6

 

I’m listening to Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” as I pull meat off a deli chicken to add to the salad we’re having for dinner. It’s about to hit its soul-vibrating crescendo, and I’m in a state of heightened anticipation when David comes through the door carrying grocery bags.

“Hey, babe. What’s up with Nick?” He sets the bags down on the large kitchen island and comes over to give me a quick kiss. He looks really worried. Spiritual gratification, a-la-the music, will have to wait.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s just lying out in the driveway and didn’t even get up when I pulled into the garage.”

“Didn’t get up? Not even for a treat?”

“Nope. I offered, but he just looked up at me and then put his head down again. Then I went over to pet him, and he wagged his tail but didn’t even roll over.”

“That sure doesn’t sound like Nick. I need to go check on him. Finish washing the lettuce and broccoli, will you?”

Down in the garage, Nick is lapping up water. He stops to look at me and wags his tail. He looks fine. Or does he?

“Hey, Nickaroo,” I say soothingly, walking toward him. As he walks to meet me, I see a slight hitch in his gait. Did he hurt his paw? I bend down and rub his head. “What’s going on, big boy?”

I sit on the garage floor, and he follows my lead. Something’s going on with him, but I have no idea what it is. “Can I see your paws?” I pick up the front right, then the front left, but I see no blood or scrapes.

“Lie down.” He does, but slowly. I pick up his back paws one at a time, but they don’t seem to be injured either. I take the opportunity to give him a good belly rub.

Satisfied that there’s nothing wrong, I summon him to get up. I’ll bring him upstairs where he can lie on his kitchen bed and be near David and me while we prepare dinner. But before I do, I’ll pop into the apartment and let Dad know we’ll be having dinner soon.

As I turn away, I hear the sound of Nick’s paws skidding, as if looking for purchase on the garage’s concrete floor.

When I turn back around, he’s standing up, looking at me with eyes that clearly convey something I’ve seen only one time before, when he’d run into a barbed-wire fence and gashed his side—pain. Pain and . . . what? Embarrassment?

Forgetting about Dad for the moment, I go back to Nick and ask him, “What’s wrong, big boy?” As if he could answer. He just looks at me, willing me to understand.

It’s crazy, but I swear it’s similar to the look I’ve seen in Dad’s eyes when he can’t articulate what’s bothering him. There are times when Dad’s mind seems to be trying to process the words, but he can’t utter them. I sense his frustration when that happens, and I begin the guessing game, running down the litany of things that could be making him uncomfortable or causing him pain or irritation. The list is long: Dry eyes, full bladder, cold feet, bad positioning, thirst, hunger, restlessness, loneliness.

But it goes against Dad’s nature to complain about discomfort or pain. Sometimes I go through the entire list and don’t get an answer. At other times, his eyes tell me when I’ve hit upon the right diagnosis.

Of course, Nick can’t know what I’m asking nor tell me what he’s feeling. I experience the same frustration and helplessness I’ve had at such times with Dad. I just want to make it better, whatever it is, and if I don’t know what it is, I can’t.

Nick is staring at me, and I glean some information from his eyes. He is in pain, but it’s not severe.

“Oh, baby boy, let me try to figure this out.” I kiss the top of his head before squatting down and exploring his body. I run my hands down his sturdy shoulders and front legs, then move up to his large and muscular chest as I watch his eyes for clues. He looks at me with a mixture of expectation and reluctance. Weird.

He tries to back up, away from more probing, but I ask him to stay, and he does. He starts to sit down but I say, “Up,” and he remains standing with cautious rigidity. What the heck is going on here?

I scratch his ears to relax him, then gently but firmly run my hands along his sides, but there’s no change in his stance or breathing. Not until I get to his hindquarter, and put pressure on both sides of his hip joint, does he flinch. He doesn’t whimper, and he doesn’t move, other than to tense so hard that his hindquarter is practically vibrating under my hand.

So there it is. The source of his pain. The pain I had failed to notice, even though I had recently wondered at his slowness in coming up the steps. But I gave it no real thought because my thoughts, my energy, my actions are largely tied up in Dad these days. I feel a surge of resentment that he has consumed much of those personal resources, so much so that I don’t have time to pay attention to my eleven-year-old dog’s needs.

The phone rings, and I pick up the nearby hand-held we keep in the garage. “Rachel?” It’s Dad, calling me from twenty feet away. Well, well, well, he’s using the phone. “Hi, Dad, are you okay?” His only answer is a grunt.

While I’m glad he’s with the program, right now I’m not thrilled about being summoned when Nick needs me. I’m pulled between caregiving for these two beings who need my attention. Enough of this. Something’s gotta give. I have to get these two together, for their sakes as much as mine. “Let’s go, Nick,” I say, and we head into Dad’s apartment.