My childhood dog, Sandy, is on death’s door.
She’s been there for two years now, gradually getting skinnier and more painful to look at. She exists in the threshold, staying alive through sheer willpower and my parents’ ability to pay hefty veterinarian bills.
Honestly, at this point, I simply hope for her to die peacefully in her sleep.
I couldn’t sleep last night. Anxious for no reason as usual and restless from too much time spent at home, I wandered out to the family room.
The whole house was dark, and I flipped on the light, startling the hermit crabs in the corner. One of them made a clinking sound as its shell hit the glass aquarium wall.
Intrigued by the crustaceans that I often forget live in my house, I went over to their cage and peered in. Bored enough to watch hermit crabs, I sat down on the hardwood floor and watched as the crab slowly reemerged from its shell.
Unfortunately, the hermit crab habitat happens to be right next to the crate where Sandy spends her nights.
She was sleeping fitfully, never finding a comfortable position to lay in. Her legs seemed to fold up awkwardly under her body, all joints and knobby bones.
I took in the state of her aged skin and wondered whether the non-cancerous cysts on her sides made certain sleeping positions impossible. The cysts certainly looked painful, poking out at least half an inch from her sides and purple in color—although the veterinarian has assured us that they are benign.
As I sat there at 1 a.m., my body creating a strange trio with the decrepit dog and the oft-forgotten crabs, I tried to find something profound to think about.
I didn’t come up with anything.
Eventually, Sandy stirred herself into wakefulness, and I poked a finger through the wire door.
She stared blankly at it with her milk-clouded eyes.
I moved my finger to right in front of her nose, hoping she would recognize my scent and acknowledge my presence in front of her cage.
She paused there for a second, my finger right in front of her nose, and then she scooted away toward the back corner of the cage. Her eyes never rose to look up at me, and her shoulders never straightened into any form of curiosity.
This aged body is just so vastly different from the playful dog that I spent my childhood with that it’s hard to conceptualize them as the same dog.
Sandy has been in my life since I was 6 years old.
I remember attaching her to my tricycle, trying to convince her to pull me through our neighborhood.
I remember holding a treat above her head and asking her to “dance” before I would give it to her.
I remember taking her for walks and letting go of the leash, proud that I had taught her to walk perfectly by my side.
I remember her sleeping on the foot of my twin beg all through middle and high school. It meant I could never stretch out my legs, but her comforting presence was worth it.
I remember training her to jump through hula hoops and then ambitiously enrolling her in an agility class—only for her to refuse to go through the tunnel.
I remember getting her therapy dog certification. My mom and I took her to the nursing home down the street one time, and she clearly hated it, acting grumpy the whole time. We never went again.
Sandy never did anything she didn’t want to do. She still doesn’t.
And now, full of the stubborn personality of her youth, she refuses to cross death’s door.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.