A Will Update: He's Gotten Off of the Seesaw

 

Will with the drawing New Hampshire
artist Chris Garby made and sent to us.

The seesaw gait is gone.  When Will walks he no longer rocks up and down like a broken slinky.  Instead, he moves forward.  There’s a fluidity to it that speaks of younger days. 

When we play Will buries his head in me. I tussle his hair a bit, give him gentle shoves, he shoves back, and he gives as good as he gets.  He then spins away, always to his left, bounds up as high as his hips will allow him – like a drunken bucking bronco, which means it isn’t too high – then returns to push in on me again.  I tug him closer and wrestle with him; he nuzzles me with his nose, his once angry mouth, which once-hungered for flesh and blood, still snaps but it is a soft playful snap aimed away from me and without malice.  It’s as though he’s learned to play again and taught himself not to bite.

His journey away from anger is not unlike my own, and I often recall my Aeschylus: “Tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.”  That’s one thing Will and I share.  We’ve both tamed our “savageness” and in our own way made “gentle the life of this world”. 

This past weekend dear friends came north, and we enjoyed a long visit with them.  They had the opportunity to see what Will was like the first few weeks he lived with Atticus and me, and they even took care of him one night when Atticus and I were out.  He terrorized them with his temper tantrums. 

They’ve seen Will since then, but not all that often.  Now it’s months between visits – at least – and they see the changes that have taken place in the seventeen year old who wasn’t supposed to live this long.  Several months ago one of their children asked, “Are you sure that’s the same dog?” 

He isn’t. 

That was several chapters ago.  Will’s been writing a new conclusion to his life.  It falls under the category of a fairytale endings. 

Will was given a chance when we took him in.  Atticus and I surrounded him with peace, good food, compassion, empathy, and medication when he needed it.  He’s taken advantage of those footholds to save himself – with a little help from his friends.

I know the term “rescue” is big with some people, but I differ from many others in that I try not to look at how people and animals differ, but what they have in common. 

I know there were times in my life when I needed rescuing, and no one could do it for me.  It had to be an inside job.  Ask any of your friends who are in recovery.  You cannot rescue anyone.  What you can do is offer them an anchor.  “I’ll hold this end, drop the rope down into the abyss you are mired in, and I won’t let go as you pull yourself up.” 

I find the term “rescue” to be almost self-congratulatory and takes credit away from where it is due.  As I see it, Will rescued himself.  Atticus and I helped him along the way, gave him the anchor to a good life if he chose to take advantage of it, picked him up when he stumbled, and urged him forward.  But just like you and me he had to make up his own mind.

Yes, there have been many factors that conspired to help him along the way, but whenever Will arrived at a set of crossroads, the choice was always his.  That’s part of what makes his story unforgettable.  It is his story with his choices and his redemption.

I do believe in the osmotic effect of love.  I believe in prayers and good wishes and the scents of flowers, the vibrations of life-affirming music, and the softness in the fabrics I wrap his easily chilled body in. 

Recently someone mentioned that Will has received quilts, Afghans, and prayer shawls from all numerous people.  I like that these were made with caring hands fueled with loving intent.  He seems to enjoy each and every one of them.  I rotate them.  Some out of need, because he still has accidents and urinates on himself or falls in his own feces and things get messy, and floors, blankets, and carpets (not to mention Will himself) have to be washed, but even if that wasn’t the case, I like to imagine he feels the healing love that went into making these lovely garments as they are gently draped over his body.

Will, like all of us, needs help every now and again.  But I never tell myself or rob him of his dignity by referring to him as a “baby”.  Instead, I equate him to the elderly people I used to work with in the nursing home.  He deserves the same respect I offered elders who have endured much.  But in Will’s case, he has survived more than just years, he survived years of neglect and the way I see it, neglect is just another form of abuse. 

After surviving the terrors of a Nazi POW camp, Viktor Frankl wrote and spoke for decades about the choices he had to make and those that Will was confronted with: “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

Since I chose to see animals in the same light as I view humans, Frankl’s words work well for Will, and any other human or non-human animal that has been robbed of dignity.  This is one of the reasons dignity has been as much a part of Will’s rehab as have been the Metacam, Dasuquin, massages, and gentle stretches.  All of these have contributed to help Will recapture some of his life and because of that his seesaw gait is gone…as are nearly all the rest of the ups and downs he has wrestled with.