Feeling Challenged to Find my Resilience

“I’m on your side, when times get rough, and friends just can’t be found, like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down.” ~ Simon & Garfunkel

I bend down, low to the ground, my hand just inches from Lola’s face, so overgrown with fur the hair hangs into her cataract-coated eyes. I motion with a gentle sway of my wrist, my fingers curled over and towards me. “C’mon ole’ girl,” I say, despite knowing she’s now completely deaf. It’s another habit I haven’t been able to let go.

“That’s a good dog,” I  say. Lola wobbles on unsteady legs towards her food dish. Her teeter-totter lumber shifts as her legs splay out from under her, collapsing into the splits. Lola stops. She looks around. By the tilt of her head, she’s clearly confused.

  I have to stifle back a sob. I take a deep breath. I lean over and help Lola back onto to her feet. We resume the short journey from the hallway to the kitchen.

 Lola sniffs at her bowl of homemade chicken, rice, and carrots mixed in with kibbles. It wasn’t long ago; she’d be devouring the meal in split seconds. But now, she seems uncertain of what to do. She leans her muzzle into the dish. She has to turn her head to her good side, the tumor inside her mouth on the right now the size of a broccoli floret. She takes a bite. She lifts her head. The food falls from her mouth to the floor. Again, that dazed expression. Lola looks up at me as if to say, what the hell am I meant to do? She lowers her face to lap at the water bowl, then sits back on her haunches, tongue out.

“Want to go outside?” I ask. I repeat my hand movements, coaxing her as she slips and slides her way across the smooth floor tiles to the patio doors. I slide the screen open. Lola pauses. She sniffs. She wobbles and leans to one side, then steps awkwardly on the track railing before regaining her composure and ambling over to the find that just right piece of grass. She still likes to sniff out that exact right piece of grass.

  As I wait for her, a flood of memories wash over me. Lola in the glory days of her youth. I remember when I held her for the first time; only seven weeks old, not ready to leave her mother and the litter. How she buried her tiny muzzle into my chest and fell asleep, next to my heart. It was love at first sight.

Lola does her business. I call to her, but she looks around the yard, seemingly at a loss. “C’mon sweetie,” I say, a quiver in my voice. “This way.”

 After some more coaxing and failed attempts, Lola manages to finish her breakfast. She almost scampers over to the carpet, where she likes to wipe her face after eating, dragging it repeatedly through the coarse fibers, her dust-mop tail in the air. Not as full and fluffy as it used to be. A bright pink tumor peeks out from the thin hair at the tip.

Lola’s soft, pillowy grey bed is right beside the carpet. She plops in, looking so cozy and cute. My heart breaks. She’s such a trooper.

The old monologue starts in. Am I doing the right thing? Is she suffering, too much? I can’t bath or groom her anymore; it causes her so much pain and anxiety. She cries as soon as the water touches her skin. Last time she tried to bite me, her eyes huge round orbs while she panted and flayed about. I swore I’d never make her endure that again. It’s not a good idea to make grand proclamations such as these. I know better. This week it reached the point where I couldn’t not groom her any longer and, in fact, she’s at the groomers now.

 I never knew it would be so damn hard. This in-between state of uncertainty.

 God, what are you waiting for?” I whisper, almost inaudibly, under my breath. “How much more does this dear, gentle soul need to endure? Why won’t you bring her home?”

  A part of me wishes Lola wasn’t so damn resilient. Another is thankful that she is. I get down on my hands and knees and bury my face into Lola’s stinky, matted fur, still soft in a few places that aren’t crusty with scabs. So many wounds after three unsuccessful operations. I sob into the scruff of her neck. “I love you,” I whisper, in between snuffles. But Lola doesn’t enjoy my affections, or much contact at all anymore. She shakes her head as if to say, “Back off, lady. Give me some space, already.” Sometimes it seems like she doesn’t even recognize me. 

 “Okay, I’ll leave you be,” I say. I give her ears a gentle rumple, careful not to rub up against the cauliflower-sized tumor on her right ear.

 When I return to check on Lola later, she’s racked out on the floor in my bedroom. I pause in the doorway. I stare at her still body, looking for a sign of life, of movement. Nothing. My hand goes to my chest. A lump forms in my throat. I begin to walk towards her. Hand shaking, I reach out. Her side feels hard; another fatty lump. And then I hear it. A shallow inhale. A raspy exhale. I collapse beside her on the floor. I curl up beside her. She continues to sleep, completely oblivious to my distress.

 When my tears have almost dried, Lola lifts her head with concerted effort. She sniffs and grunts, then lies her head back down. “It’s okay, Lola-beans,” I say. “Go on, back to sleep.” I tiptoe from the room -forgetting it doesn’t matter- and go outside. I plop down in a chair with a view of the forest. Birds are chirping a fiercely happy song, so definitive in their joy that I can’t help but feel a little of it too. “I trust the process of life,” I say. “All is well.”

 Days drag on into weeks, and still Lola hangs on by a thread to the spool of life. I grapple with mixed emotions; the heaviness of the burden complicated by our history. Of what was. One voice whispers that helping Lola to leave is the brave, kind thing to do, while another chimes in that it would be selfish and cruel. My head and my heart are at war with one another.

I don’t want to have this responsibility. I’m tired of feeling shut in with her, unable to travel, even for a day. She doesn’t tolerate change well. Even car rides stress her out. She often seems anxious when I return after only a few hours, out running errands. She’s vomiting, almost every day, drooling massive puddles all over the floor. She licks away at the tumors she can reach with her tongue, then pants and paces the floor, unable to settle.

“Babe, can we talk?” I say, interrupting my partner in life, who is listening to a podcast. Mister pulls the earbuds out and looks up at me.

“Of course.” He sits up and looks at me, giving me his full attention. “What’s up?”

“It’s Lola,” I say. “I need your advice, I’m at such a loss of what to do…”

I rattle on, listing all of the reasons that justify putting her down, then countering with all the explanations not to. 

“I support you, in whatever decision you choose,” Mister says. “I know, this isn’t easy, and the answer isn’t clear. You’ve given valid reasons for both choices. There is no right or wrong.”

“Maybe, since I don’t know, the best decision is none at all?” I say. I reach for his hand and grasp it in my own, as if I can channel his strength and integrity through his fingers into mine, then all the way to my heart.

“That sounds wise,” he says. “You can take it one day at a time.”

“Yeah,” I say. “There’s no need to rush this.”

“I urge you to take all the time you need,” he says. “I think likely, when the time is right, you’ll know, one way or another.”

“Yes, and perhaps I can trust life,” I say. “I know I want to. Thank you for listening.”

“Con gusto,” Mister says, reverting to our tenuous Spanish. “You’ve got this.”

I leave him to his podcast and go back inside. I roll out my yoga mat and sit cross-legged. I close my eyes and pray. I picture Lola chasing dry autumn leaves and rolling around in the grass. No revelations come to me. I wish I was sure of what to do, but I’m not. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m rooting for my heart to win this battle. I don’t want to make a decision based on pragmatics, or because it’s hard. I know how to do hard.

I gather all of my worries and concerns, all of my sadness and despair. I roll them up with my mat and tuck them back in the corner, for now. I carry on, one task, one day, at a time.

So yeah, I’m feeling challenged to find my resilience.         

COMING UP…

Books & Projects:

·      The Rogue Scorpion launched April 23, 2023 and is now available to order on Amazon.ca, Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Noble, and Chapters-Indigo.

·      All three of my previous books are available online at Amazon, Chapters-Indigo and Barnes & Noble. You can also find them at select Chapters-Indigo and El Hombre de la Mancha bookstores.

Reviews & Interviews:

·      April 21: Author Q&A with Laura Smith of Laura’s Books & Blogs

·      April 23: New Goodreads & Amazon reviews from Valeria Teles

·      April 25: Interview with Anne O’Connell of  OC Publishing

·      April 27: Interview with Tea Time with Miss Liz

·      April 27: Interview with Diann Floyd Boehm on  USA Global TV's Corner Bookstore

·      May 28: Author Q&A Interview with Indie View

·      TBD: Author Q&A with Sarah at Reading Nook

·      You can read reviews or listen to interviews on my website.

Events:

·      Thursday, May 11 @ 5 pm Author Signing Event at El Hombre de la Mancha Panama City Multiplaza mall location.

·      stay in touch for all the details.

YouTube Channel:

·      Watch The Rogue Scorpion trailer.

·      Watch The Holding trailer.

·      Watch The Healing trailer.