Man's Best Friend

Man's Best Friend

Flagman -- The rodeo official who signals the end of elapsed time in timed events.

Hung Up -- A rider that is off the animal but is still stuck in the rigging or bull rope.

In the Well -- A term used to describe a contestant coming off an animal on the inside of the spin.

Wolf -- A term used to describe a particularly aggressive rider who wins a lot of events.



Wolf

Harry Denton was talking again about ending it all.

“What’s the use?” he asked the somewhat harried looking forty-something woman visiting him. Molly Orbacher had stopped by Harry’s on her way home from the hospital where she was a social worker in the Discharge Planning Unit.

“Well, you’re feeling low today, aren’t you Harry.”

“I’m all crippled up -- stuck inside,” Harry said.

Molly looked around Harry’s singlewide trailer home as she talked, checking for safety and health hazards.

“You have to give it time, Harry,” she said, as she wandered around.

Harry watched her with an air of resignation. He knew what she was doing and he only half resented it. He shifted in his recliner and leaned over to stroke the small dog at his feet.

“How’s Sugar?” Molly asked.

“You know I was a rodeo rider; a damned good one in my time,” Harry said.

Molly had heard Harry’s tales of rodeo riding many times. The same stories over and over again. Usually she listened to the reruns with admirable forbearance, but it had been a long day.

“Did I tell you what the other riders used to call me?” Harry asked, as Molly checked out the adjoining kitchen.

“Yes,” Molly said absently, as she surveyed the disaster that passed for Harry’s kitchen counter and sink.

“What?” said Harry.

“What?” said Molly.

“Yeah, what?” said Harry.

Molly looked at Harry and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. What’s he talking about? Harry needs chore service, Molly thought, and reached in her purse for a pad and pen.

“A wolf,” Harry said, scratching Sugar behind the ears.

“Uh huh,” Molly said. And he needs Meals on Wheels.

“You know what that is?” Harry cocked his head and looked at Molly. She ain’t paying a bit of attention, he thought.

“A rider what can do anythin; bareback and saddle bronc riding, Brahma bull riding, calf roping… I could do it all,” Harry said, settling back in his recliner with his arms crossed, waiting for Molly to look at him.

“I was a wolf. Was being the operative word.” Harry pronounced ‘operative’ as if it were two words.

“Are you taking your medications?” Molly asked, looking around for Harry’s pill planner.

Harry just looked at her.

“Where’s your pill planner, Harry?” Molly asked.

“In the cupboard, there on your left.” All them god-damned pills. He did all of his serious swearing in his head.

Molly opened the cupboard. “Not here,” she said.

“Check in the drawer.” Hell, I don’t know.

“Nope,” Molly said. How can he be taking his meds, if he can’t even remember where they are?

“Well, shoot.” Harry pushed himself up and made a grab for his walker, barely avoiding Sugar, who scooted over beside the threadbare couch.

Molly moved quickly to Harry’s side and tried to help him maneuver the walker toward the kitchen in the crowded confines of the trailer home. The shag carpet didn’t make it any easier.

“Careful!”

“I know!”



They searched together through the kitchen without finding the pill planner. Harry was exhausted by the modest effort and Molly helped him get back to his recliner. In placing the walker to the side of Harry’s chair she moved some newspapers and there was the pill planner. She took it to the kitchen and opened the cell for that day. All the pills were still there. Molly took the planner to Harry.

“You didn’t take your pills, Harry.”

Molly attempted to hand the planner to Harry. She wasn’t an RN and by law wasn’t allowed to administer medications, but she could at least hand the old man his pill planner.

Harry wouldn’t take the planner. “I took my pills this morning,” Harry protested.

“They’re still here,” Molly said, pushing the open box under Harry’s nose.

Harry pulled back and looked down at the proffered box as if a rattlesnake might be hidden in it. An assortment of pills – green and yellow, pink, white, pale orange – peeked out at Harry.

“What day is it?” Harry asked.

“Wednesday,” Molly answered.

“Wednesday? I thought it was Tuesday. It is Tuesday,” Harry said, with a note of authority. “Lookit here,” and Harry raised the front page of yesterday’s Hamilton Standard.

Molly set the pill planner on the kitchen counter and opened all the cells for the week. Monday’s Tuesday’s, and Thursday’s cells were empty. The rest were full. The planner had been filled last Friday. So Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday should be empty, Molly reasoned. Harry hadn’t taken his pills on the weekend, and had probably taken Thursday’s pills today.

“Harry, you have to do a better job taking you medications,” Molly said. “I’m going to have--”

“I take my pills, damn it!”

Molly took a deep breath. “I’m going to sign you up for Contact Help. They’ll have someone call you every day to check on you and remind you to take your pills.”

“Oh, fer crying out loud,” Harry said, in a whine, grimacing and shaking his grey head.

A mournful howl suddenly rent the air and Molly jerked around to see Sugar, her soft white and brown snout raised in the air, echoing her pal’s loss and sorrow.

“Come’ ere, Shug,” Harry said, patting his thigh.

The little dog trotted over and jumped in Harry’s lap, settling down and looking up at him with soft, brown eyes.



In the well

When Molly got home she grabbed a frozen dinner from the freezer and stuck it in the microwave. Then she started calling the various social services agencies she’d jotted down in her notebook; chore service, Meals on Wheels, and Contact Help. Tomorrow, after Harry’s appointment, she’d talk to the doctor about having an RN look in on Harry. Darn, she thought. I forgot to check on his Dial-a-Ride coupons. She picked up the phone again and dialed Harry’s number. The phone rang and rang and rang. Molly was beginning to worry when the phone was finally picked up and she heard heavy breathing and a rasping, “Yeah?”

“Harry, it’s Molly Orba--”

Suddenly Molly heard a gasp and then a crash. Then she heard Sugar barking.

“Harry? Harry?”



The EMTs were wheeling a gurney out to the ambulance by the time Molly arrived at Harry’s trailer. She hurried over to it and looked down at Harry. His eyes were squeezed shut, his forehead furrowed, and his mouth shut tight in a grimace of pain. Molly found Harry’s hand and took it.

“Harry? Can you hear me?” Oh the poor man.

Harry turned his head towards Molly, opened one eye and glanced her way. “Huh?”

“You’re going to be okay, Harry.” Molly looked towards the EMT at the front of the gurney. He just screwed up his eyes, grimaced and shook his head.

Molly turned back to Harry. “You are going to be okay, Harry.” Darn it.

“I’m Mr. Denton’s social worker,” Molly told the EMT. “I called 911.”

“Uh huh,” said the EMT, who looked to Molly like a guy she’d seen on WrestleMania.

“He’s probably got a broken pelvis,” the EMT said.

“He’s still recovering from a broken pelvis,” Molly said.

The EMT just shrugged his shoulders.

And a broken arm, she remembered. He’d fallen off the doctor’s examining table six weeks ago.

While he was still in a narcotic-induced euphoria he’d told Molly that in all the years he’d ridden broncs and bulls he’d, “…never, ever been so broke up. It’s iron-ick,” he said.

Now, just as he was beginning to heal, he’d fallen again.

Molly got back in her car. As she was closing the door, she heard the dog barking. It’ll have to wait, she thought. She closed the door, started the car, and followed the ambulance to the emergency room.



Hung up

“I won three all-around cowboy titles--,” Harry was saying.

“I know, Harry,” Molly said, patting his upper arm. She had to be careful to avoid the IV in the crook of his elbow, and the purple and yellow bruise spreading across the top of his hand where they’d tried to start another IV.

“Pendleton, Lewiston, and Calgary,” he continued.

Being in a hospital bed hooked to IVs and wearing an oxygen tube in his nose wasn’t going to stop Harry from telling his story one more time.

“That was back in the Forties,” he said. Molly could hardly hear him, his voice was so weak.

“The Roundup, the Roughriders, and the Stampede,” she added, thinking to be helpful, and to demonstrate active listening.

“The Roundup, the Roughriders, and the Stampede,” Harry said.



Molly stood as Harry’s doctor came in the small ICU room trailed by a nurse. His eyes crinkled as he manufactured a smile and a nod to Molly.

“How are we doing young man?” he said to Harry, as he checked his chart.

Molly grimaced. Doctors and their stupid little clichés.

Harry squinted. Who the hell is this?

The doctor leaned over and put his stethoscope on Harry’s chest. The nurse checked the IV and oxygen.

“Let’s get him to sit up,” the doctor instructed the nurse. She was a big woman and did the heavy lifting, not that Harry weighed much.

“Take a deep breath for me.”

Molly heard a weak rasp from Harry.

“Let it out. Once more.”

The doctor stepped back. The nurse lowered Harry. Checked his urine bag.

The doctor raised his chin in Molly’s direction. “Let’s step outside,” he said.



Molly followed the doctor to the nurse’s station just outside Harry’s room. In a maddeningly matter of fact manner, the doctor told Molly that Harry had not only re-broken his pelvis, but had a pleural effusion, and a severely elevated BNP.

Molly glanced surreptitiously at the doctor’s name tag. Molly had heard him referred to as Doctor Mas, but his name tag seemed to go on for a dozen or more letters.

“Uh, doctor, what’s Harry’s prognosis?”

“He should be moved to a terminal care facility.”

“Hospice?” Molly said. Harry was that far gone?

“They’ll make sure he’s comfortable. That’s about it, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Molly said.

“Does he have any family in the area?” the doctor asked as he checked his pager.

“No, no, he’s pretty much alone.” Except for his dog, Molly thought. Oh, God, what am I going to do about Sugar?



Of course it was up to Molly to find a spot for Harry. And it was left to her to tell him. She felt very down, but she knew that was partly because she was exhausted. She took a deep breath and went back in Harry’s room. He had his eyes closed and was breathing irregularly. Molly’s eyes were drawn to the blood pressure/pulse monitor by Harry’s bed. The last thing you want to do when someone you care about is lying sick in the hospital is watch that darn thing, she thought. She went to Harry’s side and gently took the fingers of his left hand, standing on the side where Harry still had some semblance of hearing.

“Harry?”

Molly had to repeat his name several times before Harry finally opened his eyes, and it was several minutes before Molly felt he was cogent enough to understand what she was saying.

Molly was supposed to have been trained for this sort of thing, but how does one learn the art of telling a person that they are to be moved to a place to die?

“Harry, we’re going to be moving you to Hospice House. The nurse will be here in just a minute to get you ready.”

“Hospice House?” croaked Harry.

“Yes, that’s right. They’re very nice people there, Harry. They’ll make sure you have everything…” Molly began choking up and cleared her throat to cover it up.

“Why cain’t I just go home?”

Molly squeezed Harry’s fingers. “You’re not well enough, Harry. Your heart is just too weak.”

Harry made a low sound in his throat and turned his head away, but he held tight to her hand.

“Take care of Sugar, will ya?”



Flagman

Late that evening, after getting Harry settled at Hospice House, Molly went back to the trailer, picked up Sugar and brought her home with her. A neighbor was good enough to come by during the workday and let Sugar out in the backyard to ‘do her stuff.’ When Molly got home at night, Sugar greeted her with a polite wag of the tail.

“Hello, Sugar. There’s the girl. There’s the girl,” Molly said, stooping over to pet the dog.

Sugar’s little behind waggled right along with her tail. Then she trotted over to the front door and stood there looking back over her haunches at Molly, trying to convince her to take her back to Harry. Funny how dogs are able to communicate so effectively without speech, Molly thought.



Harry lasted only a few days at Hospice House. Molly visited every day, and every day she had to reassure him about Sugar.

“She’s just the best damn dog a man ever had,” Harry said.

Molly squeezed Harry’s hand. “Yes she is.”

“Best thing God ever done was make the dog.”



After Harry met the flagman for the last time, Molly half-heartedly looked for a “good home” for Sugar, but without any luck. Sugar had settled in after only a few weeks of whining for Harry and she was a good companion; she and Molly were pretty compatible. They liked early dinners, short walks, lap time, occasional treats. The only real difference manifested itself on Tuesday nights, when Molly wanted to watch American Idol, and Sugar wanted to watch Classic Bull Riding. Thank goodness for TiVo.