An Old Dog

An Old Dog

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it. Psalm 139: 6

Our grandchildren’s dog Micah, a fifteen-year-old American Es-kimo, is nearing his end. He has been hit by cars twice, has bad hips and some mornings has to be carried outdoors to pee. He is stone deaf and is going blind. Un-der his thick white coat lurk multi-ple large warts the vet says are merely tumors that come with ag-ing. He says there’s nothing to be done about them and that they are no cause for worry.
The family did worry, however, when Micah finally got to his feet yesterday morning, his head tilted sideways, his tongue lolling from his mouth, and started walking around in circles. Had he had a stroke? Was he going to die?
The children, teenagers now, have grown up with this dog and, despite his annoying habits of in-cessant barking when left out-doors and, in his better days, chasing the cat indoors, he has been like a troublesome little brother to them.
But when I suggested to Aud-rey, almost 18 now, the possibility of having Micah put down, she was horrified by the idea.
“Just because he’s old and smelly is no reason to kill him, Grandmother,” she protested. “I mean, how would you like it if someone did that to you just be-cause you’re . . .?”
Dear Audrey’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I meant anyone old, not you in particular,”
I assured her I had taken no of-fense at being compared to an old and smelly dog.
Actually, Audrey’s way of pos-ing the question had amused me. She’s so young that age is still an empty category for her, like Nean-derthal architecture or Farsi. She knows it exists, but has no experi-ence of it. To her, old means wrin-kles and iPod ignorance, both of which I own up to. But she can’t imagine herself with either condi-tion.
As for me, I can’t even text on my cell phone. I also resent the use of “text” as a verb.
Learning new tricks, whether by dogs or people, gets harder as we age. Fortunately our own dog, Tilly, an aged poodle, went to obe-dience school before we inherited her some 13 years ago. She can still respond to commands to heel and sit, if reluctantly. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t teach her to roll over now though.
Most animals like routine and resist change. Our dog expects to be fed at the same time and place everyday, to sleep in the same spot, and go out at routine inter-vals. My cat insists on her saucer of milk first thing in the morning. My six chickens all lay their eggs in the same nest.
Resistance to change isn’t lim-ited to domestic animals. My mother and I once took my grand-father, nearing 90 then, on a tour of the small town where he had grown up. We intended the outing as a pleasant diversion for him, a little trip down memory lane.
It wasn’t. His memories were quite different from what we en-countered that day. Of all the places he’d known – his school, his home, even the streets he had traveled had changed. Or were now nonexistent. Only the old courthouse still stood, saved from change by its designation as an historical building.
My grandfather kept giving my mother directions she couldn’t possibly follow because the roads had been paved and rerouted or renamed. They were lined with stores and fast food franchises that had never existed in his youth.
These changes to his vanished memories confused and angered him. At the time I was irritated by his unreasonable accusations that my mother was deliberately hiding his old haunts from him. Today I understand his frustration better.
I will go to great lengths to avoid having to learn a new com-puter program. I do not enjoy the adventure of discovering where they’ve hidden the peanut butter when the supermarket decides to shuffle its shelves. Why can’t the tomatoes and spaghetti and tea and pickles stay in the same place?
On the other hand, I am learning some new tricks. To wit: I don’t have to say yes to every request. If I don’t feel well, I can stay in bed as long as I want. If a conversation grinds to a halt, I’ve learned to ask a question. People usually love to tell you their stories. I can ask my doctor questions – and not leave till I get an answer.
Best of all, I’ve learned that I’m not through learning the truly im-portant things. Patience. How un-satisfying blame is. Keeping my mouth appropriately shut. Waiting upon the Lord. Listening for his voice. Releasing my anxieties into the soothing solvent of his love.

Numbering Our Days

Numbering Our Days

So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.
Psalm 90:12

Numbering my days is a habitual preoccupation with me now. How much longer do I have? In this life As that number shrinks, the more I am conscious of the need to apply my heart to wisdom. Or as the King James Version has it, “to get a heart of wisdom.”
Actuarial charts supposedly help with the numbering part of the task. They factor in various health risks, one’s gender, how long your own parents lived. I don’t smoke, am not overweight, eat a healthful diet and exercise as much as I can. My parents lived into their eighties. If I follow their pattern, I reckon I will too.
So should I count on another twenty years? Do I want another twenty years? Not particularly, considering that my mother lived the last decade of her life in the throes of Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s diseases. Those years were a trial to our family and a nightmare for her.
Moreover, my own bodily afflictions, minor though they are compared to hers, on some days make me eager to shuffle off the miseries of this mortal coil.. My life has taken twists and turns that sometimes led to dead-ends, but that’s what lives do.. No one I know has had the happily-ever-after life we all think we want. Most mornings I wake up grateful for where my life has landed. In fact, I really have nothing more to ask of life. Nor would I have the energy to undertake more anyway.
When I apply my heart to wisdom, I confront truths not based on lengthening my days. . First of all, actuarial charts deal only with average life spans, not individuals. I might die sitting here at my computer at any moment. For none of us really know the full number of our days. We can only number them day by day, one at a time. Pondering one’s end may be wisdom; trying to predict one’s end is not. At best, such an attempt is pointless. At worst, it leads to fear or disappointment.
So what is the point of numbering my days? How does it get me a heart of wisdom?
Psalm 90 puts the average life span at seventy – which would mean three more years for me – “or by reason of strength, four score.” In that case, I would have another thirteen years.
I try that on to see how it feels. How would I live if I knew I had three more years? How would it differ from living thirteen more? Would I blow my shrinking retirement account in three years on big travel plans? But travel isn’t as comfortable as it used to be. And like many old people, I don’t like being separated from my own bed for long. Would I pay for my graduating granddaughter’s first year in college? Or would I buy my husband the Jaguar he’s always wanted?
If the money had to be spread over thirteen years, however, I’d probably just choose a new fence for my chicken yard and dole out the rest in cost-of-living increases.
Linking longevity to my financial resources isn’t simple materialism. If one‘s heart lies where one’s treasure is, following the money can show me what I truly value. Finding the map to where my treasure lies buried – that’s what I call wisdom.