#43 PUPPY - SICK PUPPY
“Scooter, hey buddy, where are you?”
We stepped through the door after a delightful dinner with friends expecting the usual sight of Scooter sleeping in his fluffy bed a few feet from the front door. Or, if not there, he will be on our bed. In either case, he will take a languid stretch, then slowly make his wagging way to us and with gentle affection, welcome us home. His “How truly nice. You are back” pattern of welcome has proven to be one of Scooter’s few Sublime moments.
“Scooter?”
He didn’t come to the door. I walked into the darkened bedroom, and there he was, as I expected, lying in on the Matelasse Cotton spread. The white one. There he was. Downcast. Quiet. A look of what, fear? Shame? Sickness?
“Scooter,” said I. “What’s the matter, Bud?” His whole body, his eyes especially, signaled concern.
“Ah,” I said as I followed Scooter’s pointing out that he wasn’t alone on the bed. Near him, soaking into the white spread lay a pile of vomit. Correction, two piles. One major, one minor.
“Oh, Scooter, I’m so sorry,” said I, reassuring the pup while assessing the situation.
“Scooter’s upchucked,” I called out.
“Can I help,” said he of the “I’d rather not in this case,” but who did by discarding the mess I had scooped into paper towels (No. No paper towels put in the toilet).
Scooter was comforted. He moved rather miserably to his own bed. The spread was pulled off our bed, the stains soaked, the washer engaged, the situation discussed. Believe it or not, while discussion took place about what Scooter might have eaten to make him sick, about taking a stool sample to the Vet, about our concern, about what our neighbor, Randy the Vet, said to comfort us, while those conversations carried on in the kitchen where our attention focused on other things, Scooter moved to our bed, and upchucked on the lightweight comforter now-exposed-by-the-absence-of-a-spread. The washable, white, comforter got stripped off the bed just in time for Scooter to have a final emptying of his stomach on the mattress cover.
“How stupid can two people be?” some of you might be thinking. But, if you’ve raised anything through toddlerhood, you know it doesn’t require stupidity to suddenly see a situation slip from manageable to mayhem. But here’s the point of writing about this.
Never before had Scooter shown signs of being mortal. Sick? Never. And, if sickness does nothing else, it reveals whether love is involved in a relationship, and reveal, this incident did. Dear goodness, how we love this pup.
Some of you who have read my book, “Life with a Capital ‘L’” where I suggest that at least these seven things are required for living authentically in an artificial world: lingering, listening, learning, leaning, loaning, laughing, and leaving well; some of you have asked why I didn’t include love. I’ve never had a suitable answer. Until, maybe, now.
Love is not simply One of Several Things. Love is singular. Who can describe it? The Greeks tried, with their four definitions, but definitions come through reason. Love doesn’t, does it? The seven ‘L’s I played with in my book can mostly be managed from the mind. A person decides to linger or learn. But love? Ha!
We didn’t decide to love Scooter Sublime, we simply did love him when in that November moment, 2019, we picked up the nearly-ten-week old pup, and drove with him to our home, named him Scooter Sublime, cancelled a planned cruise to Hawaii, snuggled and marveled, and with a blanket and one soft toy, placed him for the night in a crate beside our bed where my hand could touch the crate’s top, reassuring him that we were near. He slept that night, and every night after, without a whimper. Who can’t love that?
For the next two years plus this month until yesterday, love behaved as we all wish it to. It increased. It stayed healthy. It brought joy to this world of ours. Then, Scooter upchucked on the white bedspread. And the comforter. And the mattress cover. Scooter was sick. Wait. What? Scooter can get sick?
This is why love didn’t belong with the seven other “L”s, important though they all are. Love skips the brain, jumps straight to the gut; love first strikes feelings then borrows the brain to form propositions for our attempt to explain it, define it, understand it, manage it, defend it, deny it, and like the Greeks, spread it out in layers of differences: unselfish, erotic, friendly, and affectionate. But for Eros, the other three expressions of love joined forces to royally frighten us by our seeing the sadness in Scooter’s eyes, and vomit on layers of the bed.
Don’t be silly. Today, with Scooter returned to full expression of goldendoodle energy, I know not to compare the love for a dog with the love for one’s spouse, child, sibling, parent, or best friend. At least, not out loud. When my brain engages, I know better. I will say that the sudden awareness that our love for Scooter Sublime is susceptible to hurt (#1 word in my Word Series), to loss (because love is always susceptible to hurt and loss), is the reminder to me to love well while I can, those things worthy of love.
