As he sailed further away with his thoughts, his agitation abated. And with a hushed voice he admitted that it was beyond him how, with all the support she has from all of us… Sue has reached such an odd decision, to say the least…
“I have been young, and now I am old…
I have been young, and now I am old…” he mumbled, “yet I have never seen such a thing…
What is left for me to say but:
“Be appalled… you heavens, and shudder with great horror.”
For my part, “natural selection” was, at best, the name of an Israeli band. Even without understanding, I knew one thing:
Peewee must be rescued.
And that was enough for me.
I pressed her against her mother’s nipple.
She hesitated for a moment.
And then latched on.
And sucked with fervor.
I carried on and pressed her against the nipple every day.
As many times as possible a day.
One day.
Two days.
Three days.
A week.
Almost two weeks.
Over time we realized that Sue had accepted the verdict.
No less, but also no more.
From that moment on, the cries of despair ceased.
* * *
The crisis of trust led to an acute sense of alienation.
From everyone.
Especially from Grandpa.
Their unjust treatment of Champion burned within me.
Blazed.
Consumed every good part of me.
A wall stood between me and them.
And it closed in on me too.
I found comfort only in the puppies, who, from one day to the next, swelled and grew a silky down:
Like tiny drunken teddy bears they stood on their feet.
Wobbled and fell.
Staggered and faltered.
And mostly developed the ability to improve their positions vis-à-vis their siblings.
When one of the plumped ones took over a nipple, the rest would storm after him, stepping on each other on the way. Pushing and trampling one another without an ounce of consideration. Certainly not toward peewee or their mother.
When one tripped, another combative brute would rush to take his place.
It was a battlefield.
An all-out war.
A hostile takeover for all intents and purposes:
Goal-driven.
Unbridled.
And devoid of compassion and mercy.
“A war of all against all.” More than once I heard Grandpa exclaim in horror, witnessing the catastrophes and the bleats, which grew louder as the pups became stronger.
My stubbornness provided peewee with the necessary conditions for survival.
No more than that.
But also no less.
“Please, if you will, go and see,” he said to me one day. “It’s the coming of the Messiah. Before our very eyes the eschaton is taking shape, as it is written: ‘The wolf will dwell with the lamb.’ Though everything is still weary, seek and ye shall find. Fortunately, peewee doesn’t speak veterinarian. And live she shall!” he announced excitedly.
I did not answer him.
I was incapable.
As far as I was concerned they did not exist.
Especially not him.
Nor did I make a sound when I saw Sue clenching peewee’s nape in her teeth, and bolting from the garage to the kitchen.
Settling at the foot of the armchair.
And withdrawing into her breastfeeding.
Once in a sated stupor, she fell into a deep sleep, the hunched-over Sue scurried out to bring in another pup.
And devoted herself to him, too.
One by one she tended to them. The others, who were used to feeling satiated, remained awake.
In a matter of mere nights, what was meant to be quality time also turned into an all-out war between the pups, albeit slightly less fierce.
From that night on she devoted herself first to peewee:
Every night, without exception, she would bring her in first.
Clean her.
Nurse her.
When she suffered from constipation or didn’t urinate enough, she would stimulate their function by licking them.
Every night she would make her rounds exactly seven times. Never did she make them six or eight times.
“It’s like she can count,” I found myself commenting one night, mainly to see what they thought about it.
“She probably learned from you,” Dad said and laughed.
Grandpa, who thought this was “an interesting issue,” viewed it as a manifestation of “developed maternal instincts. Healthy instincts, nothing more.”
And yet, “she never forgets even a single puppy, and never goes back even one time too many,” he brought me back to the same point I had reached without him.
At the same time a new motif began to emerge: like Honi the Circle-Drawer, Champion began circling with a proud, measured strut, his fur shining, his magnificent tail perked and wagging.
On the following nights he did not expand the radius of his circles: close enough to the center of attention and as if free of deep involvement, he made his rounds.
Never carried a pup.
Never aware of what they needed.
Never watched over them as they made their first steps.
Never drew close to them or to Sue, who treated him as if he didn’t exist.
And Sue, the fatter they became, the more her nape resembled a hump. Her back became concave from a congestion of milk. Her nipples drooped. Her fur lacked luster. And she began shedding bundles of it, which, to Mom’s regret, whirled in every corner.
Weeks passed.
The pups grew.
And we had to close the door and let Sue regulate the pace with which she brought them in.
Only then did he start relating to them:
Reaching out a leg.
Slightly nudging them.
Laying them on their backs.
Rolling them from side to side.
Coaxing them into play and chasing them, as he had entertained himself with Sue at the time, but with one difference: he showed not even the slightest sign of jealousy toward the pups—not in our outbursts of laughter. Nor in the warmth we showered them with. Even Sue’s indifference toward him, he took for granted.
In my mind this was no trivial matter, given that from the moment of the whelping—to this day it is a riddle to me whether he associated it with her heat or the mating—his interest in the seven pups lingering between his legs was, at best, limited. And instead of a groupie, there now lived a mother under his roof, who was entirely devoted to her offspring. And this, too, he took for granted.
For my part, it was an opportunity to reintroduce him to the training regimen:
Free of her tailings, he improved his performances.
At nights—although we were both exhausted, he would go to the garage.
Whom he visited there—God only knows:
Sue?!
Offspring?!
Friends?!
After school, I always found Grandpa in the same position: seated in his chair. Bent over. His right elbow perched on his knee. His chin resting on his thumb and clasped between his fingers. His glasses sloped on his nose. And his gaze spaced out and contemplative at the same time.
First, I would power-wash the garage, seeing that the bigger the pups grew the sharper the stench became. And while dragging the mop, I would listen without commenting as he updated me on the developments.
“For many weeks I have been witnessing that which is taking place here,” he enthused one day.
“I find Sue to be the symbol of devotion, the epitome of maternal insight.”
Now that the pups are more independent, she allows herself to go out more frequently and for longer periods. And from the barks he ascertains that she is once again playing with Ch
ampion.
When she asks, he lets her out.
And when she scratches the door, he lets her back in.
Leaving the door open—he does not dare:
“From that we had more than enough…”
“Do you mean what I think you mean…?”
At once the lava in the seemingly extinguished volcano erupted.
As if he didn’t hear, he continued to praise peewee, who was developing beautifully—even if she would not reach the size of her siblings:
She is “a mini model.”
“A minion.”
“Petite.”
And very “coquettish.”
What is there to talk about?!
A captivating pup.
“She has slowly learned to stand her ground, and she no longer shies away from the others. Although she can still be easily deceived.”
“…What was I talking about?” He sailed like a ship detached from its anchor.
“About Sue, the symbol of devotion, the epitome of maternal insight, and about peewee who’s developing beautifully,” I retraced his steps dryly.
“Well…?”
He looked at me with a lost gaze.
“W-e-l-l…”
His tongue faltered.
In his weakness he straightened his back.
Pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Removed them.
Placed them in the pocket of his shirt.
“Well…”
As if withdrawing into himself:
“When I was left by myself…”
Dipped the tips of his toes in gushing waters.
Cleared his throat weakly.
Took a deep breath.
“Well…”
As if searching for the right tone.
“Well… when I was left to raise your mother by myself…” In an open underground tunnel echoed the tender, quiet sound of the opening chord.
He closed his eyes.
Leaned over.
Fixed his hold.
And as if to himself, began to speak about the days in which my grandmother, his Michaelinka, fell ill. And as if against his will intimated that within days… mere days… she passed away:
In her prime.
When her entire life lay ahead of her…
In the midst of a creative thrust.
And how accomplished she was …
His thumb trembled, and his head almost drooped.
He opened his eyes, in which a grief deeper than I had ever seen before was reflected.
Supporting his right arm with his left hand, he continued in an undertone:
“Without any warning.
Without a family history of illness.”
His hoarse voice cracked.
In the morning everything was fine.
At noon, a slight headache that steadily worsened.
Before sunset, nausea. Vomiting on the way back from work.
Suddenly.
In the middle of the day.
A phone call from Talinka: “Mom isn’t feeling very well, she wants you to hurry home.”
And who knew if not he that his work as a young, independent and ambitious accountant on the fast track was of the utmost importance to his Michaela, he mumbled, and his lips quivered.
After all, she never summoned him home in the middle of work, under any circumstance—out of sheer consideration, which “by the way, characterized her in every aspect.”
“What can I say?! She even gave birth to our Talinka before sunrise.”
He dropped everything.
And ran as fast as his feet could carry him.
Saw her pallor. Her gleaming eyes. Her heavy eyelids. The helplessness.
And immediately, an ambulance.
Emergency room.
“And over there, there’s always a more urgent case: they have their diagnoses and their work procedures.
That’s how they save lives.
And quite often, that’s also how disasters occur…”
The despondent voice dimmed.
“They diagnosed: food poisoning.
Food poisoning, my foot!!!
And go argue with them.”
They insert an IV.
And the blood pressure soars.
The headache grows acute.
The nausea is unbearable:
One does not need a diploma to notice it.
He calls for help.
And they stand their ground.
“Sir, if you get in our way, we will have to ask you to wait outside.”
He moistens dry lips.
Wipes sweat.
Presses his hand to her forehead.
And his Michaelinka is sinking…
And once again he calls for them.
“And these doctors, interns really, what can they do?!
Tell me not to worry…”
And within hours. Mere hours. Blurred consciousness.
“T-a-a-a-l…
T-a-a-l-i-i-i-n-k-a-a…”
Her lips uttered, the blood draining from them:
“And loss of consciousness…”
His pressing, broken voice fades.
And again urges:
At once everyone starts running around his Michaelinka.
Every muscle in his face stretches:
Measuring blood pressure.
Changing devices.
Tapping on the knees.
Bending a slumped elbow.
The knee, too, is like a rag.
The neurologist is summoned.
Closes the curtain.
Pries open the eyelids.
Focuses a flashlight beam on her pupils.
Pinches.
Pricks, the soles too.
“Sir, if you would please wait outside.”
Grandpa’s voice, repeating after the doctor, pierces me.
The wide door is burst open.
An orderly pushes a bed.
The IV sways.
The doctor runs.
Ventilates.
Where are they going?
X-ray.
Of the brain.
The bed squeaks.
The corridors are endless.
The elevator goes down.
Running.
Above the door, a red light cautions.
There is a line.
The door opens.
The doctor lingers.
Comes out with an analyzed X-ray:
“Massive brain hemorrhage.”
Grandpa turns pale.
His veins swell.
In the neck.
In the temples.
Criss-crossing his hands as well.
Every blood cell is crying out inside him.
Back to the emergency room.
Immediately rushed to the neurosurgery department: to a big hall, to “a type of emergency unit, which nowadays exists in every department,” he whispers.
Respirator. Oxygen tank. IV. Catheter. Adjusting. And again changing. Checking blood pressure. EKG. Zigzagging graph. Up. Down. They list values, of what, god knows…
The head is turned. The silky brown hair—oh, how fresh it smelled—braided warp and weft. The tongue is pulled out. In the nose—a cannula. In the throat—a feeding tube. Expectorants. Drawing phlegm.
The cold compresses on the forehead warm up in seconds. They change them. A ventilator is also brought in to help bring down the temperature.
The blood pressure spikes.
Again they prick. Draw blood: abnormal oxygen levels.
They inject. Jot down. Turn from side to side. And supine on the back.
Edema in the fingers. Spreads to the hands. The feet. The lips. The eyes. Everything is swollen.
And as the hours go by the face becomes more yellow and velvety.
The experts conduct consultations:
“Aneurysm.”
“It’s not an aneurysm.”
I get it even without understanding.
They deliberate:
It looks bad.
“Critical condition.” They are of one mind.
We must intervene.
We mustn’t intervene.
“We must let nature run its course.”
The tension intensifies:
“No improvement.”
We must examine further:
“X-ray with contrast material.”
Portable oxygen tank.
Manual resuscitation bag.
The blood transfusion is trickling.
The IV is dripping.
Grandpa runs with the orderly.
The elevator goes down.
Everything screeches.
Another test.
And back to the department.
“Excuse me, perhaps the results have arrived?” he asks with pleading eyes.
“Just imagine: even on the brink of the abyss you must entreat them,” he pours his heart out:
“Everything is ego with those doctors, you wouldn’t believe it. The awe and reverence that we, the patients, treat them with, has also contributed to that,” he says, and his anxious smile sours.
A Dog’s Luck Page 6