by Jean Baur
It was another cold winter day, early in 2014, and as I vacuumed the deep red rug in my dining room, I thought about the friend back in Pennsylvania who gave it to me. (Actually, her daughters gave it to me after she died ten years ago.) Ann and I went to the same church, both sang in a funky little choir, and when she was diagnosed with stage-four stomach cancer, I became part of her support team. This was before Bella’s time, when we still had Angus. I brought her food when she could still eat, drove her to hospital visits, and stopped by to keep her company. Her daughters were wonderful and I enjoyed getting to know them, too.
But then everything fell apart. The pain was too much. The feeding tube was problematic, and despite blood infusions, she was dying. Ann was one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever known. She worked way longer than was humanly possible, overcoming crippling pain and never complaining. But the day came when she couldn’t work, and finally her daughters told her, after she had been hospitalized for several days, that she couldn’t go home again. They told her it was time for hospice. She had a choice—hospice or a nursing home.
She screamed with the tiny bit of energy she had left, she told them she wanted to go home, she said it was unfair, but they insisted she wasn’t safe at home any longer, that her cancer was advancing and she needed more care. She picked hospice. It turned out to be a wonderful place. There were hand-made quilts on the walls, soft pillows, bird feeders outside the windows, music, massages, a kitchen with homemade cookies for the visitors, and a culture of caring.
Somehow I got the idea that I would bring Angus there, maybe more to comfort myself instead of Ann, as I was nervous about going to a hospice facility. This was brand new for me—uncharted territory. Ann’s daughters thought it was a good idea, and when I called the facility, they said it was fine as long as I had proof that my dog’s rabies vaccination was up to date. Angus, at this point about fourteen years old, needed a little help getting in and out of the car, but walked into this facility as if he had been doing this his whole life.
We signed in at the front desk, I gave them a copy of his veterinary records, and asked for directions to the hospice wing. We found Ann’s room, and her daughters and one of their husbands were there. Ann looked like a twig smothered by blankets. I knelt down beside her bed so that I was at her eye level and Angus came up beside me.
“We came to see you,” I told her. “Angus came, too.”
One hand reached out and touched his thick fur. He leaned into her hand. Everyone in the room waited. It was as if time itself held its breath.
She didn’t have the strength to do anything else. She couldn’t talk. I gently stroked her arm and talked to her. I knew not to stay too long, but before I left, I had to tell her something.
“I love you, Ann,” I had said, bending close to her ear. “You fought hard, you did a good job, but it’s time to let go. You don’t have to struggle anymore.”
Her face relaxed.
“And there are angels who will fold you in their wings. I know there are.”
Tears were streaming down my face and I couldn’t even say good-bye. The daughters thanked me and I left the room. As I walked past the dining room, which was full of the nursing home patients, an aide asked me if I’d mind going in with my dog. I wiped the tears off my face and followed her in. Some patients didn’t react, but one man, slumped in his wheelchair, put out his hand and said, “Collie.”
“Yes,” I responded. “Yes, Angus is a collie.”
Angus worked the room, wagging his plume-like tail, gentle, kind, unafraid of this new place. I followed, amazed and yet not totally surprised. This was so in character for him.
Once outside, I let Angus walk slowly through the grass, and carefully put him back in the car. “You did a good job, Angus,” I told him, not knowing that at that exact moment, a few hours before Ann died, my new vocation was born.
Two years later, on a beautiful June day, we had Angus put down. Here was the poem I wrote in his memory a few months later. All of it true:
When you ate
The lights off the Christmas tree,
We returned.
When you made it clear
The kennel was not for you,
We got you out.
When you told us
You were meant to be
With us always,
We acquiesced.
When you said we talked
Too much and needed
To be on the floor,
You drew us to your level.
But best perhaps
Was the welcome:
Joy breaking out
At just the sight of us,
Tail shimmering, full body
Jubilation as if
At that moment
We had been recreated
Out of thin air.
So how do you say goodbye
To that kind of love?
How fill the emptiness?
You can’t, you say,
But still, hanging in the air,
Like mist after rain
Is the promise
That you are waiting,
And will welcome us again.
September 2006
Chapter 30
AT THE END THERE IS A DOG
Winter and Spring 2014
Stonington, Connecticut
It was hard to remember that when Bella first met Shelby, she didn’t like her—hackles raised, she had let out a low growl. But now all I had to say was “Bella, we’re going to see Shelby,” and she raced for the back door, tail wagging. Deb and I were the same way. We’d become sisters, trusting each other, laughing at ourselves and at the situations we got ourselves in. If we had tails, we’d wag them like crazy at just the sight of each other. It was good we had this bond, because some days everything was a bit off.
One day, as we walked in the front door of the rehab facility, Bella saw Nancy in the lounge helping the residents play Bingo and threw her head back, letting out a loud howl. It was like electricity, all eyes on her. Nancy radiated surprise and then pleasure that this exuberant welcome was for her.
“No, Bella. Quiet!” I had commanded, shocked that my well-trained therapy dog would cause such a scene.
“It’s okay,” Nancy had said while Deb looked at Bella and laughed. “She’s a character, isn’t she?” she added.
I apologized to the group and we began our visits. Shelby dragged Deb into Abby’s room, but Abby had been moved because of an infection. Shelby looked around, not sure where the lady had gone with her salmon and bacon treats. Bella stood close behind Shelby, waiting to see what would happen.
“She’s not here,” Deb told the dogs. “Come on.”
We left Abby’s former room, talking about how much she loved the dogs, how even in her empty room we could see her bending over the treats and selecting the very best for her two hungry friends.
“I can’t go by her new room,” Deb said. “She’ll have a fit if she sees Shelby and can’t pet her.”
“We could wave,” I suggested, knowing we weren’t allowed to visit her while her infection was contagious.
Deb looked at me and made a face. When we got to her new room, Bella and I raced past her door, hoping she didn’t see us, while Deb and Shelby made a huge detour.
Michael had been moved, too, and was pissed off. He wanted his old room back and didn’t care that it was being renovated. He pointed to the extra bed in his new room and told us, “I’d like to get a girl in there.”
Deb and I stood still, speechless.
“See that pink bucket?” he added.
There was a pink plastic wash basin on this bed.
“Right by that bucket, I’d like to—”
“Hey, Michael,” I interrupted. “Can Bella say hello?”
He looked at her, distracted, disappointed, clearly letting us know that we were as annoying as the staff. He was so young and so ruined. Betrayed by his body.
“I need to see Bonnie,” he said.
“I’m happy to give her a message.”
“Yeah, I need to talk to her. I can’t stand this room.”
“Okay, I’ll tell her. See you next week?”
He turned his head away from me and looked out the window. Bella pulled me toward the door, anxious to be back with Shelby. I wasn’t good at admitting defeat, but right then, right there, I knew that visits from two wonderful dogs weren’t making much of a difference. Not in his world.
The school was another matter. We were now nearing the end of the school year and had a workable routine. After signing in at the front desk and getting a visitor pass, we went down the long hallway to the special education classroom. Bella and I spent about fifteen to twenty minutes with each child, starting with reading time, then played with the tennis ball, walked down the hallway, or on nice days, went outside.
Annelise had warmed up to us a bit and sometimes flung herself in my lap. The para told me to be careful—she bit. We sang songs together and sometimes danced. Bella looked on with her head cocked to one side as if asking, “What on earth are you doing? Do I know you?”
As we were chatting, Aimée came up, and after listening for a while, said, “Oh, it’s you.”
“It’s me what?” I asked.
“You’re the one who says girlfriend.”
I nodded, as it was one of several nicknames I called Bella.
“Why?” I asked.
“Annelise lives with her grandparents, and as you know, doesn’t talk much. But over the weekend she apparently kept saying girlfriend. Now we know where she got it.”
I laughed, thinking to myself it was a good thing I didn’t say something worse.
Liam and I sat together on huge pillows on the floor. He had two obsessions: pirates and dinosaurs. He selected a book on one of these two topics and then “read” it to me and Bella. He couldn’t read, but he looked carefully at the pictures and then explained the story to me. Here’s how he read the dinosaur book to me:
Page 1—Bones
Page 2—Eggs
Page 3—Sharp teeth
Page 4—Dead
Page 5—Bones, eggs
Page 6—Extinct
Page 7—Dead
Page 8—Bones
Page 9—Teeth
Page 10—Dead
Page 11—And they all lived happily ever after
“Wow,” I said, “good reading. Bella liked it, too.” Bella was curled up near his feet, but didn’t touch him. He was still afraid, although his para told me that he talked about Bella all week, saying over and over, “I want to see Bella.” And on good days, when he was feeling brave, he touched her back and I watched his face, the face of a boy discovering a miracle.
There was something wonderful about being on these pillows with this boy. This boy and my dog. I always told him he did a good job, and that I couldn’t wait to see him the next week. He was growing so fast that his pants barely made it to his ankles. I couldn’t imagine his future, didn’t know if he’d ever master reading, but I hoped that somewhere in his memory there would be a white dog who loved to listen to him.
Next we saw Austin. He was a firecracker, all energy, his wild hair flopped over his face. He found Bella funny and gave her math problems to solve.
“Okay, Bella,” he said, pulling out a container of blocks. “How much is ten minus four?”
Bella looked puzzled, and then said, “Five?” (Well I said “five” out of the corner of my mouth.)
“No, Bella. Wrong!” shouted Austin. “Try again.”
“Let me see, six?”
“Yes, yes—you got it right!” Austin jumped up in the air and then did a somersault.
“Let’s do Olympics,” he said, the blocks quickly forgotten.
“Okay,” I said, now speaking for myself, not Bella. “Just put away the blocks so you don’t trip over them.”
He backed up, made a running leap, and did two somersaults on the thick floor mats.
“Now your turn.”
“I’m not sure I can do that, Austin.”
“You can—yes you can!”
I got down on my hands and knees, wondering how many years it had been since I did a somersault.
“Go!” shouted Austin. “It’s the Olympics.” His para watched in disbelief as I got my sixty-seven-year-old body to flip over.
“Oh, that was terrible,” I told him as the room spun.
“Again!”
“No thanks, Austin. It’s your turn.”
And then, his creativity on speed, he made up names for all the stunts he did and Bella and I watched. When our time was over he said, “Good-bye, Jean. Good-bye, Bella,” his eyes sparkling with excitement. And just as he reached the door, he turned back and added, “Bella is precious.” That was one of my mother’s favorite words, and I felt what could become a sob catch in my throat.
There were two other boys we saw that first year in the school, but because we were not on a regular schedule, we didn’t grow as close. But one boy drew a picture of Bella for me, and when we read, I noticed he always leaned up against my shoulder.
When school was almost over, Aimée asked me if Bella would go with Austin to the auditorium, as he hated to have his photo taken and it was school picture day. We stood in line together, the other children looking at Bella, wanting to pet her.
“Sorry,” I told them. “She’s working right now. This is her time with Austin.”
When it was our turn, we walked up the stairs to the stage where the photographer was set up. Austin stayed with us until he saw the camera. Then he jumped off the stage.
“Come back,” I told him. “Look—Bella’s not afraid.”
He laughed and ran off so Bella got her portrait done without him. She didn’t seem to mind the bright lights. Lynn, his wonderful para, thanked me for trying. I was in awe of her and the others—of their patience, their love for these children, and the endless ways they were present. I thought to myself that they should be earning the big bucks instead of athletes or rock stars. Their jobs were a whole lot harder. And more important.
Deb and I went up to the fifth floor of the hospital, careful to avoid one wing where there was a nurse terrified of dogs. Deb had followed me on our first few visits here together, but now she was just as comfortable as she was at Starfish.
We walked into one room and the man in the near bed was asleep, so we spent time with his roommate. He liked dogs and wanted to know their stories. We said good-bye and were almost out of the room when the other man woke up and said in a loud voice, “Oh my God! Dogs!”
Deb and I froze, not sure if this was an invitation or a signal to get out of the room quickly.
“Would you like to see them?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Yes. Oh, yes! I love dogs.”
I got Bella to put her paws up on the edge of his bed and he fed her a treat.
“Oh, look at her. She’s beautiful.”
I saw tears sliding down the side of his face.
“Let me see the other one.”
Deb brought Shelby over and he reached his hand down to pet her silky fur. Shelby looked very pleased with herself.
“I miss my dog,” he said quietly.
As we talked, we found out that his dog, a lab mix, had died eight years ago, but right now in this room, it was yesterday—the loss, his dog’s boundless love, and all the things they did together.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” I asked, thinking of Angus.
He nodded, and Deb and I were quiet while he pet Bella and Shelby. Just as we were about to say good-bye, he stopped us.
“I don’t have much time.”
“You’re getting out soon?” asked Deb.
“No. Not much more time.”
And when we still didn’t get it, he added, “I’m dying.”
“Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t want to talk about this, and the tears that had been slid
ing from the corners of his eyes were now streaming down his cheeks.
“But you brought in dogs. You gave me something. I will never forget you.”
Deb and I fought back our own tears while Bella and Shelby looked up at us wondering what to do next. We stayed, we talked to him, we were there as long as he wanted us to be. But when his face looked tired, we gently said good-bye. And as he closed his eyes, we saw a slight smile and a look of peace on his face.
Out in the hallway, Deb said, “Oh, my God.”
“I know.”
“I’ve never—”
“I know.”
We decided to visit a few more rooms before leaving. A nurse asked us to see a patient on the other side of the ward. He was a young man, probably in his twenties, lying in bed with a nurse sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed monitoring him. We didn’t know why and couldn’t ask.
For the second time that day, we received an exuberant reception. He was not content to lie still with two dogs in his room, and asked the nurse to help him sit up. She did and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed so he could get closer to Bella and Shelby. Bella took this as an invitation to jump up on his bed next to him.
“Oh,” he said, “you’re a cutie. Yes, you are.”
He put his arm around Bella and I stopped myself from telling him that Bella was head-shy, as she clearly wasn’t anything shy. She licked the side of his face while Shelby pressed herself up against his legs.
“This is fantastic!” he said. “You brought me fur angels. Two beautiful fur angels.”
Deb and I were on the verge of tears for the second time that day and couldn’t look at each other. But like proud parents, we watched our dogs, astonished by what they did.
A few weeks later, as Bella and I were visiting the residents at Starfish, (Deb had a conflict and couldn’t be there), and we were just passing the nurses’ station, just a few rooms from Beverly’s, I heard someone calling my name.
Judy rushed up the hallway. “Wait, Jean. Wait a minute.”
I hesitated, wondering what was up. Bella had her head cocked to one side.
“Need to talk with you.”
