I noticed that I had not entered an entry or “DONE” with an entry whatever one does to reach “DONE.” Funny, I hope. Simon, as I have written before, has lost the use of his hind legs, the dachshund curse, and with that loss, the control of his bladder. The common consensus is that he ought to be DONE in, put down, executed, put to sleep. Primarily, I suspect, because I am in no condition to take proper care of him, though I can help a little. The burden falls on my wife, for which I am heartily sorry, truly. She, however, does not bear the burden lightly. Simon, after all, is not Frollie, and she loved Frollie, well, more than she loves me, probably. So, the sword of Damocles hangs over little Simon [though I forget who and what Damocles was]. Except for the loss of certain necessary vital functions, Simon is “good doggie.” He sleeps a lot, “good doggie,” wags his tail when he sees us, wears the diaper wrap with great patience, barks for his supper, wipes his nose on my pants when his nose itches, I suppose, and licks my hand when I sit beside him and pet him. The major obstacle to his impending eternal rest, is me. I shed tears just thinking about his demise. If he were sick sick, the demise would be necessary quickly; he isn’t. Every time I think about him I see him walking beside me on the Stevenson trail; a woman passing by, going in the opposite direction, said he was beautiful; he still is; that was our last walk; two days later the problem occurred. Disaster struck. A year later and chaos reigns in the home.
Mary brings Simon to the sofa once he wakes up. Usually I move from my chair to the sofa to sit next to him, give him water, hold his supper bowl once Mary or I fix it (what a curious and delightful use of “fix,” which we all take for “granite”; I love words and word play, as on “Last Man Standing”). Last night I “caught” his poop just as it emerged, and before it stained the underpad, put it in the recently emptied ice cream container (we were watching “Debris”), then dumped it in the toilet in the back room during the next commercial. Mary, much later, carries him to bed in the master bedroom where she and he sleep; I sleep in the living room in my new lift chair.
Notes for Simon
What can I say about my little black dog,
Simon, my constant companion?
His ears are like velvet, smooth, long and black;
His eyes are quite dark, reflecting the light
That brightens our living room walls.
When I’m not beside him, on the sofa now,
He barks and tries to crawl to me,
Soft sofa to lift chair—what’s left to do
But go there, put my hand on his back
And relax. Sweet little dog and be done!
Flesh and Blood
Lying alone on our living room rug,
Schuster, so silent I don’t know he’s there.
Simon asleep on the bed in the back,
Precious as Heaven, yet burden to bear,
For no more slow walks, just cross to be born;
He’s crippled like me, for him, no repair.
Simon, little brother, Schuster alone—
God mend us all, with Christ our good prayer.
Amen
Simon on the old lift chair, where we always sat together, pre-gangrene days.
Schuster and his octopus; the lonely little dachshund.