The normally 14-hour drive from Spokane to Sacramento took us 16. We stopped a lot to see if she would potty. She couldn’t. We were both too nervous.
The Chevy I rented had plenty of room for her once the backseats were folded down. In spite of this she insisted on leaning her heavy body up against the back of my seat, and placing her giant head on my shoulder as I drove. Mile after mile she panted heavy stress filled exhales into my face without making any other sounds.
I did not mind. The breathing and the weight of her large head kept me awake. I was exhausted. My father had tried his hardest to avoid moving my mother into an assisted living home for Alzheimer’s patients. She had become combative and would not eat for him. Emergency room visits had became the norm. It became clear that he just could not do it alone so I cashed in some frequent flyer miles and with the help of family we spent a week moving her out of her house and into a facility.
We all knew the move was coming, and we all knew it would be very hard but it was harder then I could imagine. There are some thing in life for which you cannot prepare. On the day she moved to the home no one breathed.
The only bright spot of that day came in the form of Aragon, a black standard poodle who roamed freely in the halls of the home. My mom, who due to the agitation of her dementia did not sit still for anyone. When Aragon trotted over to her she stopped, smiled and patted his head.
That he was able to calm her when we could not was not a surprise to me. She had spent her entire adult life with dogs as her friends. Don’t call them pets. They were much more then pets – beyond animals, they were more like an entourage.
Yeti resting on my bed after our trip
With dad spending almost all of his time at the home, I volunteer to take her last dog, a Great Dane mix named Yeti, home with me. The day after mom moved in I loaded her into a rental car and headed back to my home in Sacramento.
As I drove I tried to remember all the dogs my mom had brought into our lives.
Licorice, also a black poodle, but a miniature, was the first dog I remember. He never liked the silly haircut my mother insisted he wear. It did not fit his fiery temperament or keen abilities. He was smart. One of those dogs you must spell around when leaving the house.
Above all he was loyal. After my great grandfather’s funeral a family friend thought that tickling my 3-year-old sister would lighten the mood. Licorice heard her scream of laughter from two rooms away and mistook it as a cry for help. Running at a million miles an hour he nearly took off our friend head at the neck. No one messed with us when our ferocious miniature poodle was around.
Mom liked German Sheppards. We had at least two that I remeber. They were also loyal to a fault. In spite of prolific shedding, they lived, slept and ate with us at all times. They served as expert guest screeners. Picking up on subtle clues from us, they would dispense licks or scary barks depending on our comfort level with a visitor.
Clouseau, another Poodle, this time a standard, only exists vaguely in my memory now. I was too focused on 15 teen year old social stresses at the time but. I do remember that my mother loved him in spite of the fact that he was just as bumbling as his detective namesake. Before him there was an afghan hound. He was exotic but somehow not so exotic that his name or temperament has lasted in my memory.
There were so many (my sister Leslie will remember them all). So many that, some I have forgotten completely.
I clearly remember “Saddie” a dog she had when I started college. Her name came from my father’s quip to guests, “Say-do-ya want a dog.” He made this joke because she was so ugly and because my mom always had one or two more dogs then she needed.
Her overbite was prehistoric. She could not move her awkward body without grunting and frequent room clearing farts afflicted her. Somehow, however, the combination of the ugly mug, grunts and gas made for one of the sweetest dogs I have ever known. She was a love factory, eager to give it and just as eager to receive.
Even when her own six kids and one stepdaughter were fully grown, mom still had an abundance of mother love to give. To help absorb a little of this abundance, small dogs Muldoon and Kujo (mockingly named after the monster dog of Stephen King fame) were acquired during the empty ness years.
I am not a fan of the small dog. Mom’s two were Gollum eyed, shrill barking, ADD infected dust mops to me. When she spoke to them I always heard the exact same singsong tone that she had used on us as kids. For this reason I came to refer to them as “the replacements.” I am sure now that my lack of affection for her dog children was not just about their breed. I was jealously of the love they were getting.
My mom was fiercely faithful to her kids. As a young girl, she lost her mother suddenly. Her Father, whom she loved fiercely, responded to the loss of his wife by destroying his liver.
With one parent deceased and one drunk, she was put the fast track for adulthood. She became fiercely independent, unreasonably cheery in the face of trials and frenzied in her work ethic. Her will made iron seem like playdough.
This will made for some dramatic disagreements with her equally stubborn family. No matter how intense the conflict, however it was impossible to doubt her love. This will and love endured last, even in the midst of intense dementia.
Her sometimes lonely and always intense teen years seemed to come to the surface the week before we moved her. She began to spend long portions of her day constantly mumbling. Bits and pieces of jumbled past memories about long workdays and arguments with her father flowed from her. Even though the stories were too confused to be interpreted, it was a clear reminder that her youth was not a time of ease or innocence.
Denied childhood as a child, she compensated as an adult. She kept ponies, and donkeys and fainting goats and exotic birds and cats – lots of cats. Our house was a petting zoo. The undisputed pinnacles of this menagerie were always the dogs. Dogs were innocence. Dogs were fun. Dogs equaled normalcy. They gave he what her childhood could not.
The best of the dogs she owned were affectionate, very smart, and passionately protective. Even the most flawed of them were skilled at turning a blind eye to our flaws. Most were not pure breed but all were willing to give purely. They loved fun and they loved family.
In these ways, they are just like my mother.
As I write this, her last dog Yeti the Great Dane mix is sleeping at my feet. She is an old dog now. Gentle. Fragile. Affectionate and a bit sad. As I watch the steady rhythm of her large chest it occurs to me that mom’s life is reflected in the animals she loved and just like her last dog, my mom has become also become very fragile.
Alzheimer’s is a crushing weight of slowly descending sorrow. Watching my father bare it is just as hard as watching Mom suffer it. Even though I am tempted, I will not let the grief swallow me. I will follow Mom’s example. I too will compensate. I will live as tough and as love intensely. And I will love dogs – especially her dog.