What makes me happy now: my very old dog
Gabrielle Zevin | The Guardian
Lately, I have been thinking about Frank and whether he is happy.
Frank is my dog. I got him at a rescue shelter for pugs in 2014. They told me he had the eyes of a two-year-old, but the teeth of an eight-year-old: he was either just past the puppy-qualifying stage or on the verge of being a senior citizen. Our veterinarian said Frank was more like eight – two was a story the rescue facility was peddling to make a senior dog more appealing. Frank is now almost 17, which puts him at the end of his natural life, though he insists he will live forever. It’s a joke my partner and I make for him – putting words in his mouth – in which Frank has comically mistaken the idea of a “forever home” with the idea that he will live “forever”.
Lately, though, everything is going wrong with Frank. He has had an on-and-off cough for two years. He has inoperable growths in his spine – X-rays show that one of them is in the shape of Italy. He takes a painkiller for it, and he seems fine, if slightly bent. Frank has balance issues, caused by a problem with his inner ear. The way Frank has addressed this situation is by making his ears stand up, French bulldog-style. His depth perception is poor – sometimes when I give him a treat, he bites me. There’s no malice, he just thinks my hand is the treat. He finds me to be delicious. Frank has literally taken to “biting the hand that feeds him”.
At a recent trip to the vet, my partner and I listed Frank’s ailments. “Does he still want to be with you?” the vet asked. “Is he still eating well? Sleeping well? Taking walks?” Yes to all. After listening carefully, our wonderful vet offered the following diagnosis: “What you’ve got is a good pug.” Nothing Frank has is fatal. He is old. That’s all. And old is not an ailment. Old is old.
Several dogs ago, we had another wonderful vet, who once said the last five years of a dog’s life could be the best five years if you let them be. I think he meant that there were pleasures to be had from older dogs. Though Frank is slower and cannot jump as high, he makes up for that by being experienced and easygoing. Frank takes pleasure in posing for pictures, wearing sweaters, eating a good meal, watching a long movie, staring deeply into my eyes.
Minus the fondness for posing for pictures, we are not so different. When I think of what makes me happy, it is all terribly shallow. It’s not that I think happiness has to be a shallow emotion, and yet for me, it is one. It passes quickly and leaves little impression. It is all the creature comforts: a vase of ranunculi, the well-organized home, the coat that fits perfectly, my two dogs stacked atop each other. Sometimes I notice that happiness is everywhere, all the time, and then I am overwhelmed by the plenty and fortune of my life. I am so grateful I want to cry. I think Frank is this way, too.
As Frank has aged, we have made accommodations for him. Elevated bowls so that it is easier for him to eat. The precise amount of drug that will not make him anxious. New sheets for his bed. I carry him downstairs and lift him on to the couch. My partner spends long spans of time in the yard, waiting for Frank to find the right moment to attend to his toilet, holding him up if he loses his balance.
We do these things in return for the years of service Frank has provided to us. Frank has sat by my side through the writing of three novels. Who has been closer to me – literally – than Frank? Who has been a more consistent presence and source of support?
When my parents visited me for the holidays, my mom noted that Frank was ageing, and I told her that she didn’t have to worry because Frank is going to live forever. My mom refused to play along, saying that I was in denial. But who isn’t? To live and to love in this world is to occasionally overlook the fact that all things are mortal. My mom is 72, and I know this number and what it suggests, and I don’t think about it more than I absolutely must.
But back to Frank! I did not name him. Frank was the name given to him by the jogger who found him abandoned in a park. Frank loves the sound of his own name almost as much as he loves food. In the first year I had him, I must have said it or sang it 100,000 times. I did this for no other reason than because it made him happy.
I told Frank I was writing this essay, which he already knew, because everything I write, I write with him by my side. I asked him what he thinks happiness is. He thought a long time before he answered. He tells me that to be happy is to be warm, to be fed, to be clean, to have sufficient rest and perambulation, to have fresh sheets and a soft blanket, to know that your life has meant something if only to one person, to have friends, to belong to someone, to be loved, to love someone or something in return, to hear your name, Frank, spoken with love. “Frank,” I say. “Frank, Frank, Frank.”
This article originally appeared on The Guardian: What makes me happy now: my very old dog
