Betty

Today Betty staggered then collapsed while eating her meal – the second meal in a row she’s left unfinished. Unable to move she quietly, calmly waited until I could get to her, lift her with a towel under her belly and move her out into the sunshine and cool breeze on the deck. She slept there for a few hours, then got herself up, barked to come back inside and walked to the living room where she lay among all the people she loves.

It’s the middle of the very end for Betty, my co-parent, confidant, training partner, companion and life changing dog. She’s what we dog people call a “heart dog,” that dog most special even among all the special dogs, who takes care of us more than we can possibly take care of them, and who is not only a pet or a pseudo-child, not only a member of the family, but a deep and genuine friend.

She’s much better at this than I am, which is not a surprise. Her calm, wise eyes don’t show panic as she fades. She knows that I’ll help her navigate these last days, and that’s what she wants and expects. Though she’s having trouble seeing, and can’t find a cookie when it’s offered even at her nose until she’s touching it, she still locks eyes with mine a few times a day, still sees me, still has our history and our habits as a part of her. And she lets me know she does.

It’s been eight or nine months now since I had to make the decision to leave her downstairs at night. Even if I could carry her up and down the stairs she wouldn’t want me to; she’s never liked being carried, even as an 8 pound puppy. So we made a new ritual at night: Addie runs up as she always has as Betty and I share a snuggle and some kisses and 4 or 5 cookies, and the words, “Goodnight Betty. Sleep tight. I love you. Sweet dreams, and I’ll see you in the morning.” She’ll walk off to go to sleep then, understanding what it all means and that I’ll be back down the next day, often these days returning in the morning to wake her up, her old lady sleep so deep, her ears not picking up many of the household sounds they used to.

Once in a while she gets confused or lonely and barks, knowing I’ll come downstairs whatever time of night, talk to her for a bit and then offer the routine again: Goodnight Betty. Sleep tight. I love you. Sweet dreams, and I’ll see you in the morning. And she’ll be fine til morning. And usually so will I.

I will be losing more than a friend when she leaves. I’ll be losing an ally who has seen all I have seen these last 12 years, and who accepts with me, not for me, all that happens in the house. She has taken on everything that’s come along far more gracefully than I, always calm, always present, always able. Change to her is just change, not something to fear or rail against or dread or desire. It just is, and good or bad she’s always known how to get through it. 

Of the millions of Betty stories there are two that really explain her. The first happened when she was under a year old, and I had let her out before bed. She went down to the yard, approached an evergreen bush, backed up, moved forward and back up again, wagging her tail once or twice. After a moment she ran up on to the deck and grabbed her beloved Goose, the toy she took everywhere. She ran down and into the bush, placed the toy at the foot of it, backed up a bit and went into a play bow, tail wagging happily. Realizing at this point that something weird was happening I went down into the yard with a flashlight and peered into the bush. There, frozen, was a baby possum, clutching the trunk of the plant and staring in disbelief at the 90 pound predator offering to share a favorite toy. I was able to convince a reluctant Betty to come away from the bush before Mama Possum figured out what was going on, and I fished Goose out with the flashlight to bring to bed with us, but the next morning Betty eagerly ran down again with Goose to the bush, clearly disappointed that her friend had left in the night. Betty is everyone’s friend.

And then on the night that Max got sick, as the paramedics and firefighters filled the house, walking in and out, talking on their radios, carrying their gear and stretcher and oxygen tanks and leaving the front door wide open, I looked up to see my dog standing calmly in front of Jake. She remained perpendicular to him as he stood facing the unfolding scene; a solid, still gate keeping my son out of the way of harm and chaos, but not alone. She didn’t bark, she didn’t leave the house or Jake’s side until we’d left, Max and I in the ambulance. And then she walked upstairs and retrieved Max’s blanket, carrying it downstairs and sleeping with it until I came home to take it to him in the hospital. I don’t know why I thought to take a picture that strange, surreal morning, but it has remained an image of that most remarkable dog, who thought to connect with the one thing left in the house that was the most Max and wait patiently for his return.

She’s not without her humor, our Betty. Woe to the guests storing food in their rooms – on more than one occasion they’ve found an empty container and a satisfied looking dog asking for more. One time we investigated a strange, crinkling sound coming from upstairs, only to discover Betty wandering outside the bedrooms with her head stuck in a cookie bag, tongue reaching for that last lemon wafer she’d been unable to scarf. When the kids were young she’d delight in pulling their socks off their feet as they were standing, resulting in a THUD as boy hit floor, then the combined sound of elephant hooves as dog and kids ran around in a wild game of Get the Sock. Or Hide and Seek. Or Explore the Beach. Or a movie-long cuddle after a tough day. Should I lose myself in the computer before our walk I could expect to hear the sound of my pocket book hitting the floor behind my chair, her subtle reminder that I was taking just too damned long.

So many if us have felt the gentle touch of Betty’s unintrusive companionship and care. “She speaks people” I’ve said many times, and she does – I swear she does. Always there in the thick of things, she’s been a confidant in quiet corners, celebrated graduations and team victories, taken part in birthday parties and holiday bashes and, after one legendary all-night band get-together, was found sleeping upside down, snoring loudly, utterly hung over.

It’s Betty’s quiet go-along, get-along that’s always been such a wonder, and still is. She’s not gone yet. “You always say the worst is going to happen” one friend recently accused, and it’s true, I often do. There’s an intimate worry that becomes a part of life with a sick member of the family, and Betty’s been close on more than one occasion over the years. But this time I don’t think there’s any coming back from where we are, at least not for long. Maybe a few good days left, maybe even a few up and down weeks, but this is our last summer, as much of it as we get, and there’s no way around that this time.

I won’t write about her when she’s gone – there will be too much left to say, too many ways I’ll want to describe her goodness and her grand old soul, too many ways I’ll try to will her back through the power of words and memories and photographs. When I think of the days ahead and of my friend, my dog, and all she is and always will be, I think of her guiding a lost, sad little girl down the beach one year, gently leading her toward the shore, keeping watch and company. All would be well though it was not yet, and Betty knew that, and she was there to tell the child all of it. As I think she’s trying to tell me now, even as she asks for my help walking this last part together.