How I Love

Cozmo-the-dog is showing signs of dementia. Yes, I know I see dementia everywhere, but also yes, I am sure. 

The look of confusion on his face when he’s rung the bell and I’ve taken him outside to his run but he’s forgotten what he’s there for. “Did you want to come outside to pee?” I ask him. “It’s okay if you just wanted to check for lions.” (Lions because he’s a Ridgeback, originally bread in Zimbabwe to help hunters capture lions.) The way he stands in the middle of the room, as if wondering what he’s supposed to be doing. (Nothing. He’s never supposed to be doing anything, except exactly what he wants to do, which is usually napping.) And the blank look in his eyes, sometimes, when I cuddle him good morning and he appears to be puzzled as to who I am. 

He’s almost ten human years, and that’s old in Ridgeback years. I’ve only been his stepmum for the past two and a half. I know this drill—I’m a short term memory, and so I’ll be one of the first to go. 

I’m aware he’s aging physically. He can’t always jump up in to the back of the car. After an hour-long walk he tires. He’s anxious when he can’t see David. He takes his time on stairs, avoiding them whenever possible. We’ve unrolled a floor runner to help him navigate the path from the door, to his water bowl, to his beds. (He was once one of four ridgebacks in the house—he has many beds from which to choose.)

I have watched other dogs grow old without losing their memories. Cozmo is different. Two years ago he didn’t ever look discombobulated, and he never hesitated. Now he’s uncertain, sometimes fearful. 

“He can’t tell you what he’s thinking or feeling,” the vet remind me. “He doesn’t have English, or words in any language.”

I know. I know. Doug can’t tell me what he’s thinking or feeling, either. He doesn’t have English or words. 

I have snuck Piper-the-cat into Doug’s care home; it would be more of a challenge to walk Cozmo (120 pounds, about the height of a dining room table) through the reception where I sign in. And who would benefit? Not Cozmo, being in a strange place, full of unfamiliar smells and sounds. Doug is an animal lover, and at one time he’d have enjoyed petting Cozmo’s head, caressing his velvet-smooth ears, but now he no longer strokes his dementia-friendly or soft stuffed animals. 

I hold Doug’s hand. I feed him treats. I take him outside whenever possible. I tell him that I love him.

I am doing the same for Cozmo. 

Because really, what is "caregiving" if not showing love the best way I know how to?