Byron Brumbaugh

The days are finally warming up and drying out. There’s an occasional rain storm, not amounting to much, that helps remove the deeper snow banks, but really doesn’t add to the mud. I can dress in a lighter jacket and no longer have to brace myself against the hard, low temperatures of winter. The tree-skeletons have little bumps on their branches that will soon become buds and then leaves. The grass around commercial buildings and homes, still yellow and brown, will green soon, and then require some poor soul to cut it. But not me – I’m retired. The air no longer has that naked freshness that follows a good cleansing by a big snowstorm, but it doesn’t yet have the fecund fullness of new-life spring. There are, though, more varied, and not yet fetid, suggestive aromas that waft their way to my nostrils and hint that spring will soon be sprung. Waldo and his nuclear grade olfactory organ must be inundated with new and interesting smells. He certainly spends a lot of time sniffing around.

I wonder what a life never full of desires for the future, responsibilities of the present, or regrets of the past might be like. Waldo’s never had a job, never had to be more than spontaneous, never been on a time clock other than that of his bodily needs. Is he close to what I’m trying to picture, but struggling with because most of my life was filled with those things? And this lack of artificial satiety isn’t impossible for people, either. Hunter gatherer societies, even today, aren’t employed by someone else, are driven by their internal diurnal biology, and don’t even have the concept of ownership.

You see, the thing is, most of those things I filled my life with in the past are now gone in retirement. When I was younger, if I moved on from a job, I always had my mind set on another. Not so anymore. I will not be looking for another career, buying a new house, a new car, getting married, having more kids – I will not be looking to fill my life with all the things I filled it with during my earlier years. Retirement is fundamentally different and requires a new direction, new motivations, new incentives. The future has become so much more finite – the inevitable end point so much nearer and no longer ignorable. All those things that used to be in my life and filled most of what my life was, are now gone. Retirement has left a partial, but significant, hole.

I need to put something in there because to do otherwise could lead to drowning in emptiness. I do still have goals – I have a second novel I want to finish and a collection of short stories about the homeless. I want to enjoy time with my children and grandchildren. But these goals are not designed to project me into an open-ended future – because of that, it could be so easy to feel that they were pointless. What do I gain by publishing, for example, if I’m just going to die? Loneliness and feelings of isolation and exile from what life used to be all about would follow and could lead to a desperate depression born from a fear that all that’s left is waiting around to take the final plunge into the ultimate emptiness. Anger, too, can rise up from the frustration of not being able to continue ad infinitum with the life I had and the helplessness of not being able to do anything to change the final outcome. I don’t feel any of these things, but I’ve seen it happen to others.

Fortunately, I have a plan. I have Waldo.

That choice was born of genius. I watch him as we move down our path, me on one end of the leash, he on the other. He trots along, turning this way and that. Hearing something, he stops, tilts his head as he tries to figure out what made the sound and if it’s chaseable. He lifts his nose, snorts the air, then dashes on, looking for the next thing to grab his attention. I can hear nothing unusual, I see nothing noteworthy, I can’t smell very much at all (compared to Waldo) and our surroundings seem very ordinary. Waldo, on the other hand, sees this world as new and fresh and magical. It’s my guess he’s very happy just being outside. His glee is contagious and it warms my soul.

Sharing these moments with Waldo fills my void with joy.

EVERYTHING needs a good sniff.

I turn my back to Waldo for just a few seconds. When I turn back around, he has gotten up on my recliner and is sitting, looking at me with a fur-face full of anticipation, awaiting a response (I could be projecting a bit – how much can you accurately read into hair?). I spend quite a bit of time in that chair, trying to recover from the old-man aches and pains of walking for three hours. Seeing no reaction (I’m mostly amused), he curls up and lies down as if testing to see just how far he can go. I squeeze in next to him and try to get some cuddle-time – petting his head, rubbing his shoulders just where he likes it most and talking to him in low soft tones. This doesn’t last long – he has way too much puppy energy to just chill. I swear he’s thinking, So, what’s the big deal with this spot to sit? It’s no better than anyplace else and not nearly as good as outside where you can watch rabbits. He’s back on the floor and brings me a pull-toy. He wants to play, not snuggle.

I’ve owned several dogs – always enjoyed having them around. I’ve had Australian shepherds, an Old English sheep dog, a collie, German shepherds and mutts. When I got divorced and the kids grew up and left to start homes of their own, I stopped having dogs. Work hours were too often and too long and I would have had to leave the dog home alone way too much. When it came time to retire, I anticipated that it might not be all that comfortable, jumping from the ER, a boiling cauldron filled with a witch’s brew of malaise (key in here a background refrain of, “Double, double, toil and trouble…”) to retirement, a sensory deprivation chamber that filters out all external stimuli (key in the gong of a Tibetan singing-bowl slowly fading off into absolute silence). Without something to fill the void, I could foresee myself sleeping way too much, not getting out of a way-too-comfortable easy-chair and slowly rotting from the inside. Not only did I want to have a dog again, I thought the right dog could fill in the relative emptiness created by leaving a life defined by a demanding career. Waldo does this so admirably.

Training a dog is really a misnomer. Any interaction requires at least two entities. In the case of a dog and a human, both are involved in any training that happens. Supposedly, the human being is the more intelligent, can learn more and do it easier than the dog (exception – really stubborn people). When it’s done right, both do this dance of behavior-adjustment, trying to facilitate a happier shared life. I am constantly watching and testing Waldo, trying to figure out what he needs, what he reacts to and how to get him to respond to me in situations where his well-being is at risk so I can keep him safe. I am, admittedly, still in the beginning stages, but it keeps me busy and fills in the holes left by being unemployed. Later, once we have the choreography mostly worked out, I’m sure Waldo will continue to fill my life with companionship because we will have a deepened mutual understanding and the communication that allows. At this point, Waldo, well, he’s just being a puppy, although he is exploring the boundaries and trying to figure out what behavior is permitted and what will get him what he wants and needs. Being in the recliner is okay, but it doesn’t get him much entertainment or excitement.

After a bit, he drops the toy we’ve been trying to tear asunder and lunges toward the front door, leaping at it with paws extended, making enough noise so he’s sure I noticed and know he’s serious. I sigh, move my age-stiffened carcass from the chair and put on my fur (my parka, the human equivalent to dog hair) and boots. It’s warmer outside, but still cold enough to require some protection from the elements. The warmer temperatures melted a lot of the snow, making the ground swampy and muddy in places. Sigh, when we get back, I’m going to need to dry off the dog (I keep a roll of paper towels near the door), and clean up the floor. But, right now, the band is tuning up and the next dance is about to start. Waldo’s getting me trained to take him out and, once we get there, I’ll continue to work on him to follow my lead.

For both of us, it’s time to walk.

THE OTHER END OF WALDO
(the one most familiar to me)

A loud, heart-rending, mournful howl yanks me from sleep. My well-developed emergency skills, finely honed with decades of experience, kick in. First, collect data. The clock says it’s one AM. A quick glance at Waldo shows a him in his crate, sitting up, in obvious distress, staring at the door. A quick review of his history reveals a dog who never soils his bed and sleeps throughout the night without issue. The prognosis is not good. The needed treatment is obvious. Waldo’s gotta go out and now!

I throw back the covers, don my underwear, socks, shirt and pants and race for my boots. I finally gave in and bought a pair of boots for the deep snow, and it takes time to lace them up. “Hang in there, Waldo. Give me just a minute!” I yell back at him.   I throw on a sweater (it’s very cold out there), grab my parka and run back to the crate. “Atta boy, let’s go!” I say as I open the crate door. Waldo bolts for the front door, but as I’m struggling to get his leash on (he’s strangely uncooperative), he assumes the position – butt next to the floor, tail outstretched behind, low back arched – and lets loose. He’s got a bad case of the squirts. The procedure is repeated a few times, producing less and less with each squirt, and then he seems to be a lot more comfortable. He’s done – for now. I put him back to bed, clean up the mess, and hope I’ll be able to finish the night without further ado.

I lay awake, looking for a diagnosis. Statistics would suggest he ate something he shouldn’t have. God knows I’ve seen him lap up water from puddles, pick up and chew detritus everywhere, even eat the yellow snow. I can’t prevent it and trying to intervene just seems to make him rush to swallow whatever he has in his mouth. He even eats rabbit raisins.

There are two kinds of rabbit raisins, you know. There’s your regular feces, but rabbits also produce something called cecotropes. You see, rabbits eat grass and other plants that are composed largely of cellulose.   But the only living things that can digest cellulose are bacteria. Only they have the enzyme needed to break the bond between the sugars that make up cellulose so they can be absorbed.  Rabbits are able to ingest the sugars in cellulose because they have a symbiotic mass of these bacteria in their cecum (beginning part of the colon). There, the bacteria produce the nutrient-rich cecotropes which are passed by the rabbits in the same way as their feces. The rabbits eat the cecotropes and absorb the nutrients. They do not eat their feces. Waldo does not have so discerning a palate and I’m pretty sure what he eats is mostly, if not entirely, rabbit feces. Maybe it was the rabbit poop that made him sick. Hard to know. It’s like trying to figure out the cause of a first-time allergic reaction. It could be anything.

Why do I perseverate on this stuff? I’m no longer in a position where its IT’S needed or even helpful. It’s not like my thinking it through in all this detail will help me decide what to do. That’s obvious. I take Waldo out as much as is necessary, feed him, make sure he has enough water and wait and watch. If the problem doesn’t correct itself, I take him to the vet. Part of it is the psychological momentum I mentioned before, but, I’ll have to admit, part of it is that I find it entertaining.

And, hell, I was good at what I did.

I glance at Waldo in his crate. He’s sleeping soundly. I close my eyes and follow his example.

The night passes without further disruption and I get up extra early to take the dog out. He squats and squirts several more times, but otherwise behaves like he always has. He is, clearly, not significantly ill. He sniffs under the evergreen bushes, looking for something to roust and chase, he wags his tail at any passers-by, he’s on the lookout for any and all adventure that might pass his way. He’s happy-go-lucky, not thinking about what happened, what will happen or what might happen. He is totally absorbed in what is happening.

Waldo is good at what he does.

I’ve got a ways to go and a lot of programming to delete to catch up.

Being inside with Waldo is a challenge. Despite my best intentions and frequent sojourns in the snow, it’s just too cold to spend much time outside. We try to compensate by playing inside – fetch, tug-of-war and training (like “sit,” “splat [lay down],” “stay” and so on). But it’s really not enough for the puppy and he has serious cabin fever. When he’s restless, he’s constantly at me, looking for entertainment – toys in my lap, dog in my lap, teeth on my shoes, paws clawing at my legs. I do my best to come up with new ways to keep him busy, but how much can you do while sequestered inside a one-bedroom apartment, seeking refuge from the winter weather? I can keep myself busy without any trouble, but Waldo – not so much. Eventually, I get tired of pulling on one end of a fabric toy soaked in dog slime and brace myself for winter in New England.

There is a rail-trail near where we live. It was used, originally, by a train that ran about 10.2 miles from Marlborough to the neighboring town of Hudson. The rails are gone and the two towns have paved over the path. No motorized vehicles are allowed (except snow plows) and it provides for a beautiful rural walk all year round. Dogs need to be on leash, but I don’t feel comfortable letting Waldo run free in a non-fenced-in area yet anyway. I like to go there whenever I can muster up the intestinal fortitude. It’s funny, once I’m out walking the dog, I really enjoy it. However, I very seldom would get my ass of my easy-chair and explore the great outdoors without the dog. Waldo loves it.

It’s a bit warmer outside than it has been, but still chilly when we get to the trail.   Temperature is just a couple of degrees above freezing and the air has that fresh, brisk, clean odor with only a wisp of snow-smell tainting the air. I can feel my cheeks, the only exposed skin I’ve allowed, flush in the cold. It brings out vague memories of playing in the snow in my younger years. I walk along on the plowed paved part of the path and Waldo runs in front of me, venturing from side to side into the deep snow, plowing into the banks, burrowing under the crusty surface and rolling around.

Waldo has an eight-meter-long leash, so he has a lot of leeway as to where he can go and what he can do. This is intentional. He spends most of his time at the extreme end of the leash, but he is not just walking (God knows he’d love to be running, if not for the old[ish] man-anchor at the other end), he is checking out everything. The least little movement grabs his attention and he stops and stares. Any discoloration in the snow deserves investigation, and, of course, everything, everything, needs a good sniff and sometimes a [yuk] taste. Sometimes, he stops, head up, sparkle in his eye, and just looks around. I can almost hear him think, Wow, this place is cool! I’m probably anthropomorphizing here, and definitely projecting, but, looking at Waldo, I get the sense that he is a new visitor to the world (which he is) who is totally enthralled by the magic around him that he is just discovering in the moment.

I strongly believe that curiosity is a sign of intelligence. In fact, I’m not so sure the two are not synonymous. Curiosity seems to be a necessary and sufficient condition for intelligence. I’ve never met anyone who was curious and not intelligent, nor anyone who I considered intelligent who was not curious. Waldo is very curious. About everything. A nearly empty memory bank requiring new input data, soaking it up constantly. Every person and dog we pass needs a Waldo-greeting. He waddle-wags his tail as he approaches and says hello. A couple of pats and pets by the passers-by and Waldo goes on, looking for the next thing, as if to say, “Been there, done that.” We do this for two to three hours, when I’m totally spent, then we return home. Waldo doesn’t slow down at all – until we get into the apartment. He has no throttle, just an on/off button. Once home, he lays down, apparently exhausted.

That doesn’t last long.

It’s cold out. And snowy and icy and slushy and generally miserable. But Waldo doesn’t mind, he loves the snow. He runs, slides, nuzzles the snow and eats it, rolls and makes snow angels and generally has a ball. Me, I follow behind, as best I can at half puppy-speed, tramping along in old loafers, trying to keep the snow outside my shoes. Waldo runs to the end of the leash, turns and looks back at me as if to say, “Come on, old man! I’m on a mission!”, then turns his attention to a large, low, thick evergreen bush, sniffs around and under the dense leafage at its base, looking, I’m sure, for a rabbit warren. I tighten the leash and urge him to reverse course by saying, “This way.” If he gets tangled up in there, I’ll never get him out. I’ve had him for only a little over a month, but he understands what I want and complies. We’ve done a lot of walking. Many times a day.

It’s been two weeks since I worked my last shift. It doesn’t feel like I’m not going back. It feels more like I’m on vacation – something I didn’t get much of when I was working, but used to great advantage to decompress when I did. It’s funny how you can have this psychic momentum that propels you forward even when your life has changed, almost as if you are still on automatic pilot, doing what you’ve been doing for so long – working, resting, then back to work. I know I’m not going back to work, but some part of me does not.   Work defined who I was by what I did. I’m still that person, but no longer characterized by saving lives, alleviating pain and aiding the diseased. I don’t think I’ve worked out in my subconscious just who I am now, but whoever it turns out to be, just by the amount of time and energy I put into it, a large part must be “doggy-daddy.”

Waldo stops and squats with his butt in the snow just an inch above the ground. It doesn’t look to me like there’s enough room for him to leave a deposit, but he manages. Sizeable one too. I reach in my pocket and pull out a doggy doo-doo bag, but before I can retrieve what he’s left behind, he’s off at full puppy speed, looking for the next adventure. “Wait!” I call out as I reach down, fighting against the tugging leash. Waldo pauses, but only for a moment. A puppy’s attention span is short and he’s easily distracted. The apartment complex has several dog-waste disposal bins placed around the property. I locate one and redirect our course.

We haven’t gone far and Waldo’s ears perk up and he’s staring, motionless, into the distance. I look in the same direction and notice three kids playing in the snow, sliding down a gentle slope on broad flat pieces of plastic designed for that. He bolts out in their direction, tail wagging back and forth with a vigor that makes him waddle. I call out to the kids and let them know he’s friendly and ask if it’s okay if he says hello.   “Yeah, sure!” they call back as they bend over, mitten-covered hands outstretched in preparation to pet the puppy. Waldo approaches in a submissive low to the ground, posture, tail going to-and-fro with even more ferocity. Soon, all are wrapped up in the leash as Waldo dances around, trying his best to lick each and every one. God, he knows how to have a good time.

Hmmm. Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned here…

My only real complaint is the weather. I am so looking forward to warmer days. True, with the higher temperatures comes first the melting snow, then the mud, then the spring rains and more mud. But the ground will firm up eventually and, in the meantime, as muddy as it may be, it won’t be so uncomfortable to stay outside for long periods. Mud can be washed off, after all. Well, okay, brushed, washed, rinsed, dried, more brushing and so on. Sometime this summer, I’ll be sweating, Waldo panting, and we’ll both be looking forward to a cooler clime.

But not now. Now it’s time to go inside and thaw out.

“Now this is not the end.  It is not even the beginning of the end.  But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

             – Sir Winston Churchill, after the battle of El Alamein, Egypt, 1942

I am seventy years old.  Seventy.  Seventy?  How can that possibly be?  I understand the physics of it, the physiology of it.  I understand the chronology, the biology, the sociology – hell, all the -ologies.  But spiritually, well, that’s something else.  When I look at that wrinkled, gray-haired, age-spotted poor impersonation of me looking back at me from the mirror…  Well, it just isn’t right, that’s all.  There’s been some mistake.  I’m not him.  How did that happen?  I must not have been paying attention.

But it’s what the records show.  So, I take advantage and retire from being a full-time ER doc to being, well, retired.  I took the leap from a pressure cooker, where “life-and-death decisions” is not a figure of speech, and into the vacuum of deep space.  I’m still trying to get my head around just what it is that I’ve done.

Retired. You know what that means, right?  According to the old adage, retired means tired again.  Fitting, I suppose.  I really feel it when I do those things that used to be ordinary, like walking a few miles with my puppy, Waldo.  What, not so long ago (seemingly), I could take in stride and feel pleasantly exhausted afterward, like a three-hour stroll, I now finish feeling spent and aching in places I didn’t realize I had places.  No, not just aching, feeling real pain.  My feet, my calves and, don’t get me started, my back.  There must be some truth in this seventy thing.  Damn.  Well, maybe it’ll improve after I’ve had some time to get into shape…  That still happens at seventy, right?

Now Waldo, he’s a real sweetheart.  I chose a border collie because I wanted a dog that would force me to regularly get my ass out of the house and exercise, just to release his daily basal energy.  They are very active dogs.  The experts say they need a minimum of four to six hours a day of exercise.  I can handle that, I thought.  It’ll give me something to help fill my day and structure my life-in-retirement.  Uh-huh, sure, Mr. Age-denial.  Waldo is patient with me, though, and we struggle along as we merge our lives.  It is a thrill to watch him run and play, sniff about and explore his new world (he’s only six months old now).

We live in a large apartment complex in central Massachusetts.  There are some two dozen buildings, with twelve apartments per building, separated by expanses of green grass, bushes and trees.  Wild rabbits live there and when Waldo sees one, he bolts after it in a gallop that nearly wrenches me off my feet when he slams into the end of the leash.  He looks back at me as if to say, “Really?  I almost had him!”  I sorely wish I could let him off-leash and go after the thing.  Besides the fact that it would wear him out and give me some peace, watching him enlivens a spirit in me that I haven’t seen in quite a while.

Waldo and I, we have a January-Octoberish relationship.  He’s at the very beginning of his life and me, well, I’m nowhere near the end of mine, but I am significantly further down the road.  Being with him provides me with a perspective I might, otherwise, have missed.  It kind of closes the “circle of life” for me and reminds me, a bit, what the early years of life were like and that puts what’s happening to me now into a focus that awakens a sense of wonder.  This thing we call life is magic.  No matter what happens in it.  As bad as it can get sometimes, it is not nothing, not an empty void.  It is full of joy, pain, anger, peace, fear, self-confidence, love, hate – all the vast colors of experience that we conjure up daily by merely opening our eyes.  I look back at my life and wonder, “What the hell was that all about?” and look at Waldo and wonder, “What kind of life will he have?”  But the reality of life is in the rabbit-chasing moment.  The here and now.  Waldo excited by the chase and me being thrilled at seeing him have fun being a dog.

Waldo has been quiet for a couple of hours and is now jumping on my recliner, telling me it’s time to douse some of his nuclear grade energy.  It’s take him out now or deal with a hyperactive puppy.  I shall return.