"My old adventure partner rears his sopping wet head, like he’d been there all the time . . ."
Unassimilated Stories: "Ode to the Golden Oldie"
Dear Reader,
This past week Duke and I went down to Cave Springs, Georgia to attend the Georgia Mushroom Festival with my friends Andrew and Samantha of Mossy Creek Mushrooms-fame, as well as their 3 children. It was the first time taking my RV on the road. As far as shakedown cruises go, it was successful, both in that I didn’t have any major issues that caused delays, and in that I found some issues with some of the systems that I have the means and ability to fix.
However, the business of the travel and the welcome distraction of the music and vendors kept me from attending to my writing to the normal degree.
I did have an experience though that merits writing about. I’ll deviate a bit from the standard almanac model of observation-based creative non-fiction, and instead I’ll share something a bit more personal. Part, walk down memory lane. Part, exploration of personal ethics. Part, deeply emotional reflection on the benefits of long-term companionship.
Enjoy,
Charles
Ode to the Golden Oldie
In the spring of 2008, I got a dog. I had grown up with dogs, but even if they were mine in name, in practice they were family dogs. I did my share of care-chores, but I didn’t make decisions for/about those dogs. But now, as a twenty year old, I had the primary responsibility for the care of this new puppy, which meant I no longer had parents around to help to walk him, bathe him, arrange vet visits, and so on. Whether I was in the mood for it or not, I took care of the dog, and was forced to grow up in a way that I am convinced I wouldn’t have on my own.
Fast forward almost sixteen years and I am a better person in all the ways I can think to measure. I am in better physical health which includes being more active and eating better. I am more emotionally available and emotionally aware of others. I am more capable of focusing on and following through a task, more tolerant of adversity, and more durable in the face of trying circumstances. The list could go on, but this story is about the dog.
I place all the credit for this personal transformation at the feet, four furry paws really, of Duke, my ever-faithful golden retriever.
When Duke was young, and I was considering shirking the run I had planned, I would ask myself, “What would Duke want to do?” The answer was always, “Go for a run.” And so, I’d go for a run. The impulse to shirk faded into the distance.
Time and time again, Duke has been my better half.
These days, he doesn’t run anymore, or even hike. It hurts him to walk. But he can still swim with as much enthusiasm as the old days (maybe not diving headlong into the crashing surf of the Pacific Ocean like he would when we were learning how to surf together in 2011, but the dam-controlled rivers of East Tennessee don’t pose as much challenge for an old dog). He’ll even surprise you, if the water is cold enough, and it soothes his aching joints enough, he’ll run and gallop and prance through the grass in pursuit of a tennis ball for a few minutes before he gets fully dried off.
. . .
The cold water casts a sweet, simple magic spell, a memory charm that carefully draws a private smile out from me.
Whenever we go swimming, for thirty minutes, or an hour if I’m lucky, I get a glimpse into the past. My old adventure partner rears his sopping wet head, like he’d been there all the time, like he hadn’t slowly evolved into a retired oldpuppy who needs help getting up off the floor, who limps where his surgically repaired ACL just isn’t the same, who has to be given the “good stuff” every meal to ensure that he eats enough.
This past weekend, the creek next to our camp site was perfect. Cold enough to rejuvenate, but not so cold as to force his diminished metabolism to focus too hard on managing body heat. The depth was perfect, knee deep or deeper in most places, plenty of buoyancy to help an old dog compensate for the uneven footing. He sprinted from person to person, pretending to be fleet of foot like when he was young and could climb straight up a rock bluff. In the hidden pools where the water deepened further, no one could evade his mighty dog-paddle as he eagerly stretched the stiffness from his legs.
. . .
I worry about Duke these days in a way I never used to. I can’t decide if this is a consequence of my aging, or of his. At 36, I think about aging differently than I did at 26. Some small parts of my own body are showing wear and tear that they didn’t used to.
For the longest time, Duke didn’t seem to age. He was obviously not a puppy, too well-behaved, too much obvious gray in the face. But since he never lost that puppy enthusiasm, he was “just like that”, young at heart, body be damned.
I took him hiking up House Mountain in 2020, and met with a rude awakening. He didn’t have the strength anymore. I knew his legs had been degrading, but there had never been a benchmark. Now there was.
Three years later, I wonder if he has three more in him. I wonder what quality of life targets are “appropriate”. I wonder if I’ll know when its time, or if I’ll be oblivious like I was in the lead up to that House Mountain hike.
I expect he’ll just keep telling me what he needs the best he knows how, and I’ll keep being honored to care for a dog who has only ever given me all that he could give.