TThe last patient on my rounds was elderly and cognitively impaired, and he was very accommodating. Nurses are dedicated. Loyal interns like me go to different places. She loves my dress. We are willing to admit these statements because we fear the next heartbreaking question: “Did you know I have a dog?”
Lizzie is a Corgi named after the late Queen. For 10 years, they lived together, growing up watching TV, pottering around in the garden, and sleeping side by side.
Their daily walk kept the patient on his feet and visible to his neighbors. But now she has fallen and is no longer considered safe and is awaiting institutional care. She seems to appreciate regular meals and cheerful care, but nothing will stop her from craving a pet dog.
“When can I see Lizzie?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Maybe she will come today.”
“perhaps.”
Lizzie is safe, but despite our insistence, no one can arrange a meeting between our patient and her dog. Are people (understandably) worried that if they see Lizzie they won’t let it go? It is better to hope that she forgets the past than to try to connect her with it.
The geriatrician says there’s no point in reminding her of “facts” she can’t retain. That means Lizzie is safe. The thing that stands between her and happiness is not us, but the rules. On the other hand, I began to resent spending exorbitant amounts of money on pointless interventions that did nothing to improve the quality of her remaining days.
When hospitalized patients think about their dogs (and sometimes cats), I used to respect their feelings, but now I feel their pain.
I was reluctant to get a dog. My life is complete without a dog. And I took to heart my friends’ advice to never trust your children’s wishes. “Just buy it and we’ll take care of everything else.”
Over the past four years, I have gained the most steps walking Odie. By 6:30 p.m., no matter where I am, I wonder if I would have been fed (almost always). I took him to the vet and, with his trembling body pressed against mine, his beloved doctor carefully smeared him, then listened to his heartbeat, palpated his stomach, and scooped out the vaccine. Masu.
4-year-old Odie has a great vocabulary and is practical despite his small size.
In “Bone,” he is seen dashing into the kitchen and dancing in front of the freezer, gasping with joy. “Up up” (said in a slightly irritated tone) is a signal to stop sniffing the trees and get into the back seat of the car. Otherwise, drop-offs to school will be done without him. If this doesn’t work, “Bye, Odie” (used sparingly) can help.
It is believed that the concept of time is what separates animals and humans, but that did not prevent me from training Odie, who would like to take one long walk for the rest of his life if possible.
When I go to work early, I see him taking hopeful steps toward the garage, in case my wishes change from caring for patients to caring for pets. When I say “later,” I mean one of the kids comes home and we go for a walk. My subconscious message to Audie as he eases forward toward my car is: “Ask the children.”
Later, if someone complains that Odie woke them up by scratching at the door and jumping on the bed, I’m going to feign sympathy. May the universe grant all dog parents many such “we’ll do anything” moments.
Odie will be content with his usual allotment of affection, but today the kids are baking him a cake.
Odie knows another phrase: “The future will come later.” In an apologetic tone, everyone is out today, and going out means you really have to wait. I tell myself that despite the cup-half-empty look, he definitely appreciates the established routine of taking two walks almost every day.
But it’s Odie’s favorite phrase in the world, and it’s the one that drives him crazy. So he started scrambling my laptop (and deleting the entire section I had written). Reach higher and higher to lick the children. If we don’t get our act together soon, he will make his trademark barking, moaning, and begging sounds: “Walkie time!”
To offer to walk Odi is to experience pure happiness.
Every day we walk Odi along the same path. He eats the same food at the same time. We use the same words with the same meaning. Why do our blessings feel so limitless despite our lives being so limited? In our eventful lives, perhaps what we have come to love is relationships. It may be the simple nature of
Our dog is smart, but he can’t read (yet). He doesn’t know that my year-end column for the past four years has been about him.
Today, on his fourth birthday, he is oblivious to the fanfare of the “Odie Column.” My kids tracked the pregnancy and sent me 100 cute photos.
Odie will be content with his usual allotment of affection, but today the kids are baking him a cake with bananas, oats, eggs, and peanut butter. It looks better than my breakfast.
And so begins a new year of receiving and giving joy just like the past four years.
It’s a simple life. And therein lies its beauty.
To our readers: As 2024 comes to a close, we would like to sincerely thank you for your continued support and valuable feedback. I wish you a happy holiday season and look forward to writing to you again next year.
Ranjana Srivastava is an Australian oncologist, award-winning author, and Fulbright scholar. Her latest book is called “A Better Death”
