Transitions

As I mentioned, I took four dogs and a cat to the vet on Wednesday.   I saw a vet I’ve seen only once or twice, because my vet of ten years is transitioning into a life of retirement.  It’s amazing what even a vet knows about your history; for example, that ten years ago a remarkable dog named Cletus came into my life when I thought my heart was going to break in two.  That nine years ago an equally remarkable puppy I would name Emma, for my grandmother, was at that same vet’s office looking for a home.  Anyone who knew my grandparents should not be surprised by her name if she were to witness Cletus’s immediate taking to Em.

My old vet knew Emma’s entire story.  She was a rott-cross puppy rescued from her own mother when that mother (who spent her life tied down by a chain) killed one of Emma’s litter mates.  He knew that when she was with me no more than two months she was diagnosed with ventricular stenosis and would die before her first birthday.  He was there when I brought her in at eight months of age and reported that Emma kept getting stronger, beating me and Cletus to the top of every hill at Kincaid Park.  He put a stethoscope to her chest.  He called in one vet and then another.  And then he told me the heart murmur and stenosis we diagnosed by echocardiogram was completely gone.  “These things happen” he said, with a scientist’s trust in coincidence, but he gave her pat as I gave her a prayer, the same one I’d been saying since the moment of her diagnosis.  “May the Lord bless you and keep you…”

My new vet knew none of this.  She didn’t know that when six years later an x-ray of Emma’s left elbow showed it never properly formed, I took Emma in for acupuncture (which she hated) and tried to teach her to swim in summer lakes (another act Emma met with equal disdain) to ease up the strain.  She didn’t know a lot of things, when she looked at me with a face of judgment I never faced before.  Am I bad pet owner?   Letting her get a little too big, not being able to afford the daily double does of rimadyl she prescribed, let alone take her in for liver testing every eight weeks.   She didn’t know a lot of things.  Transitions.

But what this vet didn’t know, Emma did and still does.  She’s the first dog to greet me in the morning, reaching up from the floor on my side of the bed to kiss my dropping arm.  She’s the most devoted when it comes to sitting by my side, no matter my task.  She reaches her malformed leg to me time and time and grabs me by her paw.  She gives a rottie growl that I didn’t initially know was a sign of happiness.  And in her eyes is nothing but understanding, nothing but love and loyalty and all the reasons I’m grateful to share my life with this one blessed dog.

At the same time I brought Emma to the vet, I brought along a rescue vizsla Willow that’s been with us two months now.   She’s a sweet dog, but poorly bred, a nervous Nellie unsure of herself every step of the way.   She jumps to my face as often as she can try and has a tongue like a snake’s that reaches out for human warmth.    She treats the windshield wiper of my car as if it’s going to attack her.  I know she won’t be ready for a home until I can be assured no one will return her.  This is the second time she has returned to my fold.  “Can she keep weight on?” the new vet asks.  “No, she is a constant 45 pounds.”  “She runs hot, doesn’t she?”  “Yes.  Any ideas for her wellbeing?”  “Yes,” the new vet says, “she needs to be with a marathon runner.”

Do I tell her?  I’ve run Chicago four times, New York, Boston, Portland, Trail’s End, Crow Pass, and Mayors’ Marathon.  Close to a marathon a year for the past fifteen.  I don’t, because with a year of inconstant running, my body doesn’t look like that girl’s anymore. 

Transitions.

I will be the first person to say that I’ve made too many excuses when it comes to my running.  But it really was the first thing to fall and the rest of a busy life was there ready to steal it away.   I keep trying, because if you are a runner, or ever were, you know there is nothing like the peace it brings.  Time for you, your dogs, your mountains, your heart.  When I would try, Emma was there with me, at my side, as the other dogs ran ahead.  When the hill became too steep, whether uphill or down, she would drop behind, and it was I who waited for her.  Emma was the first to show gratitude through those eyes, those beautiful brown eyes.

This morning, the cool in the air and the first frost called to all of us to run.  As I loaded up the Element to go to our favorite trail, I looked over to Emma sure I wouldn’t take her.  I wanted to run the entire way today, Gasline to Powerline, up to the last rise before the Glen Alps turnoff, and I knew she couldn’t make it.  But, when she made the beeline for the car and jumped in the back door like it was her to place to be, I knew I wouldn’t be leaving her behind.  Plans can change.  Mine would for her. 

We were the first car in the Upper Huffman parking lot.  The three vizslas jumped out my front door.  I opened the side door for Cletus, and the hatchback for Emma.  By now the dogs knew their way.  Walter, O’Malley, Cletus, and  Willow headed for the first hill and  I followed.  I turned around and saw that Emma was by the car, refusing to move.  I called her to me, and eventually she made her way to the first rise before the drop to creek level. There she stopped and went to lie down in the alder brush.  She told me once before, but I heard her now.  We made our way back to the Element.  I opened it up and she jumped in.  I gave her a pat, turned my back, and the rest of us took to the trails, ready for our hill.

There comes that moment when to go forward, to transition into your new self or the self you once were more wholly and deeply miss, you have to leave the old dog with bad elbow behind.  There comes that moment when even she knows you’ve got to go on without her.  The entire way up the hill, Willow frolicked happy to be with her non-marathoner.   O’Malley and Walter searched the brush for ptarmigan, and Cletus, cognizant of Emma’s absence, took up my side.  

We pushed, pressed on, me for the one not with me.  And when I got to the last rise, the one I said I would run no matter what, the silhouette of a young cow moose was at the summit, stopping me in my place.  Truth be told, for one brief moment, before I wondered if my eyes were tricking me, I saw her there.  My rott-cross puppy who kept beating me to the top of every Kincaid Park hill.  Her tail wagged.  Her heart healed.  And her love…boundless.