The Struggles of Age

At the corner of Bloor and Sherbourne

For the workshop this past week, we were supposed to write two lists, one of the five "first" things we had done in our lives and one of the five "last." Then we were to pick one and write about it.

I'm a busy person, so I skipped the lists. I took a scene I'd already written from Molly's blog and fixed it up using what I've learned so far. 

Brent was Molly’s walker for ten years.  Bruce and I walk with him as he carries her the two blocks to the vet's. It is a cold, clear November morning. We walk three abreast on the sidewalk with nothing to say.  

Molly is our Jack Russell terrier. At sixteen years she’s deaf, blind and in pain. She’s got a cough, which every time I hear it, reminds me I have a responsibility. 

A few steps from the door, Brent puts Molly down. Right away she has a light-coloured goopy poo. We threw a party for her the night before and she ate some rich food. I pick up the dog shit with a baggie over my hand.

“That’s the last time I’ll ever do that,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I tie up the plastic bag and wonder when I’ll get a chance to dispose of it. Molly makes her own way to the door of the vet clinic. She’s been there before and knows there are treats on the other side. Bruce picks her up and we follow him in.

“I can take that,” says a young woman behind the counter and I hand her the poo-filled bag.

The vet steps out of a doorway. 

“Hi. Come on in here.” He ushers us into a room decorated to not look like it’s the place where pets are killed. There’s a beige carpet, a two-seater couch, a generic painting on the wall. The vet takes Molly from Bruce. 

“I’m going to put a catheter on her,” he says. “Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.” The small room has three walls. The vet disappears with Molly into the dimly lit expanse beyond the missing fourth wall. 

I sit on the couch, then reconsider. I’m the one who ordered Molly’s execution and I am not at all comfortable in that role. 

“I think she should sit on your lap. She likes you best.” I say to Bruce. I stand up to change places, but I feel dizzy, lose my balance and end up standing by the opposite wall. 

Bruce and Brent arrange themselves on the couch, Bruce with a blanket on his lap. The vet comes back with Molly, a catheter taped to her leg.

Bruce takes her. She is not at all agitated, surrounded as she is by people she knows and trusts. The vet uncaps the syringe and I want to yell "stop!" For sixteen years I protected Molly's life. I am terrified by the finality of her death. But I don’t say anything.

Instead I watch the vet's hands, see the plunger on the syringe move. 

Bruce hugs Molly gently and Brent kisses her head. I watch from across the room as the dog transitions from relaxed to inert; dead in seconds. 

The vet takes the limp little corpse into the back for disposal. I see tears on Bruce’s and Brent’s cheeks. I squeeze my eyes shut, let my knees buckle and collapse against the wall, wailing.

 Communications Update 

Research says we should not have done this at our age, but Bruce and I ditched our land line this past week and got two new phones. I can now be reached at our old land line number. Bruce kept the mobile number he's had since 2017. I don't think it's a good idea to just put the numbers on this blog. If you can't guess what they are from these hints, send me an e-mail and I'll fill you in.

And while we now have nice little iPhone 7s to cradle in our hands like precious totems, my electronic life is in shambles. My mail account won't work on my new phone for reasons I don't have the patience to figure out. 

Dammit.

Anyway, the phones are nice and the apps that do work will help us on our journey to Newfoundland next week.

Temperatures have finally broken into the double digits here in Southern Ontario, so where else would we travel but to cloudy St. John's where the forecast predicts a bracing 6 degrees for the duration of our three day stay. 

Thanks for reading!

Happy Victoria Day!

Karen