I hope we have years of still becoming

What it is like to love a dog who is wearing out before your eyes

“It’s driving me nuts,” I say to Sean. “I can’t focus on anything else.”

Scout is pacing between the two of us as we sit on our respective computers, pausing every so often to wag anxiously and ask for affection. It’s nine am, and I am attempting to finish adding 1,000 fresh words to my manuscript while Sean spins shapes in an engineering program. We’ve been working for an hour and a half. I can’t quite stifle a sigh.

The second our sensitive cattle dog hears my deep breath, of course, she only wags more anxiously. I scratch under her chin with one hand and scroll my document with the other. We walked for a half hour this morning, played tug at the local park, made wet food with salmon pâté, gave her seizure medication, refilled her water bowl, took her outside to pee again—all things that should, I tell myself, make for an excellent morning. I have no idea what she needs.

I hate that I have no idea what she needs.

I change out of my colorful bathrobe (left to my own devices, I will work in its oversized coziness until the afternoon) and grab her leash in case her stomach is bothering her again. She squats by our apartment entrance and immediately asks to go back inside. I arrange her favorite fleece blanket on the bed so she can sprawl out properly. She jumps up, stares out the window, then clambers back down. Once on the hard floor she shifts position what feels like every ten seconds. Her nails click against the wood, a discomfiting lack of rhythm.

“Why can’t she sit still?” I ask Sean, who is supposed to be listening to a work call but is instead worrying about our aging heeler with me.

I hate that she can’t get comfortable.

I hate that her discomfort so triggers my own.

I can rationalize a dozen reasons Scout is acting weird today, but the sad truth is that “weird” is becoming more and more normal. Even at our most conservative age estimate, our former stray is officially a senior. She’s far less comfortable in our studio apartment than our converted van. Her epilepsy is fairly well controlled on phenobarbital, but it’s idiopathic (read: no answers) and I no longer know what’s neurologically “expected” or not for a dog like her. She’s spent less time simply relaxing outside lately. I wonder if she just needs to roll on her back in the grass and try convincing myself that getting a little dirty will fix everything.

There’s the real question: What is everything?

What needs fixing, and what needs accepting?

I am lucky to spend most of my working hours writing about dogs, chiefly because my job—even when I’m on a tight deadline—does not allow me to distance myself from what matters most in life. I am never fully removed from the delightful needy heartbreaking joyful creature who shares my home, because even if I am not writing about her I am still writing for her.

For her, and for me, and for the slivers of ourselves I see in fellow owners. For who we used to be, and for who we are right now, on this frustrating not-quite-right day, and for who I hope we might still become.

We have years, I hope, of still becoming.

As I’ve gotten these words out here, Scout has finally settled. She is curled on that yellow fleece blanket I gave her on the bed. Her breathing isn’t deep, yet—her ears are still swiveling at leaves thrust in the wind outside—but she is on her way to rest.

She is on her way to rest, and I am on my way to another attempt at describing what it is like to love a dog who is wearing out before your eyes. It is emotionally wrenching and logistically frustrating and sometimes so sweet it shocks me with joy.

Other notes and news

• I just discovered Diana Saverin’s writing via a lovely piece called “Bread and Honey” in Longreads. It’s worth reading and then reading again.

• I’m starting E.B. Bartels’s Good Grief, which is a book about pet loss also coming out in paperback soon! (I planned to read it even before Scout had a particularly tough morning—though of course it’s feeling extra relevant now.)

• I’m late to the party on subscribing to Adam Mastroianni’s Experimental History, but I can’t stop thinking about this blog—called “Face it: you’re a crazy person”—and its thoughtful comment section.

• The original animated Avatar: The Last Airbender is on Netflix. Sean and I rarely watch TV, and wow I forgot how much this show deserves its hype.

In case you missed it

Last weekend I wrote about van-life perks and the path of least resistance.

I love bringing my dog to concerts