While lying in a deep sleep in her basket,
I watch my beloved Jack Russell with sadness in my heart. I fear her time with
us may soon come to an end, yet on odd days she would run like a bunny on the
beach and encourage us to play her game – ‘catch me if you can.’ Although she
often stops, we realise that she is resting while pretending to have come
across a new smell that wasn’t there the day before. With a serious heart
ailment and old age we have been warned that she ‘just wouldn’t wake up one
morning’ and we treasure those playful days, as they are few and far between.
Piccolo has always been adventurous. She is
a ‘frequent flyer,’ enjoys going on the motor boat, loves canoeing with us and
has always been an ardent walker. She has not lost her enthusiasm but whereas we
used to climb mountains and walked for miles along the beach, the walks have
become shorter. While she still insists on this daily activity, I often wonder
how different she experiences her world since losing her hearing more than a
year ago. She lately seems to be functioning in a world totally of her own and
she often dozes off within minutes.
While sitting on the beach she would turn
her face into the wind and inhale the deep sea air…sniffing it, tasting it and
living it. Often, she would lie down and fall into a deep slumber. Upon
leaving, I would touch her gently and she would wake up with a start, looking
at me questioningly; but, all of this has implications on her quality of life: we
cannot recall when last we have heard her barking. When other dogs react
instinctively and bark, she looks around confused; when they yelp from
excitement she is totally baffled by the commotion. The result of all of this
is a total dependence on me, the one who is a constant in her life - her
security.
Her loss of hearing however has us somewhat
confused. She does in fact hear loud bangs, and strangely enough, when we go walking,
she sometimes wanders off and it has happened that she lost sight of us.
Although we usually keep her within view, she gets disoriented when she comes
out of her dream world and either does not see us or does not recognise us
immediately. When that happens I would revert to my old form of command and
start clapping my hands. According to the vet she has lost all sense of
hearing, yet she eventually would pick up that familiar sound, although the
direction of its source often puzzles her. I have watched her from afar. She
looks up, looks around and starts running in the direction of the sound. If the
wind is strong it can confuse her; disorientation can set in when there are too
many people around, but to date we have always found each other again. While
running towards me I have noticed a further failing of her senses…she struggles
to identify me from afar and I therefore have to continue clapping my hands until
she is with me…touching me…licking me. That means her eyesight is also
beginning to go...
This reminds me of another period in my life: the time my dad was diagnosed with Glaucoma, when it was too advanced for successful treatment. By the time of his death he had less than two percent vision left. It was a challenging time for all. He was a learned man, a man with a fine eye for the arts. He was well-read – someone who continuously sought knowledge through reading.
In those days there were no awareness campaigns as a reminder to test your eyes for this disease and still today, early detection could mean the difference between blindness and sight. But my dad being a successful medical man, we felt that he should have known, and he admitted that he was negligent and didn’t have his eyes tested as he should have. He didn’t know that this debilitating illness was in his genes. We, as his offspring, had to cope with his anger and I can only imagine the terror he must have felt with the onset of blindness, and the uncertainty of what the future held for him. It meant an unforeseen early retirement. It later meant financial difficulties, but most of all it meant a life of frustration. Technology has much advanced since then, but audio books were not freely available in those years, which called for a subscription to the library of The Institute for the Blind where choice was limited. I recall his cries about the unfair blow that life had dealt him and his words, “Why my eyes, why not an arm or a leg?” still ring loudly in my ears.
Towards the end of his life his world became dark. A darkness we could not share with him, but had to cope with. It sometimes caused dark moods and we all had to be inventive to contribute to some light to his life. He would ask me to describe sunsets to him, or some other scene around me, and he would afterwards nod as he dipped deep into his memory bank to get the picture.
And so life deals different cards to each
of us, whether man or beast. At best we can look after our senses and savour the
colours of every scene, enjoy the sounds that we hear, identify the different
smells and aromas around us, explore different tastes and never cease to touch
those who we love.
