All you can really do, when your dog of 15 years lies in a heap next to you, his belly distended, liver consumed by cancer, tail still given to miraculous wagging, is be there. You can drape a doggie sweater over him, ply him with treats, pet his head a hundred times, but the bitter truth is these things are, at best, creature comforts in the truest sense.
It’s a strange dynamic because the dog is physically repulsive, with the smell of decay seeping out of him. He’s deaf, partially blind, ready to fall apart at the word go, and yet it doesn’t matter. He was raised for his company and now, in the final stretch, your company is all that’s requested of you. It’s an elegant accounting, a final balance paid in full without a second thought.
I’ve been fortunate in that this interaction has been limited to animals. There will come a time, though, when that won’t be the case, and you wonder whether an unintended benefit of pet ownership is a kind of primer for when people pass. You can bring all you want and say what needs to be said, but for the first time since kindergarten, attendance counts for everything.
Secondhand Rants will return on Wednesday, March 05.
We adjourned last week with few specifics and only the assurance that the Social Plan of ’08 has begun, and I chalk that up to my general inability to type more than three paragraphs in any given night. You can imagine the banner evening we had last Wednesday, then, when an unbidden fifth paragraph appeared on the screen and lo! The dusty pages of history in the making increased by one, and exhausted by such progress I collapsed to the floor.
And scene. Here’s the first concrete tidbit for you: acting class is absolutely not on the docket. Tennis is, so I paid my dues for the local singles challenge ladder. Mixed doubles isn’t until summer, though, which means the spring ladder will offer a chance to meet some middle-aged dudes. On the continuum of things I need, this is somewhere to the left of a car with three wheels, but definitely to the right of edible crayons and reusable toilet paper.
Now, cooking class will be a different matter entirely. Initial feedback suggests this activity is a smart choice, and not just for the demographic’s sake. Let’s say I double down on the tennis debacle and walk into a cooking class where the median age is 65, albeit female. Obviously I could try a different class, but the fact remains: the content itself interests me. I’m following my own Polaris, to recycle a term we used recently. I like playing tennis. I need to learn to cook well. Making instant oatmeal just won’t cut it, if “make” is a term we can even employ here.