Will in December

Will greets the morning snow on December 2nd. It's good to be alive!

It’s a fine December morning and we’re feeling good.  There’s a coating of crusty snow on everything and it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas here in Jackson.  Better than that, as you can see by the photograph, Will is enjoying the snow. 

There was a time I wasn’t certain he’d live long enough to see it. 

When he arrived in May he was frail and bitter, he was in pain and ill-suited for much of anything but snapping and getting angry. He threw temper tantrums and did his best to bite me whenever he could. The first morning I took him outside and he shivered, even though it wasn’t cold.  I didn’t think he’d last a month or two.  Worse, I feared I’d have to make a tough decision so soon after bringing him into our home because, quite frankly, I wasn’t sure why he was kept alive. 

He was fifteen, had been neglected and abandoned.  He struggled to walk.  It was nearly impossible getting him in and out of the car or up the stairs to where we live without him attacking me.  He was alive, but he wasn’t living.

I was so depressed that first day I met him and wondered what we’d gotten ourselves into.  But I remembered why we took him in in the first place – to give him a place to live out his days with dignity, and a place to die with dignity. 

With that in mind I set out to make him comfortable, to help him understand he was allowed to be himself, even if that meant getting angry.  Because, quite frankly, I’d be awfully angry if the only people I ever knew dropped me off someplace where I was left alone without much sight, without hearing, without an ability to get around, and there was a good chance no one would want me and all that was left for me was to be put out of my misery. 

I also decided to give him what he wanted – food!  He was starving for food and I wanted to put some meat on his bones, always a touchy balance because of his decayed hips (he’d been crated for far too long), just in case he made it to the autumn so he wouldn’t be cold.

And when his guard was down – when he was sleeping – I’d drape a blanket or towel over his shivering, elderly body and put flowers, which he seemed to like, near him for when he woke up.  I played music so he could feel the vibrations.  I lay on the floor with him – on his level – and we started to bond, and I talked to him, even though he couldn’t hear me.  I also touched him, a lot.  I touched him whenever I could when we were on the floor together.  Oh, there were times he’d still bite me, and even then I gave him permission to do that if that’s what he felt he needed to do.  I guess I did this to let him know I’d respect him, respect his right to feel whatever he was feeling and allowed him to express whatever he wanted to express.  (Thankfully, he never went after Atticus, only me.  Then again, Atticus saw his behavior and stayed away from him, always seeking comfort where he most finds it – by climbing.  Not mountains, since we don’t have any in our home, but onto the furniture, where he’s always been welcome and Will couldn’t reach.)

Over time Will stopped being so angry.  Like most of us, he simply wanted to know he could be mad if he wanted to be.  Give someone that opportunity and they rarely stay made very long – that is, if they have half a heart.  He realized, I guess, that he could simply be Will.  And while there are times he still throws a minor temper tantrum, they are so rare they happen less than once a month and they are mostly associated with the pain he is in.    

Since arriving in May Will has gained seven pounds and we’ve cut back on the food and he’s a rather happy, well-fed fellow who no longer shivers outside, even when it’s only 25 degrees, as it is this morning, or 12 degrees as it was the other night.

And Will, who was in such pain he didn’t like being touched, well, this morning when it was time to come inside, I scooped him up into my arms and rolled him over on his back and carried him up the stairs like a little baby, his rear legs stretched out and his head dangling in about as relaxed a position as he could possibly be in.

So yes, it is a good morning.  I’m happy to report that Will has become Will.  He’s alive and well, happily living out his days.  He takes comfort in eating good food; listening to (or feeling) music; smelling beautiful flowers, greens, and candles; being touched and held and even gently wrested with; watching the shadows move about him; and most of all, he simply loves being loved and knowing he belongs. 

The best part of each day here is when Will wakes up.  He’s an old fellow and he groans in his bed as he takes inventory of his aches and pains and looks for a way to get to his feet – which isn’t easy.  When he does, he stumbles about a bit, usually bumping into a wall, and finds his balance. Then when he sees me something magnificent happens. He becomes a puppy again. He greets me by wanting to play. He’d jump on me if he could.  He spins and dances and prances about and joy flashes brightly in his eyes and overcomes the dullness of his cataracts.  It is a morning ritual we can only smile at and laugh with.  It’s pure, unmitigated elation. 

Will is my morning reminder to show gratitude.  I’m not only grateful he’s still alive and doing well, he’s grateful, too, and he shows it each morning.  What better way to start each day than by giving thanks?

With Christmas on its way, I’m happy to report that the tree will go up today and eventually there will be presents under it for a little dog we didn’t think would live long enough to see it.  But Will not only lives in our happy little home in the heart of the White Mountains, so does gratitude, peace, hope, and love.