Authors: W. Bruce Cameron
Margaret carried me around and people petted me and hugged me, or, in the case of a few of them, they lay unmoving in their beds and gazed at me. “Be Still,” Margaret commanded. I concentrated on not moving, because I’d learned this was what was required when people were ill. I did not signal when I caught the strong, familiar scent coming off of a couple of them—the smell that had been on Trent’s breath for so long. I’d learned that the command to signal under such circumstances was “Pray,” and no one instructed me to do that.
Margaret soon put me down on the ground outside in a yard that was walled in on all sides. I had a lot of energy pent up inside me and ran around for a while, and then Margaret gave me a rope with a rubber ball on the end of it and I shook it and dragged it around, wishing I had another dog with me to join in the fun. I could see, on the other side of the windows, people watching me, so I made sure I put on a show with that rope.
Then Margaret took me back inside the building and introduced me to a cage. “Okay, Toby, and this is your home.” A new pillow was on the floor of the cage, and when Margaret squatted and patted it I dutifully went over and sat on it.
“This is your bed, Toby. Okay?” Margaret said.
I didn’t know if I was supposed to stay on the pillow, but I was tired and took a nap. I woke up when I heard Margaret speaking. “Hi, would you page Sister Cecilia for me, please?… Thanks.”
I gazed drowsily at her. She smiled at me when I yawned, a phone to her face.
“Cecilia?… It’s Margaret. I’m still at the hospice with Toby.… No, even better than that. They love him. This afternoon some of the guests even sat and watched him play out in the courtyard. No barks, not even once.… I really do, yes.… Thank you, Cecilia.… No, of course, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. He’s a very special dog.”
I heard the word “dog” and wagged my tail a couple of times before easing back into sleep.
Over the next several days I adjusted to my new life. Margaret came and went, but not every day, and I soon learned the names of Fran and Patsy and Mona—three other women who liked to take me around for visits with people who were lying in beds. Patsy smelled strongly of cinnamon and faintly of dog, and none of them wore the flowing clothing that Margaret wore. They’d tell me to Be Still, so I’d lie there with the person. It reminded me a little of when CJ’s friends would come to visit and cry and I would lie on the couch with them. Sometimes the people wanted to play with me and sometimes they petted me and often they just wanted to nap, but nearly always I could feel their joy coming through.
“You’re an old soul, Toby,” Fran said to me. “An old soul in a young dog’s body.”
I wagged, hearing the praising tones in her words. People are like that; they can talk and talk without ever saying “good dog,” but that’s what they mean.
Other than those visits, I had the run of the place. Everyone called out to me, some of them sitting in chairs that moved when Fran or one of the others stood behind them and pushed. The people loved me and hugged me and snuck me treats.
One place I loved was the kitchen, where a man named Eddie was always cooking. He would tell me to sit and then give me a wonderful treat, even though Sit was the easiest of tricks for a dog.
“You and I are the only men in this place,” Eddie would say to me. “We got to stick together, right, Toby?”
Always before I had been with just one person and had devoted my life to loving that person. At first that person was Ethan—so sure was I that loving him was the reason I was a dog that when I started taking care of baby Clarity it was only because I knew Ethan would want me to. Gradually, though, I came to love CJ just as much, and began to understand that it wasn’t disloyal to Ethan to do so. Dogs can love more than one person.
At this place, though, I had no particular person at all—my purpose seemed to be to love each one of them. It made them happy.
I was a dog who loved many people—it’s what made me a good dog.
My name might be Toby, but I had come a long, long way since the first time that was what people called me. I knew many more things now, things I had learned along my life’s journey. I understood, for example, why I was being told to “Be Still.” Many of the people lying in bed had pains in them that I could sense, and if I climbed on them to play I might hurt them. I only had to step on one man’s stomach one time to learn my lesson—his sharp cry rang in my ears for days, making me feel awful. I was not Duke, a rambunctious dog who couldn’t control himself. I was Toby. I could Be Still.
When I was wandering around on my own and not being taken places by Mona, Fran, or Patsy, I would go see the man I had stepped on. His name was Bob, and I wanted him to know I was sorry. As was the case in most rooms, he had a chair pulled up next to his bed, and by leaping first onto this I was able to land on his blankets without hurting him. Bob was asleep every time I went to visit him.
One afternoon Bob was alone in his bed and I could feel him easing away from this life. The warm waters were rising up around Bob, washing away his pains. I lay quietly next to him, being with him as best I could. It seemed to me that if my purpose was to provide comfort to people who were ailing, it was even more important that I be with them when they were breathing their final breaths.
Fran found me lying there. She checked on Bob and covered his head with his blanket. “Good dog, Toby,” she whispered.
From that point forward, whenever I knew someone’s time was close I would go into their room and lie on their bed with them to provide comfort and company as they left this life. Sometimes their families were gathered around and sometimes they were alone, though usually one of the many people who spent their days in the building helping the sick was sitting there quietly.
Occasionally family members would feel fear and anger when they saw me.
“I don’t want the death dog near my mother!” a man shouted once. I heard the word “dog” and felt the sharp lash of his fury and left the room, not sure what I had done wrong.
Most of the time, though, my presence was welcomed by everyone. Having no single person as my master meant that I was given a lot of cuddles. Sometimes people would be grieving as they hugged me and I could feel their sadness lose its grip a little while I was in their arms.
What I missed was other dogs. I loved all the attention from the people, but I missed the sensation of another dog’s throat in my mouth. I found myself dreaming about Rocky and Duke and all the dogs in the dog park, which was why I involuntarily barked in surprise when Fran led me out into the yard and there was another dog there!
He was a compact, stocky, strong little guy named Chaucer. He carried the scent of Patsy’s cinnamon on his fur. We immediately began wrestling, as if we’d known each other for years.
“This is what Toby needed,” Fran said to Patsy with a laugh. “Eddie says he’s seemed almost depressed.”
“It’s a treat for Chaucer, too,” Patsy said.
Chaucer and I both looked up. Treat?
After that day, Chaucer came to visit a lot, and though I had Be Still to do, I always found time to wrestle with him.
Other dogs sometimes came with families to be in the rooms with the beds, but they were always anxious and rarely wanted to play, even if they were let out in the yard.
A few years went by like this. I was a good dog who had done many things and could be comfortable in my new role as the dog who belonged to no one and yet to everyone.
When it was Happy Thanksgiving there were always lots of people and lots of smells and lots of treats for a deserving dog. When it was Merry Christmas time the women who wore blankets on their heads came to play with me and give me treats and to sit around the big indoor tree. There were cat toys on the tree, as always, but no cats to play with them.
I felt content. I had a purpose—not as specific as taking care of CJ, but I still felt important.
And then one afternoon I jerked out of my nap, my head cocked. “I need my shoes!” a woman called from one of the rooms.
I instantly recognized her voice.
Gloria.
THIRTY
I scampered down the corridor, nearly knocking over Fran as I barreled into the room. Gloria was in the bed, her strong perfumes filling the air, but I ignored her and focused on the thin woman standing next to her. It was my CJ, watching me in amusement.
I completely broke protocol, abandoning the reserved composure I always adopted in people’s rooms, and instead leaped up on my girl, my paws reaching for her.
“Wow!” she said.
I sobbed, my tail low and beating the floor, spinning in circles and jumping. She reached out and put her hands around my face and I closed my eyes and groaned with the pleasure of feeling her touching me. CJ had come for me at last. Elation went through me in a shiver. I was back with my girl!
“Toby! Get down,” Fran said.
“It’s okay.” CJ dropped to her knees, her joints firing off snapping sounds as she bent them. “What a good doggy.”
Her hair was short now and did not drape me as it once did. I licked her face. She smelled of sweet things, and of Gloria. CJ was, I realized, frail and weak, her hands trembling a little as they touched me. This meant I needed to contain myself, which seemed scarcely possible. I wanted to bark and run around the room and knock things over.
“Toby is our therapy dog,” Fran explained. “He lives here. He comforts our guests—they really love having him around.”
“Well, not Gloria,” CJ said with a laugh. She gazed fondly into my eyes. “Toby, you’re a therapeagle!”
I wagged. Her voice had a slight quaver to it and sounded strained, but I loved hearing it all the same.
“Clarity stole my money,” Gloria declared. “I want to go home. Call Jeffrey.” CJ sighed but kept stroking my head. Gloria, I realized, was still as unhappy as ever. She was also really old; I could tell by her smells. I had been around a lot of really old people lately.
Patsy came in, smelling like cinnamon and Chaucer as usual. “Good morning, Gloria, how are you?” Patsy asked.
“Nothing,” Gloria said. She slumped in her bed. “Nothing.”
Patsy stayed with Gloria while CJ and Fran went into a little room with a small table. “Why, Toby, are you coming, too?” Fran laughed when I darted in the door before it closed.
“Such a nice dog,” CJ said. I wagged.
“He certainly seems to have taken a shine to you.”
CJ sat in a chair, and I picked up a quick flash of pain as she did so. Concerned, I pressed my head to her knees. Her hand came down and absently petted me, a light tremor in the fingers. I closed my eyes. I had missed her so, so much, but now that she was here it was as if she had never left.
“Gloria has good days and bad days. This is a pretty good day. Most of the time she’s not really lucid,” CJ said.
I wagged. Even hearing Gloria’s name spoken by CJ gave me pleasure.
“Alzheimer’s can be so cruel, its progression so inconsistent,” Fran replied.
“That thing about the money drives me crazy. She tells everyone I stole her fortune and her house. The truth is I’ve been supporting her the past fifteen years—and of course whatever I sent her, it was never enough.”
“In my experience there nearly always will be unresolved issues in situations like this.”
“I know. And I should be better able to cope with it all. I’m also a psychologist.”
“Yes, I saw that from your file. Do you want to talk about how that affects your relationship with your mother?”
CJ took a deep, reflective breath. “I guess. The light went on for me in grad school—Gloria’s a narcissist, so she never really questions her own behavior or thinks she’s ever done anything to apologize for. So no, there will never be any closure with her—there wasn’t a chance at that even when she was fully functional. But a lot of children have narcissistic injuries, so having her for a parent has really helped me with my work.”
“Which is in high schools?” Fran asked.
“Sometimes. My specialty is working with eating disorders, which are nearly always most acute in adolescent girls. I’m semi-retired, though.”
I realized at that moment that there was a ball under one of Fran’s cabinets. I went over and stuck my nose under there, inhaling deeply. It had Chaucer’s scent painted on it. What was Chaucer doing with a ball in here?
“I also read that you’ve been on dialysis for more than twenty-two years? I hope you don’t mind my asking, but it would seem you’d be a good candidate for a transplant. Was that never a consideration?”
“I guess I don’t mind answering that,” CJ said, “though I’m not sure what these questions have to do with Gloria.”
I dug at the ball with my paws, touching it but otherwise failing to dislodge it.
“Hospice isn’t just about the guest. It’s about the needs of the whole family. The better we know you, the better we can serve you,” Fran said.
“All right, sure. I did have a transplant, actually—the twenty-two years is cumulative. I received a kidney from a cadaver donor when I was in my thirties. It gave me more than two decades before it began to fail. They call it chronic rejection, and there’s really nothing that can be done about it. I restarted dialysis seventeen years ago.”
“What about another transplant?”
CJ sighed. “In the end, there are just so few organs available. I couldn’t see taking one when there were others more deserving who were waiting in line.”
“More deserving?”
“I destroyed my kidneys in a suicide attempt when I was twenty-five years old. There are children who are born with conditions that, through no fault of their own, require transplant. I’d already taken one. I wasn’t going to use up another.”
“I see.”
CJ laughed. “The way you just said that brought back about fifty hours of psychoanalysis. Believe me, I’ve thought this all out.”
I leaned into CJ’s leg, hoping she’d get the ball for me.
“Thank you for even discussing it, then,” Fran said. “It just helps to know.”
“Oh, my mother would have mentioned it to you. She delights in telling everybody I drank anti-freeze. I’ve had her in assisted care for the past three years—she had all the people there convinced I was the spawn of the devil.…”