Daisy: Walking on Water by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Old Age and Emergency

A horrible thing happened last week. Daisy woke me around 11PM and when I put on the light I saw that our blankets, as well as the floor and parts of the wall were covered with blood.

She had thrown up enough red fluid and jello-like material in one spot to fill two ice tea pitchers. Blood kept dripping from her nose and she was frantically going to the door, her eyes on me, as if to say; “You’ve got to get me to the vet right now.”

I dressed and got her to a 24 hour emergency facility in Albuquerque. While this was an improvement because they had the ability to keep her alive by giving transfusions, if necessary, no one had the ability to stop the bleeding. We would have to wait for the arrival of the internist on Tuesday, roughly 30

hours hence. Daisy survived the wait. The specifics of the vet’s original complicated possibilities and the subsequent revised complicated likelihoods ranged from dire straits to minor problem. Tumor had the highest degree of probability.

After two surgeries and tests done over a week period the dire early indications changed to a best possible case scenario.

It then again became dire. Then it became very manageable. Then the cycle repeated two more times. It was extremely problematic.

I couldn’t help thinking about the chance of Daisy’s imminent death and my oft stated promise to her that; “When you go, I’m

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going with you.” I recalled a song line; “Don’t take my heart away from me.”

The news again turned positive. Today, I’m looking forward to the day when Daisy and I walk again. It won’t anymore be in the “wild” of Corrales’ five hundred foot deep Bosque, but it really doesn’t matter to me. My local vet, Dr. Ramirez, directed me to a spot right outside of town where there is a sizable garden tended by the city, with three to eight foot bushes and even concrete paths.

I am not certain of Daisy’s feelings on the matter, but I think she’ll like the new place a lot. The amount of walking that she does has dropped gradually, but consistently, over the past three years. She has been spending more and more time sitting near the parking area waiting to say “Hi” to old and new friends. I’ve driven by the garden a number of times and always see more parked cars than I ever saw at one time on Romero Road.

I think she’ll be happy with it and chastise me for not bringing her there sooner. Daisy is always happy.

As at the beginning, winter is making its impatience known.

New Mexico has a harsh and unpredictable climate. Over the last three days the trees and vines have changed into their cold weather jackets of oranges, reds, yellows and browns. The sun

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does little to provide light, despite an only partially clouded sky. I have despised seeing Daisy grow old, but have not been presented with a suitable alternative. Instead of that initial puppy burst down the driveway, in recent times she has dawdled and looked back at me as if to say; “Do we really have to go?”

Reluctantly, I have told her; “Yes,” in the hope that her adrenalin would take over after surviving the initial duress.

I brought Daisy home from the emergency facility, advised that the cause of the bleeding was unknown, but that they had stopped it with cauterization. But after four hopeful days and nights of limited activity, Daisy again began to profusely bleed from the nose. I brought her back to the emergency facility in the middle of the night. I was to be informed the next day that she had been bleeding those days and nights I considered hopeful. It was merely a matter of her swallowing it, rather than having it come out her nose.

Daisy is still at the Emergency Vet facility, and the news has returned to not good. An experienced specialist is at a loss. She can find no reason why Daisy continues to bleed from her nose. She told me that she and her colleagues have never seen anything like this. This Southwestern styled house is even more quiet, bleak and chilly than in usual gloomy days. I miss her terribly. Some calmly defiant lines from a previously

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unremembered old song, which were evaluative of the silent ghost in charge, made their long forgotten presence known; “You don’t possess me; don’t impress me; just upset my mind.” Of course Daisy has always possessed me and impressed me. I wish she made the rules or the anarchy.

I remember the days when Daisy was the undisputed Queen of the Corrales Bosque with a goodhearted energy which knew no bounds. We covered all the ground, and some of the water, between Albuquerque and Rio Rancho and then some. It seems recent until I do the math. I tried to spend every possible moment tagging along and watching her explore all the things she found interesting, often wondering if I would make it. I knew that I was too old for her when we met, but found it impossible to turn away from the sweetest creature on earth.

Sometimes something undetected by me would scare her and she would look back at me, possibly just to see that I was still there. This time I am the one who is scared, but when I turn around she is not there. I recall the first time she looked back for reassurance. As with subsequent episodes I assured her that she’d be all right and that I would be with her forever. From the start I realized that I was condemning myself to, at some point, going on without her. At the time, it seemed that it was reassuring for her, and not very frightful to me, as, when Daisy was young, I unconsciously thought that we had an eternity.

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Today it became obvious that eternity is just another finite eight letter word, “defined” into existence by abstract mathematicians and preached in the dogma of theoretical theologians.

Since she’s been gone I haven’t slept well. I’ve been getting out the trash before sunrise, secretly expecting or hoping that Daisy will come running as she once did. I am making an effort to spend more time with Teddy. He’s an 11 year old black cat born without a tail. He’s been noticeably distraught since his lifelong companion and cousin, Lucy, suddenly died of kidney failure last month. She was a very fat Tabby who played ferociously as a kitten, but quit after one of her front paws got caught in a closing door. She and Teddy had been together all their lives. He and I have identical problems and we commiserate together. He cries as he searches the house for her.

I do the same. He doesn’t understand death. Neither do I. His anxiety level increases when the sun goes down. So does mine.

I entered the room Daisy and I once shared. I thought of the people who once sought us out to get a quick fix of her beauty. They are no longer around, either because their dogs, the friends we first knew, are no longer of this calloused and arbitrary earth, or because they were only capable of a simulated friendship when Daisy was in prime health. I have found that this is the way of every human I have met. When I

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contracted a brain tumor at the age of 39, the removal of which left me with facial paralysis, a paltry income and memory problems, all my former friends and loved ones departed. I was blessed with the company of Willy and Daisy, and that was more than enough, but now I fear the end of the enchanted time. Willy has been gone ten years and I am afraid that Daisy will soon join him. I can’t stand being here alone. My beautiful girl didn’t see my deformity or inadequacy. All humans look the same to her. Daisy saw my heart, which is all that matters, no matter how much the tedious critics may deride. And, every day I saw her gigantic, loving heart, which she bravely and openly displayed all her life.

While it is easier and more understandable to those lacking emotion for me to speak of adventures that Daisy and I once had, the time I miss Daisy the most is when I enter this cold barren room we used to share. As long as I can remember, she was always there, waiting for me to finish whatever inconsequential duty caused the delay. When I would finally enter, I’d curl up close to her. The “elephant man” was someone she did not disdain.

She’d get extremely close and together we would drift off to a world of sweet dreams where everything was all right; everything was perfect. We didn’t need anything more. But, tonight, I picture Daisy in her bloody cage of solitary confinement as I

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enter this room which has become a prison for me. It can’t end this way; it just can’t.

As my head hits our pillow, a song from “Showboat” plays in my head.

Dere’s an ol’ man called de Mississippi.

Dat's de ol' man dat I'd like to be!

What does he care if de world's got troubles?

What does he care if de land ain't free?

Ol' man river,

Dat ol' man river.

He mus' know sumpin',

But don't say nuthin'.

He jes' keeps rollin'.

He keeps on rollin' along.

He don' plant taters.

He don't plant cotton.

An' dem dat plants 'em

is soon forgotten.

But ol' man river,

He jes keeps rollin' along.

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You an' me, we sweat an' strain.

Body all achin' an' rack'd wid pain.

Tote dat barge!

Lif' dat bale!