Clouds

Walking this  autumn morning, I couldn’t help noticing the clouds. Pale ash in base color, they were stained with pale orangegold,  and  the intercourse of the two created an almost lavender cast. Lavender clouds.  White clouds are happy and hopeful. Pale orangegold clouds, serene and resolute. Grey clouds, sad and angry.  Where do the lavender ones fall? I wasn’t sure, but I felt lavender inside.

My Lab, Daisy, eleven years senior,  seven year canine companion was diagnosed with chronic kidney disease just a day and a half ago.  She had been vomiting intermittently (only during night), was not herself in terms of energy, and on the morning that I put her food out and  rather than immediately eating, she walked away . . . it was apparent she needed prompt medical attention. She got it. Is getting it.  And in the getting,  in the span of one five minute evening phone call from my vet, we transitioned from that nebulous “old dog, death is closer but undefined so” phase of life to the more precise “old dog death is definite but not imminent and” phase.  Lavender.

Protocols, routines instantly changed. Much to her and my dismay. Hers: Physical. Mine: Emotional. She now gets fluid therapy every two-three days.  She now eats renal failure dog food . . .food she is not taking to well even though she is hungry.  She goes out more often to relieve herself.  And when she comes in and I cannot give her a treat, she stands in that Daisy Demand pose, tail wagging, head straightforward, ears perks, waiting, her message clear: “I am back inside as usual and you know I am supposed to get a treat!”  When I say “No, you cannot because of your health” (as if she understands every word), I watch her ears drop back and the stiff pose melt into one of sighing consternation . She skulks off  and skulks around, sniffing for tastier options on the floor than the breakfast leftover, low everything fare she picks at in her bowl. I take a seat and tear up. I know this sign. Death knocking.  Every so often, she pauses her search and stands before me,  cocking her head to the side, looking at me, my eyelids swollen into fleshy lips from crying, her cocoa eyes comforting and a touch confused. Her tail gently sways back and forth, and I cannot decide whether it is a finger in cautious, tender chastisement of my tears or a hand in a slow, tender farewell.  Lavender.

The life retrospective has begun.  Meeting Daisy, beautiful white coated, brown-eyed four year old who needed a new home because, frankly, she was being too much of a bitch in her home with the other dogs.  I identified with that.  The mental freezeframes bring tears:  Seeing her picture posted on the employee bulletin board at school after three or so years dogless and just knowing that this one was one to open heart and home to. The first time her then-owners brought her to meet me.  She stood between us strong, alert pose, tail a frantic whip back and forth,  hanging closer to her owners and eyeing me with the same disdain that person has when seeing an unattractive blind date.  She sensed a major shift in her life then. She senses it now. 

We sense one another’s struggle. My struggle: that we are here. Here. Fucking HERE: this place of navigating this messy intersection of life and death, of not knowing whether I am/will selfishly prolong the one or rush the other. Of  moving from companioned to alone. Of crying end stage finality when she is really first stage potential.  Of knowing that release must be in my hands and must be on her terms. Her struggle: that we are here. Here. In this confusing place where she feels sick but wants to eat her normal food . . .wants to play  . . .wants to walk. Wants her treats and does not understand why she is not getting them. This place where she wants to go “Bye bye” with me but struggles a bit with the ride. This place where she is compelled by the routined desire to follow all the  companioned routines, to be near me when I am home, to rest on the couch or her living room cushion next to my chair, or on the floor in front of my chair . . .near me in my space because I am home or  to choose to go off . . . To leave me alone in the living room and be on her own and rest alone on her favorite place, my bed.  She chooses the bed more now.  Until she senses me crying again. Then, I hear the loyal, familiar plop of her body jump from the bed and she slow paces into my space and nuzzles her head on the arm of my chair her muzzle grazing my shoulder, eyes wide, tail wagging . .It is her typical way of hugging me.  Then she jumps on the couch, groan-curls herself against a pillow and companions me.  Like now, and gracefully tolerates my (premature?) blubbering. Lavender.

Crying is like drinking shots.  Both bring in the moment uninhibited release followed by a hangover. And one wonders if the hangover is worth it in either case. Because of the similarity, I think that I can control the tears because, I can the shots.  Control is my thing, after all. I’d prefer the shots but tears come. They come when not expected, not invited, not desired.  Like disease. And realizing I have no control over these tears, over this disease,  over this final phase of my dog‘s life leaves me limp. Lavender leaning grey limp.  Lucky for me, Daisy is the color of a white cloud flecked with orangegold. Lucky for me her spirits are where they should be for an early stage, not end stage chronic kidney patient.  She is alive,  a quality live at present . . . And I am going to go color my hair. Intense Red. Fucking change the lavender hues. At least I control that.