Comet's Tale (6 page)

Because of my declining health, there were days when I couldn't even go sit by the water. If I was trapped inside but not in bed, I usually sat in a recliner near the beach level exit. When I sent Comet outside to play with the other dogs, she would stand by the glass door—muscles taut, ears at attention, eyes unblinking—and sternly demand to be let back in.

“Is this dog becoming codependent?” Kylie asked as she opened the door yet again to let Comet inside.

“You noticed?” I felt slightly embarrassed. “What makes you think it has anything to do with me?”

“Duh,” said Kylie. “No matter what she's doing or where she's at, Comet wants to know what
you're
doing and where
you're
at.”

“I don't think she's that bad,” I replied, perhaps a bit defensively.

“You must feed her a lot of treats. Nobody wants to spend
that
much time with you,” Kylie joked.

“Very funny. I don't give her any treats. Comet has appointed Freddie to that department.” I struggled daily to articulate what I observed in this dog. Now I said, “At first I thought it was her reaction to the heat and activity, that maybe she was tired and confused.”

Kylie coughed a short laugh and said, “Confused she is not. I'd say that she's made herself right at home, even sleeping in the master's bedroom. ‘Smart' may be the word you're looking for.”

It didn't take long for Comet to lovingly insinuate herself into almost every aspect of my day. Her constant presence was seldom demanding. It was more like the sound of waves—a shushing that I barely noticed after a while yet found deeply soothing. Except for my morning wake-up call.

I had pigheadedly ignored Freddie's advice that I move my personal headquarters to the bedroom on the lower level, insisting that treading up and down the stairs was good exercise for me and good practice for Comet. Plus, by keeping my sleeping arrangements in the master bedroom on the main floor, I could still pretend that I was adequately soldiering on as a good husband. During the night, Comet slept on a dog bed within my arm's reach. As dawn approached she would leave her lair, waking me with a light leap onto the bed and an intense stare that poked at me like a stick. Through the open window I would catch the musical notes of dogs splashing along the shore, a lovely sound but not one I needed to hear so early. I'd open my eyes to see my face reflected in cinnamon-rimmed black orbs that sparkled above a pointy-toothed dog smile. An extralong tail rotating in slow circles backstopped the expression. Short, whining trumpet notes were directed at my irritated expression:
It's time to get up, time to get up, time to get up in the morning!

My response was always in the nature of a cotton-mouthed stutter: “Comet, it's still early. Lie down. We'll go in a minute, okay?”

In return, Comet would lower herself onto the blankets and promptly twist onto her back. One front limb was raised to the ceiling while thighs plopped open. From chest to tail, her tender underside was completely exposed, inviting my light scratching strokes. Her inverted head rubbed on the bed coverings. The belly rubs continued for a few minutes, erasing my reluctance to face the day. “All right, I'll get up.”

Magic hovered over the lakeside in the early morning hours. Nighttime smells lingered, and creatures still mingled at the edge of darkness. Comet's curious ears pricked at rustling sounds in the riparian grasses, and her eyes roamed the shadows for the slightest ghostly movement. The hound nose inventoried each and every scent dropped on wildflowers growing in the sand. All this was conducted with unbridled enthusiasm, as if she had never experienced these sights and smells, much less done so just the day before. After all, something could have changed! I'm convinced Comet pitied my inability to notice.

Regardless of the enticements, Comet would not yank on the lead. She would not sprint ahead to a neck-jerking stop but instead loitered at each scent. She pounced at fleeing rabbits with no forward motion and allowed ducks to swim unimpeded. In short, despite her excitement, Comet refused to instinctively hunt the morning in normal greyhound fashion.

Occasionally I stumbled and tripped to the ground, losing the lead. I was sure Comet would flee, as her ancestral genes ordered her to do. Yet she simply wandered nearby and glanced at me as I strained to lever myself upright. After one such mishap, I grunted, “You're probably just scared, aren't you, girl? That's why you don't take off, isn't it?” Comet answered with a reluctant lift of her nose from an animal hole near a decayed cottonwood stump.
Scared, indeed.

Then there were the days I was unable to rise at all—sometimes as many as fourteen hours of bedpans and banality before somebody got home to help me up. Despite my regular cursing at fate and the unceasing boredom, interspersed with my screams of pain from spasms, Comet would gently nestle next to me, place her head on my chest, and act as contented as a farm dog on a sunny porch. This was not normal canine behavior. Even more mysteriously, in our unspoken communication I detected wisdom that seemed to say,
It's all right. I understand.

Then I'd chide myself.
Am I losing my mind?
This dog was kept in a cage most of her life. She hasn't had a chance to understand her new surroundings, let alone my stupid situation. She's a dog. Don't try to humanize her, because that's just cruel. Let her be the greyhound she was meant to be!
Yet over those long summer days I couldn't help but feel that by any standard, Comet was far from ordinary.

These jumbled thoughts were emblematic of all the issues swimming around in my head. I didn't have a job and didn't know if I ever would. How long could we afford two houses? How long would I have to live away from Freddie for part of the year? Would that even work? How could I keep current with the girls? Now that I had spent the summer with them, I was officially up-to-date on their lives—Kylie was looking forward to her third year at the University of Nebraska, Lindsey would be applying to colleges, and Jackie was starting her sophomore year in high school. I asked them questions about their plans, but even as they answered me, I often lost focus, lulled by medications or distracted by an endless mental loop of worry. Once I returned to Arizona, I knew I might once again fall out of touch with them.

Consumed by these fears, I grew more introverted and cranky with each passing week. I was alert enough to notice that my conversations with the girls seemed to peter out after a few sentences but not to ponder the possible reasons. The specter of Lindsey's hero, He, haunted me, yet I never reflected on the words in that childhood ode. Lindsay had spelled out why she revered that man—he made her smile, encouraged her, brightened her day. There was nothing in the poem about being as strong as Tarzan or able to win a triathlon. But I didn't think about that. Instead I obsessed about my failure to live up to my personal code of valor: if I wasn't the mightiest, kindest, smartest, most driven man in all of Nebraska, I was shirking my duties as a husband and father.

The issue wasn't only my health, or the lack of it. My spinal problems had been a splinter in the family body for some time. But in years past, fueled by massive quantities of denial and stubbornness, I had somehow convinced Freddie and the girls that the light in the distance was not an oncoming train. It was this assurance, buttressed by my continued professional successes, that had encouraged them to believe in me. Now nobody knew what to think or say. The whole situation reminded me of an ancient Japanese poem, a copy of which I used to keep in my office:

I have always known

That at last I would

Take this road, but yesterday

I did not know that it would be today.

My daughters were confused. Freddie was scared and frustrated. Every day I was fighting to pull myself out of a sadness that threatened to drown me.

Fortunately, I had my own personal lifeguard. Whenever Comet rested her head on my chest, I felt as if I were lying on a blanket of soft grass in a forest of Ponderosa pines. Every day was a good day for Comet. In her contented presence, I found enough peace to sustain myself through the summer.

Part II

6

SEPTEMBER 2000—ARIZONA

September arrived with all the charm of a turkey vulture. Dark clouds dripped with chilled mist, and a moldy stench hovered above mounds of decomposing leaves. It was time for me to return to Sedona. As Freddie backed the SUV out of the driveway, she said, “Wolfie, you have to promise me one thing. You have to promise that if you get worse, you'll get some help. You can't keep trying to do it all by yourself.”

For me, the journey to Arizona was like going to band camp when all I really wanted was to end the summer playing sandlot baseball. Sure, it might have been good for me, but it wasn't nearly what I had in mind. Even in my childish funk, though, I vowed to myself that I would relieve Freddie's stress by finding people to assist me with things like food shopping, cleaning, and keeping healthy.

Freddie stayed in Sedona for a few days to help me settle in. Her smile became increasingly plastic as the time drew near for her to drive back north. The logistics of our separation were more familiar than they had been the previous year, but my health was becoming such an increasingly black hole that its gravity was crushing Freddie's attempts to act unconcerned. I tried to reassure her by repeatedly telling her, “I'll take better care of myself than I have in the past. I'm not going to tough it out. Promise.”

In late September, Sedona's clean, dry air brings out a whole new range of vivid details on the surrounding red monuments. It's a season of caressing daytime comfort punctuated by a light cotton-blanket chill at night. Pearly dawns dissolve into deep, flawless sapphire skies. The nights are so clear that the naked eye can spot moonlight sparking off the solar panels of the passing space station. The first time I saw it, I had to check the morning paper to see if the station was losing altitude.

As soon as we returned, Comet eagerly resumed her daily routine, filled with new confidence and a puppylike curiosity that had emerged during her sand-baked summer. Her mood was contagious and I found myself looking forward to our regular walks around the neighborhood. It didn't take long for me to realize that people noticed something different about Comet.

“Hey, Wolf, how're you doing?” My neighbor Bill was leaning against a low stucco wall next to his kitchen garden.

“How are you guys?” I replied, avoiding his question. Jana, stooped out of sight watering her flowers, popped up when she heard my voice. “It's great to have you back in town.”

I duck-walked in their direction, two canes stamping the pavement and Comet's leash looped over my right wrist.

“Comet, how have you been?” asked Bill. Excessive tail wagging is a waste of precious energy for a greyhound. Comet stayed glued to my side, but her long tail looped twice in hello.

“We knew you were back when we saw the two of you walking,” said Jana. “Why didn't you call?” Again, I let her question hang in the air, choosing to assume it was rhetorical. She continued, “When I saw you I couldn't help noticing how happy Comet seems. Her coat is so shiny! It doesn't look like it has all that nasty dander anymore.”

You know you've bonded with a dog when a simple observation makes you swell with parental pride. “She really does look better, doesn't she? She's come a long way from this spring, both physically and mentally.”

Jana nodded. “I was telling Bill last night that I would never have believed this kind of dog could be so patient.”

My eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, the way she walks so slowly to stay by your side. I thought they liked to run, so I expected her to drag you down the street. And she watches you so closely when you stop to rest. It looks like Comet's telling you to take your time, that she's in no big hurry.”

“I think she takes her time because she investigates every little thing that catches her eye. A lawn ornament at that corner house was moved yesterday, and Comet dragged me into the yard to check it out.”

Bill laughed. “Then what about that rabbit this morning? I was sitting at the kitchen table having coffee, watching you two. I thought for sure I was going to have to pick you up off the pavement. But Comet never even hit the end of the leash. She just jumped and spun in those funny circles.”

That night I mulled over their comments and had to admit that I was just as surprised as they were. Compared to last year, I now labored longer in the morning before getting out of bed. Comet would simply stretch her lanky body next to mine and wait. My touch on her neck and ears detected no indication of impatience. In fact, an hour or more would sometimes pass and the only movement would be Comet lifting her head from my chest to shift her position. Our walks were slower than ever, but Comet remained pleased, not the least bit anxious. I had taken her nuzzled affection during my frequent stops to be nothing more than boredom. Apparently Jana and Bill had noticed something different.

So did Rindy James, the real estate agent who sold us our original plot of land in Sedona, then helped us sell it and purchase my current abode. Rindy had become a good friend, and she and Comet had formed a mutual admiration society. Soon after we arrived Rindy paid us a welcome-back visit. When Comet saw her at the front door, she sprinted from room to room, barely able to contain herself.

“She looks so happy and healthy, like she's fully adjusted to her new life,” Rindy commented. After greeting her long-lost pal and taking a few more victory laps around the house, Comet lay on the carpet with her head next to my slippered feet.

“Does that little girl still walk Comet once in a while?”

“Emily? Yes, she manages to avoid her homework a few times a week and earn some spending money. She still occasionally leaves the door open before she puts the leash on. But Comet just races up the street and returns after a couple of minutes.”

“You're not worried she's going to run away?”

“I did at first, especially after all the ‘lost greyhound' stories. But Comet has had plenty of opportunities to bolt. She just keeps coming back. I guess I lucked out with this particular dog.” Comet's eyes were closed, but her ears rotated like twin antennae toward whoever was speaking.

“It's more than luck,” said Rindy. “The dog obviously adores you. Comet pays attention to you in some strange way, like she knows she has to be careful with you.”

“Maybe she knows I need all the help I can get.”

My thoughts were not really so flippant. Most people would unquestioningly accept the hazy nature of this mysterious bond, thankful for an enriched life. Not me. Vagueness troubled me, flying as it did in the face of my training and education.
Everything can be quantified. Any experience can be precisely defined.
I suspected that all these people, including me, were engaged in anthropomorphism—projecting our own relationships, experiences, and emotions onto simple canine behavior. Weeks passed and my denials continued, but as the weather grew chillier, Comet's caring attention to me became impossible to ignore.

Cold is a relative term, especially if you were raised on the Great Plains. Still, temperatures in Sedona can rapidly drop into the teens after nightfall, only to climb into the sixties the next day in the ever-present sunshine. That year, winter arrived before Thanksgiving. The seesaw of changing barometric pressures coupled with the drastic temperature variations slammed my painful joints. My feet felt increasingly wooden as the weather cooled. I took more medication, which pickled my last remaining brain cells. Our morning exercise crept toward noon. On days that I struggled, Comet's look conveyed the impression that a leisurely snuggle was exactly the right agenda. At night I was comforted by her warmth at my side. No longer content to be confined to her cushion on the floor, Comet preferred to sleep on the full, soft mattress next to me.

One difficult day, I was still in bed when Jenny, a woman I had hired to clean my house once a week, arrived at around one o'clock. Jenny had a warm and friendly outlook on life, but she brooked no argument when it came to bringing order to my hovel. Viewing the scene from the doorway, Jenny asked Comet to jump from the bed so that she could help me get to the couch. Comet refused, turning her head and staring at the wall.

“I'm just trying to do my job, so don't you act all high-and-mighty,” chided Jenny. “I'm not a peasant. Besides, I know you have to go potty, so cut the attitude.” Jenny laughed and tried to position Comet's rear-facing left ear alongside the other one, which pointed forward. As she turned her attention to me, her lips pressed in a firm line. “You know, you really could call your neighbors when this happens and I'm not around.” Since Jenny also worked at Rindy's house, she had been versed on some of my struggles, including days like today.

“We're doing all right. I was just about to get up anyway.”

Sensing my embarrassment, Jenny turned her attention to Comet. In a mock stern voice, she said, “As for you, Miss Royal Highness, I think I'm going to call you Queeny. Now get down. I mean it.”

“I don't feel so good,” I called out to Jenny from the living room a few minutes later. The whine of the vacuum cleaner ceased and Jenny turned to where I lay on the couch. “What did you say?” Before I could respond, she frowned. “You don't look too good. Are you feeling okay?”

“I think the pain or the meds, or both, are upsetting my stomach.”

“Well, you need to eat more than that piece of toast. I would cook you something, but you don't have anything in the refrigerator.”

“You don't have to be my cook, too. I'll be okay. If I don't make it to the store today, I have plenty of canned soup.”

Jenny turned back to her chores and remarked, “I hope you feed that dog better than you feed yourself.”

Chastened, I allowed the rumble of the vacuum to numb me into a light sleep. Hours later, a watery gurgle and fierce stomach cramps jolted me awake. A blushing coral sky signaled nightfall. Jenny was long departed, but she had left a large plastic bowl on the floor by my head. Drool from my mouth dripped into it, reeking of the stale tuna I had consumed that morning. Nausea suddenly bloomed up from my guts and I weaved toward the bathroom, desperate to spare the carpet. Once there, I commenced a retching that felt like it was erupting from the innermost soul-storing part of my body. Wave after wave, I rode the roller coaster of sickness. I periodically glanced up to see Comet propped on her deep chest, muscled legs tucked in back and hips raised in a posture that looked as if she were somehow elevated above the floor. She remained there throughout the ordeal.

Eventually the storm was spent and the waters calmed. I crawled from the wreckage and landed on the couch. A cold wetness touched my cheek and I opened my eyes. Comet emitted a small cry as her nose touched me again, her concerned affection so obvious that I felt tears trickling from my eyes even as I dropped into a weary sleep.

Overnight, the temperature dipped sharply, and the furnace battled to keep the house at sixty-seven degrees. By morning my muscles were contracted into frigid lumps. My body had expelled everything, including any remnants of pain medication. I was in trouble. More important, I was frantic about Comet. She had not been outside since yesterday afternoon, yet she refused to abandon the floor by my side or utter the slightest sound of protest. I was now endangering a loyal innocent being who had already endured her share of misfortune. Although it was barely 7:00 a.m., I called Rindy.

She arrived within the hour. A chill, not necessarily from the weather, swept into the room with her. Her expression was one of alarm mingled with disgust, as if it was all she could do to keep from shouting, “What's
wrong
with you?” Comet rushed to greet her, and Rindy immediately grabbed the leash from its hook. Without a word, she left with Comet and the door slammed behind them. Angry at the unspoken judgment, I yelled at the empty space, “I'm fine, thank you!”

A short time later an obviously relieved Comet rushed inside and indulged in food and water. Her sides billowed as she calmed from a run.

Rindy removed her coat and shoes. “It really stinks in here,” she announced.

I refrained from telling her that the smell of indignation was equally noxious. “I called Jenny and she'll come over later to clean the mess.”

Rindy sat in one of the living room chairs. “So you think you had food poisoning? That can be serious. Do you need to go to the doctor?”

“No, I stopped vomiting a couple of hours ago. I hate to bother you any further, but would you mind getting my medicine? It's sitting on the nightstand.”

Rindy fetched the bottle and a glass of water. “It's not that I don't want to help,” she said. “I'm more than happy to assist whenever I can. But I can't be around all the time. You have to make arrangements with the neighbors to check on you and Comet.” As if to fill any space where I might interject, she rushed on, “I also know of several people who exercise dogs. I'm glad you hired Jenny, but you need more support than that.”

“I know, I know.”

That barrier now breached, a constructive conversation ensued. Rindy sternly reinforced her opinion and provided names of people who could help. Then, in midsentence, she paused and cocked her head. “What is that?”

“What is what?

“That noise. Hear it?”

Sure enough, I detected a soft friction sound, like hands being rubbed together. Then the door banged like a shot had been fired. I sat upright and turned toward the loud crack. Comet was exiting from the bedroom, rear first. Her knotted muscles levered both hind legs toward the ceiling and forced her head to the floor. Her fragile teeth pulled on an object that refused to budge. Then, with an intense tug, Comet popped her dog bed through the door opening and dragged the heavy canvas cushion across the carpet until it came to rest next to the couch.

“That is one determined dog,” declared Rindy.