  I dared, and incredibly, Walter still denied me. Every time.

  My breakthrough finally came on a stormy afternoon when my second least favorite sound came crashing from the heavens—thunder! It doesn’t terrify me like fireworks do, but it still rattles my nerves.

  On that awful holiday that celebrates America’s freedom, while it tortures dogs all across the country, Jane made sure to give me a pill before the festivities began, to help keep me calm. The tr
ouble with thunder and lighting is that you can’t predict when it will occur.

  At the first crack of the skies, I hid beneath Walter’s bed. Not being a dog person, he didn’t seem to know what I was responding to.

  “What’s a matter, boy?” he asked, perplexed, from his bed where he was reading. “What are you doing under there?”

  Moments later, another thunderous roar came, followed by a flash of light that lit up Walter’s bedroom window. I retreated even further beneath the bed, and was shaking like a leaf.

  Walter now seemed to sense my terror. He got up from his bed and called for me to come out from underneath it.

  “Come on, Wrigley, you don’t need to hide under there,” he said, while I stared at his slippers. “How about I put on my shoes and we take a walk?”

  If you say the word walk or treat to a dog, even if the world is coming to an end, you will get some sort of reaction.

  I sheepishly poked my head out from under the bed, investigating the authenticity of his offer. Walter surprised me by getting to his knees—quickly for an old man—and clipping my collar to a leash he was holding.

  Getting back up was a different story. He put one hand on the bed, and the other on the nightstand, and pushed off, but he couldn’t lift himself up. He rested for a few moments, and then tried again, but his hand slipped off of the bed. After an unsuccessful third try, he grunted, and gave up.

  “Old age,” he sighed, staring down at me, still halfway under the bed. “The will’s still there, but the body is unwilling.”

  Walter then collapsed himself beside me, reached over, and began scratching the side of my face. Responding to his affection, I began to shake a little less. He scooted himself closer to me, and leaned his head against mine.

  “It’s nothing to be scared of,” he whispered in my ear. “I promise you.” He then rolled over on his side, and using his arm for a pillow, laid facing me. It was the most peaceful I had seen Walter look, since the day I walked into his room, while he was listening to music.

  The room was quiet, and it seemed as if the storm had passed, until, you guessed it—the sky shook again. It scared the wits out of me, causing me to retreat and tremble again, but it gave Walter the motivation to lift himself up.

  “Let’s go, Wrigley,” he said on his feet and out of breath. “It’s time to come out from under there.”

  When I didn’t respond, he added an incentive.

  “How about if I give you another one of those really big bones,” he said in a childlike voice. “And we’ll also take a ride on my scooter.”

  Thinking he had closed the deal, he pulled on the leash, but there was still resistance on the other end.

  “I’ll even let you come up on my bed, if you come out,” he offered.

  I can’t say if this final proposition is what got me out from Walter’s bed, or if I sensed that the sky had finally finished its frightening light and sound show. Either way, a promise had been made, and when Walter honored it, I gladly took advantage of it.

  Looking back, if you measured Walter’s decision to allow me on his furniture in smiles, it was a good one. The dog hair did bother him some, but it didn’t outweigh the joy of having me closer. It also brought out a playful side in Walter that I hadn’t seen before.

  One afternoon, I was fast asleep on my side of the bed, when I heard the theme to the movie Jaws being hummed. At first I thought I was dreaming of the countless times I had to watch that movie, when I lived with the Phelps family. But when I opened my eyes, I realized it was Walter.

  He was slowly moving his cane toward me from under the covers. He would bring it close to taunt me, before retreating and making a large circle in front of me. Whenever I took his bait and tried to bite the cane, he pulled it back. This went on for a few rounds, until I caught the cane with my mouth. When I did, Walter let out a loud howl for the first time since we’d been together.

  Walter was becoming more dog-like—a good thing for any human.

  23

  It wasn’t often that the entire Peterson clan could get away from SunRidge at the same time. But on Theresa’s son, Jayden’s fifth birthday, they all went down to Bennett Park to celebrate for a few hours on a sunny afternoon.

  I didn’t know about the plan, but following Jane and Theresa around earlier in the day, I sensed something different was on the agenda. They gave me no indication, however, that I would be joining them, so I was surprised when Jane grabbed my leash and loaded me, along with a large cooler and a canvas bag, into her minivan.

  Once we arrived after a short drive, I insisted, much to Jane’s displeasure, on enjoying one of the best parts of any park—smelling trash cans—on our way to meet Ron, Tamara, Theresa, her husband James, and Jayden, where they had spread out some blankets.

  Jayden and I had spent some time together at SunRidge, on the occasions when his Mom would bring him to the front office for short visits. He was a cute and precocious boy with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. Like most little kids, he loved dogs.

  When Jane and I went over to greet him, I licked his face and he giggled. After Jane leaned over and gave him a hug, Jayden got on his hands and knees, and pretended to be a dog. We played for a while, until the boy took off chasing a pigeon.

  Looking over to the center of the park, I spotted Ron and James, fifteen yards apart, tossing a Frisbee to one another. I quickly ran over and chased the orange disc, as it soared through the air, sprinting back and forth in an invigorating game of mutt in the middle. Each time the disc landed on the ground, I snatched it up, and celebrated by running around with the Frisbee in my mouth before spitting it out, so they could toss it again.

  When the game ended and the group sat down to eat, Jane put my leash back on to keep my nose from wandering where it shouldn’t be. My only salvation was a stiff breeze that sent smells of turkey and chicken wafting through the air, from the sandwiches being enjoyed.

  Before everyone finished eating, Jayden, who was getting restless, asked his Mom if he could take me for a walk. Theresa tied my leash around the boy’s hand, and gave him a few instructions, before letting us go.

  You go every which way but straight when you’re walking with a small child, which suits a curious dog like me just fine. Jayden was having a good time, and I had my nose to the ground, sniffing whatever came in our path.

  At one point, Jayden stopped walking and decided I could be a horse, as well as a dog. When he climbed on top of me, I hoped he wasn’t going to want a ride, because I didn’t think I could carry him very far. Instead, he wrapped his arms around my neck and hugged me. Kids can be so sweet.

  After a few moments, Jayden got off of me, and we continued on our way. When I looked up again, we were at the foot of a hiking trail. Theresa called over to Jayden, and told him to turn around and come back. He acknowledged her with a wave before leaning down to pick up a stick. Then he drifted up the trail a few more feet, where something on the ground caught his attention. He took his stick and whacked at the object. It quickly uncoiled and began to move.

  I had never seen a snake in person before, but I had seen a show about reptiles on Animal Planet, and knew they could be dangerous.

  When Jayden lifted his arm to strike the animal again, I moved between the snake and the boy. The stick struck the snake, and it quickly lunged forward, biting me on the cheek, just below my eye. I yelped in pain and felt disorientated. Jayden started to cry, and I cowered to the ground. The group must have heard the boy, because everyone immediately rushed over to us.

  “Oh my God, it’s a snake!” Theresa screamed, quickly picking up Jayden, and carrying him away.

  “Go get one of the blankets!” Jane yelled to Ron.

  Jane knelt down beside me, and comforted me with the same soothing voice she used the first time I met her at the shelter. “Everything’s going to be alright,” she told me, while slowly stroking my coat.

  Ron returned with a blanket, and he and James gently lifted me onto it, and carried me
to the backseat of Jane’s minivan. As we started to drive, I felt as if someone was filling my head with air. It was becoming harder for me to breathe.

  That’s the last thing I remember.

  When I woke up, I felt a steel table beneath me, and saw a vet standing above me. It wasn’t Dr. Sager. It was a lady with curly brown hair, and I could feel her hand on my face. Her name tag read, Dr. Cranston.

  I didn’t think Jane was in the room, but after a few seconds, I heard her talking with Dr. Cranston.

  “I’m glad you brought him in immediately—dogs can die from snake bites,” the doctor told her. “We’ve treated him with an anti-venom. He’s going to be okay.”

  That was the good news.

  “We’ll need to keep him here, depending on how he does, for at least two days,” she went on to inform Jane.

  And, that was the bad news.

  Two days in veterinary purgatory, confined to a small, cold cage—except for short walks around the parking lot—with a view of an examining table and cabinets, and kept in a room full of unhappy, sick dogs. Luckily, I was dead to the world on the first night, and didn’t even know I was there.

  The following day, when I was brought back into one of the examining rooms, Jane was there to greet me. Slowly making his way behind her was a surprise guest—Walter. Out of breath, he sat down on the wooden bench along the wall. After Jane got down and gently kissed my wound, Walter called me to him. I wobbled over, and stood stiffly, as he gently rubbed beneath my neck.

  “A rattler got you, huh boy?” he asked me.

  I looked up at him, unable to do much, but stand there with my big blubbery head.

  “He looks like a cartoon character with all that swelling,” he said to Jane.

  “He’s still cute as ever,” she replied, reaching over to wipe the crust out of the corner of my eyes. “Aren’t you, Wrigley?”