by Tom Ryan
With the snows of winter not far away, the chances of getting Will to a mountaintop were less likely with each week that passed. On top of that, I wasn’t sure he would make it through the harshest season. Snow falls heavily here, and when it begins, it’s here to stay. The backyard gets buried in three feet of snow during a typical winter, and it remains until spring. Will wouldn’t be able to get his exercise. He’d have to settle for moving about in our driveway to stay active. If I didn’t get him up a mountain soon, I never would.
In early November, I had an idea. I thought of Pine Mountain. The approach is along a dirt road closed to vehicles. And from that road to the summit is only half a mile of easier hiking. I went online and ordered an all-terrain pet stroller from Pet Gear. It came on a Saturday, and I put Will in it for the first time. He seemed to be comfortable, and without further ado, the plan was set for the following day.
One of my hiking friends, Cindy Netska, agreed to help.
I had no idea if Will would enjoy it or not, or whether we’d even be able to get him to the top of Pine Mountain, but I wanted to try. If things didn’t go well, we’d turn back.
It seemed easy enough on paper. The round trip was less than four miles, most of it along the dirt road. But the road was steeper than I remembered. Atticus did what Atticus does, leading the way, and Cindy and I took turns pushing the Will Wagon uphill, sweating and gasping for oxygen as we went. Will was content to ride along; he hadn’t a care in the world. I put several blankets in the stroller for him, but he slipped out of them and spent most of the trip sitting up, watching through the half-zipped mesh screen (fully zipped, the screen caused Will to panic, because I think it reminded him of a crate).
After pushing up the dirt road for more than a mile, we reached the trail. Before going up, I took Will out in a small area of grass to give him a break. His legs may not have brought him that far, but they were taking him all around the field. He hopped and turned, bounced, even began to trot. He was making up for his ride by strutting. In the background, massive Mount Madison stood watching over him while he played.
I've walked up that spur trail many times before and many times since, and it’s always been very easy—except when the Will Wagon was involved. At first Cindy and I tried to push it up the trail, but it was jarring and we didn’t make much headway. The rocks were too large for the wheels. Finally, we decided to carry it like a sedan chair.
Cindy lifted the front, and I took most of the weight in the rear. We didn’t make it very far before stopping. We were tripping on the rocks and roots and sliding in the mud. We moved ten, twenty, maybe thirty feet forward at a time, and had to stop for a rest. It was a laborious process. When we’d stop, we’d breathe deep for air and feel the burn in our muscles. But we’d do it again. Another ten or thirty feet. Another rest. I started to doubt we’d make it. We were so close, but I’ve never been so tired climbing a mountain. Usually I felt a climb in my legs, my back, my heart and lungs, but to feel the burn and exhaustion in my upper body on this trek doubled the difficulty. My arms began to shake, my biceps cramped. I wasn’t sure how much farther we could go, yet we’d come that far. I didn’t want to stop. Repeatedly we carried Will forward, rested, and carried him some more.
When we finally reached the top, we were spent, but I was so excited that my strength returned. Atticus hopped up on a viewing rock and I took Will out of his wagon and held him up to look at the views across the valley to the Carter-Moriah Range, the summit ritual I’d always done with Atticus. We’d climb to the top together and take in the views on our own before he’d walk over and poke me in the leg with his nose. When I held him in the crook of my elbow, Atticus always sat as still as a statue. There was quiet, a sense of peace. Before long, and I learned to wait for it, he’d settle his weight into my arm and against my body. Then I’d hear it—a deliberate sigh. Always a sigh. No mountain trek was complete without it.
I had wondered what Will would do if we ever reached a mountaintop. Would he be able to see much through cloudy eyes? Would that weak neck betray him and leave his head flopped to one side, waiting for me to prop it up?
When I picked him up and rested his bottom inside my elbow, I placed my other hand on his chest to steady him. Within a second, there was stillness. Whenever I picked Will up, he’d look at me. But not on Pine Mountain. His eyes cast about. I watched him looking at the view: the mountains, the valley, the river beyond. He seemed to study it, and I didn’t have to hold up his head.
I waited and hoped and waited some more. I felt it begin. Air left his chest. He relaxed his body against mine. I felt his belly relax. Then came a little sigh, and Will relaxed even more, giving me all of his weight.
Soul work.
Six months after moving to the mountains, Will was on top of one.
My eyes were filled with emotion. I was so proud of him and how far he’d come. Everything we had gone through together in the prior months was worth it at that moment. It was everything I’d hoped it would be.
His head began to wobble. He rested it against mine. At the same time we turned to look at each other, and that’s when I felt another first. It was as feathered as angel’s wings, as faint as the gentlest breeze. Will kissed me.
It was a day of firsts, but it wouldn’t be complete without sitting down next to Atticus, who was seated on a large rock, looking out at the view and watching Will and me. Sitting with Will in my arms on my right side, I felt Atticus lean against me on the left. I thanked him for being kind to Will, sharing his home with him, sharing me with him, and now, sharing a mountain with Will.
That night, we were all tired. Blissfully so. I told Ken and Ann about our victory and they were jubilant. Marijane and I talked about Will’s progress and our mountain success. Our Facebook page, which now had around ten thousand people following the everyday adventures of Atticus, Will, and the fellow they lived with, erupted in celebration at the news of Will’s mountain summit.
The expedition to Pine Mountain was the end of six months of anger. Will’s rage had dissipated over the previous several months; his temper tantrums had nearly ceased, but not completely. From that moment on, though, they did. Never again would he try to bite me or anyone else.
No matter what we were to encounter after Pine Mountain, I knew we’d reached a treasured place, and that proved to be the best medicine for Will. Christine O’Connell had been right all along: old age is not a disease. For Will, it was a fresh start.
6
The Cough
True love begins when nothing is looked for in return.
—ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY
December’s snow fell fat around the black ash tree and filled up the backyard. The winds roared down from Pinkham Notch up north like a freight train. They shook the house when they rumbled by overhead. Icy fingers pried and tapped at frosted windows. Through it all, Will slept contentedly beneath the Christmas tree. Its scent was divine to him. He’d spend nearly the entire day in that corner of our apartment.
I had witnessed his fondness for wildflowers, how he’d often lie down with them and inhale their blossoms through the fairer months. When they stopped growing, I began to buy flowers for him each week, hoping it would make him happy, and apparently it did. For whenever I’d place them next to him, he’d smell them, and often sleep next to a bouquet if I left it on the floor.
That’s the reason the tree went up right after Thanksgiving, because I knew he’d appreciate its wild scent, and I wanted him to enjoy it as long as possible. I’d find him sniffing the pine boughs, and the shiny red, gold, and green ornaments captured his attention when they reflected the twinkling lights. Christmas carols filled our home, and they were delivered by vibration to Will. So did the aroma of homemade muffins baking in the oven and of hot soup in the ever-present slow cooker. The tiny flames of candles flickered, and cinnamon and peppermint mingled with other kitchen smells. With the cold outside and the warmth of the inside, there is no better word to describe it than hom
e.
In our cozy little hobbit hole, life was good.
Atticus and I continued to take advantage of Will’s lengthy naps. We ventured out for our regular walks through the winter scenes at Echo Lake and did shorter hikes around the valley to low peaks with expansive views. No matter how frozen the landscape, how biting the wind, this was Atticus’s season. The older he got, the less he enjoyed the heat of summer. But when the mercury dropped and a nip could be felt in the air, Atticus seemed younger, bouncier. Unlike when he was younger and we were both getting used to the coldest months in the mountains, he no longer needed his body suit to keep warm. He had grown used to the season.
The big surprise was that when I brought Will outside to our snowy driveway to frolic for as long as he would enjoy it, Will was at ease. He had shivered through the mornings of May and early June, but now he was robust, weighing seven pounds more. Other than his adorably strange gait and his interpretive dance that combined half-spinning, drunken waltzing, a fractured gallop, and half leaps, one wouldn’t be able to tell there was anything wrong with Will. Even his eyes appeared to focus more. He was no longer lost, nor did he look it.
We visited the stores that welcomed him so he would get more exercise, for he couldn’t push through the deep snow in the yard. We stopped often at White Birch Books, and Will was now as self-assured there as Atticus had always been. He’d roam the space nonchalantly, and people who didn’t know him would say hello, not realizing he was deaf, and he’d walk by them. With others he’d stop, tilt his head in their direction, and take note of them. After shopping for books, we’d make our way over to Four Your Paws Only, where fresh-from-the-oven cookies were always waiting in boxes for Atticus and Will from friends on our Facebook page who had called in the orders.
Our backyard was a crystal palace, coated in white. I put another Christmas tree outside on the crown of the yard and wove blue lights through its boughs. I filled the bird feeders and sprinkled extra handfuls of sunflower seeds generously around the trees for the squirrels. I hung the suet feeders by the upstairs windows so we could watch the birds from the couch.
When our friends David and Lisa came north to ski for the first trip of the season, Lisa looked at Will and said, shocked, “That can’t be the same dog!”
Six months earlier, when we were down in Newburyport for a night, Lisa had watched Will for a few hours. He became aggressive when she tried to get him back inside the house. But when I picked him up and placed him in her arms during the Christmas holiday, he settled in.
Will grew to love human touch, and being held. At a book event in Winchester, Massachusetts, our friend Laura Bachofner—who first brought Will to my attention by posting his story on our Facebook page—was in attendance. Right before the event started, I brought Will to her and she held him for the next ninety minutes. When it was time to leave, I don’t think she wanted to let him go.
Will’s only remaining issue was that he continued to go to the bathroom inside the house. That wasn’t going to change. The night accidents were the worst. I’d be deep asleep and somewhere far away I’d hear his cries. They were panicked and pitiful, high-pitched yelps for help. Those were the many nights of the two-o’clock-in-the-morning baths. That’s when my sleep deprivation started.
There were other nights when he woke me up because he had gone for a nocturnal walkabout and found himself stuck in a corner or wedged in some tight cubbyhole, for Will was always exploring and forever getting stuck. He couldn’t back up and he’d stay where he was waiting for me to pick him up.
As our time together progressed, I slowly learned a few tricks, including spreading towels on wooden floors and in the bathroom. I began filling in all the spaces he’d find himself trapped in. I blocked them with large plastic bottles of detergent or cleaning fluid, or turned chairs sideways and laid them on the floor. I placed a piece of plywood across the doorway to the extra bedroom, which served as my writing room, so he couldn’t pee on the carpet. I was Will-proofing our home as I learned more about him.
It feels strange to write about urine and feces so easily. But live with either long enough, love the one you are with, and even piss and shit become an acceptable part of life. One night I heard Will crying. I bounded out of bed and planted my foot in a pile of shit. There was nothing else to do but laugh—and hop to the bathtub on one leg.
Since I was no longer getting a full night’s sleep, I started taking naps with Will early each afternoon. Atticus joined us, but made certain that I was between the two of them. Because I worried about Will falling off the bed, these naps always took place on the floor.
Atticus was forever patient with Will, giving him his space and some respect, but after Will’s first few months of misbehaving, Atticus would never be his buddy. Not that Atticus was ever any other dog’s friend. He was kind to them and intrigued by them, just as he was with moose and bears and fox, but with dogs it never lasted more than a few minutes.
Early each morning, Atticus sat on his corner of the couch and I’d sit on mine, half turned so I could look out the picture window to a wall of nature. Will’s ritual was to approach me, waiting to be picked up. If I didn’t respond quickly enough, he’d bump my leg with his nose. I’d lift him onto my lap and hold his head up with mine, and together we’d look out the window. I knew that Will could make out shadows and shapes and light, but I’m not sure how detailed his vision was beyond that. There really was no way of knowing. Sometimes he picked up on the movement of the larger birds. Having the snow across everything provided some contrast in the scene for him and made it easier to see some of the movements he’d miss in summer. Even with his limitations, though, he’d study squirrels going about their business and birds flying from tree to tree or landing on a nearby feeder. He would move his head; his eyes would focus and follow the movement. There was something of a child’s expectation of magic in his eyes during these little morning get-togethers. But it never took him long before his head would nod. He’d be watching attentively, and within ten seconds his eyes would blink and close and he’d be sleeping.
I’d lay him on his bed on the floor and cover him. I never left him on the couch, for fear he’d fall off and break something. And if I placed him in the middle of the couch when I was sitting there, Atticus would hop off and go to his own dog bed.
It was clear that in Atticus’s mind there were places Will was allowed and those he wasn’t. The bed and the couch were always Atti’s islands of refuge from the smelly, stumbling white dog.
Since that morning long ago when Atticus had found Will beneath my side of the bed, after he crawled over to me during his experience with the old dog vestibular disease, he never bothered acknowledging Will.
God bless Will. I think he finally grew tired of being ignored. One morning, while we were getting ready to go out, Atticus sat facing the door. Will walked up to him and circled around. Atticus kept looking straight ahead. Will drew closer and closer still as he circled. Finally he stood within inches of Atticus’s left ear and let loose with one loud, resounding bark. Atti didn’t flinch. Even then he wouldn’t acknowledge Will.
That bark was so piercing and strange to hear that I laughed. “He’s telling you, ‘Pay attention to me, Atticus!’”
That was the only time I ever heard a bark in our home. Atticus was always silent, and other than his fits of aggression with me and his frantic cries while feeling trapped, Will was forevermore also silent.
The first area rug was long gone. A second took its place. Towels were picked up and washed if they were soiled. I steam-mopped the floor daily and bathed Will a few times a week. In this way, life with Will was like spending time at the woebegone nursing home, where there was a futile battle against the constant underlying smell of urine. But in every other way, it was just the opposite in our little place. Will was reborn of spirit, and hope and happiness had returned. Things couldn’t have been better—which only meant we were due for a change.
In January, Will had his first
seizure. He was standing up when abruptly he began shaking. His fall came quick and he was splayed out flat on the floor, where he continued to tremble. He was gasping for air, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. His eyes rolled back. I lay next to him and stroked him gently. Atticus approached and watched over him. When Will calmed down, I picked him up and wrapped him in a blanket and we sat on the floor in front of the couch. He slept in my arms that night.
At North Country Animal Hospital, Rachael Kleidon gave Will a thorough checkup. Blood work was done. Nothing significant was found.
The seizure was distressing to me because it was all too reminiscent of Max. That’s how his life ended. Seizures came from time to time. A few months later they came and didn’t stop. He was suffering so much that I chose to end his misery and say good-bye to him.
I was haunted by that memory and hoped it was a onetime episode. But a week later, a second seizure hit. It lasted a little longer and left Will spent. There was nothing we could do, though, so I waited and hoped they’d stop.
I watched him closely. How could I not wonder if this was the beginning of the end for Will?
Death was whispering to me. “I’m getting closer . . .”
I didn’t fear her. Some are surprised when I tell them I find death to be a miracle and a grace. I accept her role in my life, in all of our lives, but that doesn’t mean she is incapable of breaking my heart. I am not worried about the day I go. I’ll leave like Joseph Campbell said: “You go to your death singing.”
What I was struggling with was figuring out when to sing for Will. I’d only have one chance to get it right.
Winter months in Jackson are much more night than day. They are dark everywhere, but in the mountains, the sun sets behind the peaks and the days are even shorter. The evenings are long and frozen, and spring seems an impossibility.
When the seizures didn’t return for a few weeks, I decided we could all use a dose of nature and some glorious light. I rented a beach house in Provincetown on the tip of Cape Cod. The Cape is known for its sunlight, especially Provincetown. The land is flat and you can watch the sun rise out of the ocean and set into the bay.
