Dusty's Heart

        I am sitting in my den on the ugly old crushed velvet couch that's been here
since I was a kid in high school, almost 15 years ago.  It was almost this
ugly when it was new, but years of constant use and abuse by Dusty and Tyler,
my two boys, as I call them, has taken its toll.  I spoil them shamelessly,
and although I try to protect the furniture in the rest of the house, I've
allowed this wretched old couch, and the loveseat that matches it, to go to
the dogs.  I almost never sit in here, but in recent weeks, I find myself
sitting on the end of this couch, looking out the sliding glass doors at the
dogs.  Today I'm drinking again, because the sight of it is more than I can
bear sober.  Tyler, my black cocker spaniel, is sprinting around the yard as
usual, reporting back to the door every so often, just to be sure its still
closed, and then bounding back to his many projects in the grass.  I get up
and walk to the door, and slide it open, stepping out onto the concrete patio,
and close the door behind me.  The air is still warm for September, but in
east Texas, it always seems too warm for the season, no matter what season it
is.  Everything is still as green as it was in May, and the pecan trees are in
full denial about the onset of Fall.

        Tyler rushes over when he hears the door.  That's one of the things I've
always loved about dogs.  Their excitement and optimism is fresh with every
moment and every new development in their world seems full of wonderful
potential.  I scan the yard for Dusty, my other cocker.  At 7 years old, he's
four years older than Tyler, but smaller.  His coloring is soft and blonde,
like a palomino horse, and his disposition has always been sweet and gentle,
not as rambunctious as Tyler.  A few weeks ago, I wouldn't have had to look
for him.  He and Tyler were like Ying and Yang.  Polar opposites in so many
ways, but always together, in counterpoint.  I always called them Tweedle-dee
and Tweedle-dummy.

        I squat down, and sit on the warm concrete step, and Tyler plops down next to
me, pushing his head under my right arm, and through, so his nose can reach my
right cheek.  The dog nose is warm and kind of dry, and his breath is sweet
and doggy.  I've never found dog noses to be particularly cold and wet, like
I'd always heard they were supposed to be.  I call for Dusty, and Tyler
becomes still.  I call several times, and whistle for him.  Just as I'm about
to get up and go look for him, I seem him, walking tentatively from around the
side of the house.  He's walking in our direction, but his head is turned to
the side as he walks, slowly, haltingly.  He's been carrying himself that way
ever since the blindness came on suddenly, overnight actually, a couple of
weeks ago.  He cocks his head, and pricks up his ears, and turns one ear or
the other in the direction of the sounds he's listening for.  He's adjusted to
it so much better than I have.

        Tyler goes after him, as he's taken to doing.  He sniffs Dusty, lets Dusty
sniff him, then sort of leads him over to the patio by staying close so Dusty
can smell him.  They both now stand right in front of me, those little snub
cocker tails wagging in circles, like propellers.  Dusty's fur is soft and
uncharacteristically smooth for a spaniel, while Tyler's is curly and slightly
wild.  This seems perfectly suited to their respective personalities.  Dusty's
always seemed like the sensitive, sensible one, while Tyler's always been the
class buffoon, preferring to clown around like an arrested adolescent.  I
wonder how much they sense about what's happening to Dusty.

        When I think about it, I feel an incredible burning in the pit of my stomach
that slowly travels up my throat, hangs there, and oozes out of my eyes in hot
tears.  Then I feel silly for feeling so much grief for a dog, and then I feel
guilty and angry for feeling silly.  Although I don't relish the thought of
reviewing in my mind the several years of hell during which that dog was the
only thing in my screwed up life which I could always count on, I force
myself.  Its funny how I didn't realize what was happening as I slipped easily
into cocaine, but I sure felt every moment as I tried to drag myself back out.
I can feel many of those moments right now as I sit looking into the same face
that used to sit beside my bed and watch me for hours with what resembled
concern.  What I needed at that point was exactly the only thing he could
give.  It happens to be a dog's specialty.  Unconditional love.  It got to the
point where I would divide my food with him because I couldn't afford to buy
dog food, and at least two nights, we slept in my car before I found the
courage to swallow my pride and come home.  Dusty seemed to support me in my
decision, although I know its impossible that he could've known on any level
what was happening.

        I've tried to return the favor ever since, and I planned to make it up to him
for the rest of his long, easy life.  I'm thinking all of this as I try to see
behind his moist eyes.  Once deep, expressive brown, like a calf, they're
cloudy and milky now, and never seem to be looking at anything, which of
course, they're not.  I wonder how long he'd had cancer before this first
outward sign emerged.  I wonder if he suffered without my noticing it.
There's the pain in my stomach again.  I take another sip of my drink to try
and drown it out before it can creep up through my chest again, but its too
late.  I lean forward and hug my old friend, and my tears moisten the fur on
his shoulder.  Tyler reaches over and licks the salty water off my face in a
gesture of support, I like to think.

        I think about our options for a moment, and resist the strong urge to just
think about something else.  Besides the blindness, he isn't showing any
indication that he's sick, or in pain.  I feel along his throat, lymph nodes
and neck for swelling or tenderness and find nothing.  The X-rays showed the
cancer from the base of the brain, through the lymphatic system, and into his
chest and abdominal area, but no invasion into major organs. This explains why
I haven't noticed any outward signs that Dusty's ill.  If he hadn't started
walking into walls last week, I still might not know.  As I look at him, I try
to imagine the mutant cells, teeming beneath his skin, slowly sapping his
life, eating him alive.  I decide again that I can't subject him to chemo
therapy.  I can afford it, thank God, if I change my mind.  I have my law
career back now, and having my own practice gives me the freedom to sit here
all afternoon in the middle of the week, grieving and feeling sorry for
myself.  I remind myself of how close to suicidal I was back in Houston, and
the one time I didn't do it because I was worried about who would take care of
my dog.  In my mind, I owe him everything I have or will ever have from that
moment forward.

        My face still pressed into Dusty's shoulder, I breathe deeply.  He has that
sweet smell I'm so familiar with, like the smell of grass and garden soil and
wool mingled together.  I've never thought that dogs had an unpleasant smell
(unless you got them wet.)  Tyler sticks his tongue in my ear, and its
slobbery and gross, but I know he means well.  It brings me out of myself and
out of the dark past, and I thank him for that as I stand up and stretch.  A
warm breeze touches my face, and stirs the leaves on the pecan trees.  Dusty
notices the sound, and cocks his head in my direction.  He's aware that I've
stood up, and I imagine he's concerned he won't be able to tell which
direction I've gone off in.  I slide open the door, and he runs his nose down
the glass until he reaches the opening, and they both tumble into the den.

        I follow them in, close the door, and put my glass in the sink.  I place both
hands on the counter, lean forward, and let my head drop as I close my eyes.
I've got to pull myself together.  I've told the doctor that as long as Dusty
is feeling well, and in no pain, I don't plan to have him put to sleep, but at
the first sign of illness or discomfort, I'll bring him in.  I couldn't bear
to see him suffer, so I watch him closely for any indication.  I think about
this now, as I have so often in recent days.  What will I do if it looks like
he's in pain, or sick, and I know I have to do the unthinkable?  I'm not sure
I can do it, and I spend a lot of time trying to strengthen my resolve on that
count.  I pray for the umpteenth time that he'll live as long as possible, and
then die easily in his sleep, saving both of us the pain of euthanasia.  I
look over at the boys, who have taken up positions in the den.  Tyler's on
that awful sofa, and Dusty's standing on the ottoman, his head cocked in my
direction, listening intently for any sign that something's going on.  He used
to watch my every move, and hang on my every word.  He's still doing the best
he can.
copyright 1998 storyarts  may not be reproduced without permission of the author