It Takes a Village

More than most dogs, Murphy has always been dependent.  She relied on my throwing arm for hours, and hours, and hours of ball throw.  Of course, she needed me to scoop food into her bowl, much less to purchase the necessary supply of chewies.  And she even needed me for the rather large bits of steak or hamburger she managed to get.  

Her usual form of communication is a high pitch bark.  It would go up an octave and into minor chords when she was excited and wanted the ball games to continue until my arm fell off.  Anyone who knows Murphy knows the "I want something" bark.  

 

Even before Facebook and MySpace, Murphy created a wide circle of friends.  She perfected the ability to stare into your eyes and make you feel that you are The Most Important Person, especially if you have treats.  She has friends from New York to Wyoming, Washington to California.  If Murphy was an Airstream trailer she would have almost every state in stenciled map of North America colored in.  She is well travelled.  Along the way she let people into her exuberant life.  She needed the love and lavished affection.

But now, she is almost totally dependent because she feels uncomfortable even doing the little things.  For instance she does not like walking up or down the stairs alone.  I sense she does not trust her hind legs, anymore.  Consequently, she stands at the bottom of the stairs in the back yard, or to the upstairs, and barks.  Bark, bark, bark.  She knows I am listening and will come to help lift her up.  I am part of her village. For thirteen years she would head straight for her food bowl when I put it down.  Now I lead her to it, and sometimes, gently hand feed her.  Her nose gets confused with all the other savory kitchen smells, and she forgets where her dinner is laid.  

It has been hard for me to accept that Murphy is older, frail, and significantly more dependent on me.  There is mutuality there, however.  I find myself sitting down on the floor next to her bed, stroking her head.  Or whispering in her soft lab ears as we take each step, slowly.  Or singing my country-western songs a little louder, including her name in the lyrics, just so she can hear.  She is helping me accept my age, too.

Amazingly, Sage is even attuned to these changes.  When Murphy barks at the top of the stairs, wanting me to accompany her down, step by step, Sage joins us, walking slowly, kissing Murphy's ear.  Lean on me Murph, it's ok. 

 

We have our village here.  Murphy is the mayor.

Murphy's day.