Will's Choice

I believe in the magic of these mountains.  It’s what drew me here; it’s what keeps me here.  It’s where I connect with my late father, where I made peace with him when he was still alive. It’s where I followed a little dog home to myself, the self I always dreamed of being.  It’s where I finally met my best friend and the love of my life.  For me, the White Mountains are my beginning and my ending; my alpha and my omega. 

I find a certain synchronicity here – not only on the trails, by the rocky streams where mountain waters rush swiftly by, on the exposed ledges of the Presidential Range, the mysterious forests of the Sandwich Range, or on summit halfway between heaven and earth.  It’s even in the little house we live in down in the valley and it’s where things come together and life makes sense. 

No matter what we plan for, we can never be truly ready for what life will deliver to us. There’s just no way of knowing who or what is on the other side of that door we’re about to open.  It’s part of the mystery of it all.  Look at it all in the right way and you can see what Einstein meant: “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.”  It’s what keeps life interesting.  It’s what makes us grow. 

Last spring I lost a friend to alcoholism.  No matter what I did or tried to do, I couldn’t help him, but as anyone who has been through a similar experience will tell you, the only one who can save an addict is the alcoholic himself. My friend didn’t die, he simply crawled further inside the bottle and I had to make a decision to go on with my life. What died was our friendship. 

Within a month we adopted Will, an elderly, mostly blind, deaf, and arthritic miniature schnauzer. Another friend had the opinion that we rescued Will because we couldn’t rescue the alcoholic in our lives.  Perhaps there is some truth to that – but I’m not really sure. 

I ran into the alcoholic in July.  He was still drinking and still sinking deeper into the bottle.  Meanwhile, I had expected Will to be dead by July.  He was in such bad shape, so angry, in so much pain when he came to live with us in May I wondered if it was cruel keeping him going.  But by July Will was doing much better. By August he was thriving.  Now here in the middle of October I look at this nearly sixteen year old dog with a sense wonder.  He’s not only joyful and fulfilled; he’s discovered a sense of self.  He knows who he is and what he wants.

Will doesn’t get around much. He’s been to some book signings with us, but people in town don’t get to see much of him because his poor stiff hips are in such bad shape – probably from being crated for far too many years – and he can’t walk very far.  Two weeks ago I shared our plan to try to get this old boy to the top of a mountaintop.  His hips have gotten better.  They’re no longer tender to the touch and he sits in the crook of my arm as Atticus always has. They are still not strong enough to allow him a long walk, never mind climb up even the easiest of mountains.  But I thought he may be ready to sit in one of the child-carrying backpacks parents put their kids into.  So we went to Eastern Mountain Sports, picked up a backpack, crossed our fingers, and gave it our best shot while sitting in the comfort of our backyard. 

I held Will as I always do, slowly slid him down into the seat and let his long lower legs poke through the openings and dangle downward.  At first he was a bit nervous by this new position.  Then he whimpered.  Then my heart broke when I heard him crying.  I pulled him out and held him for a bit.  We waited and gave him another try but it was clear he wasn’t just limited by fear, it was also pain. So I pulled him out and sat for a while as he buried his head against my chest and let me hold him.  (This is something that never would have happened in the beginning. He wouldn’t have let me hold him like this. He barely let me touch him, and I wouldn’t have let his flashing teeth so close to me.) 

Sitting there cradling this dog who was left to die in a kill shelter less than six months ago I wondered if maybe, holding him like that, letting him cry, letting him feel safe in my arms, letting him feel loved, if maybe sitting there with me was his mountaintop.  Perhaps he didn’t need to reach some summit thousands of feet in the air.

But while I was holding him I soon noticed that as soon as he calmed down and gave me a tiny flick of his tongue – a kiss perhaps? – that this mostly blind dog started casting his nose about in the air and let his eyes try to focus on shapes and movements all around us.  A gentle breeze tussled his white hair, he closed his eyes, seemed to smile, and I heard that same familiar sigh Atticus always makes on a mountaintop when he’s in my arms. 

Seeing him like that has me determined to get to a mountaintop.  I want him to experience what it is like just once in his life.  But I want him to enjoy it for if he doesn’t, and if he doesn’t feel safe and comfortable, there’s no sense in it.  And I want to do it before too much time passes.  Soon the roads with access to the easier mountains I have in mind will be closed.  Soon the snows will come and winter’s cold will keep Will and his brittle bones inside. 

I’m smart enough to know that for as far as we’ve come, and how Will finally understands what it is like to be loved and is clearly loving us back, how he’s so much healthier than he was, this redemption he’s going through will soon come to an end.  That’s the thing about adopting an older dog. Time together is dear but all too short. The reality is that he may not live to see another spring, not at this age. 

It seems rather cruel, that now that he’s found his home, he may not get to enjoy it for a long time.  We all knew this taking him in.  We did it to give him a place to die in dignity and with respect.  I just didn’t count on him living.  And it’s not that I didn’t count on him living this long, I just didn’t count on him choosing to live again and love again.  Unlike the friend we lost last April, Will chose to live when he had every reason to give up on life as life had given up on him. 

Because Will chose to live he’s made our lives richer because of it.  He fills our hearts on a daily basis and when the time comes to say goodbye, he will break them. 

So when people ask me why I would want to take an old blind and deaf dog to a mountaintop my answer is clear.  It’s because life is all too fleeting and all too dear not to. I want him to live while he still can, especially since he's chosen to live!

So this weekend, we’ll take one last shot at getting Will to a mountaintop.  An enclosed stroller made for dogs and cats is arriving tomorrow.  It’s rugged enough to take on a gentle trail and should be far more comfortable for Will to ride in than the backpack was, especially since we’ll swaddle him in padding.  Of course we’ll be following Atticus up that mountain and there will be two of us to lift the stroller when we get to the rougher parts. 

Hopefully when the weekend is done, Will would have sat on his first, and most likely, last mountaintop.  Will it all be worth it?  I believe so.  For I believe in fate and synchronicity.  I believe we come into each other’s lives for a reason. 

The translated Italian title for Following Atticus equates to “With You to the Top of the World.”  I think it’s ironic that while we’ll be helping Will get to a special place that’s not even close to being the tallest peak in our valley, never mind the White Mountains, or the world, something tells me that when all is said and done, all of us will feel as though we’ve reached the top of the world together.