photograph by frank murtaugh
Rita
We humans learn a lot from dogs. When we pay attention, that is. Live in the moment. Let a loved one know you’re happy to see them. Naps are good. Snacks are good, too, in moderation. Most importantly … be there.
I’ve learned much over the last two years from the lone canine in my family, a 9-year-old Goldendoodle we know as Rita. There’s been some heartache and stress in the learning, but far more inspiration, even admiration. In the spring of 2022, you see, Rita lost ten pounds, nearly 25 percent of her body weight. And she lost it fast. Her breed has lengthy fur (until trimmed), so the weight loss hid itself visually. Once discovered, it was more than a little scary. The good folks at Memphis Veterinary Specialists ran several tests and ruled out the worst (cancer) and the merely threatening (intestinal blockage). Ultimately, Rita was diagnosed with irritable bowel disorder (IBD).
In layman’s terms, our dog’s digestive system doesn’t absorb or process nutrients normally. She’s on a special diet, but even eating more than twice the amount a dog of her size should, Rita does not gain weight. (Sounds kinda magical, doesn’t it? At least for those of us who like cheeseburgers.) What goes in, almost entirely comes out. Rita is on no fewer than five medications to balance her system the best we can, and balanced her system has remained for 18 months now. She’s thin. She eats a lot. She visits the backyard a lot. But she has plenty of energy, plenty of appetite(!), and clearly loves being the dog she is. She’s living in the moment on a macro level.
Dogs sense stress. And they feel it deeply enough to show a sympathetic touch.
And Rita has been invaluable, especially during a year that has delivered its share of blows in my world. My beloved St. Louis Cardinals finished in last place for the first time in 33 years, and that’s the least of my problems as 2023 nears its end. I’ve lost friends too early, endured my adult daughters’ challenges — there’s no worry like those we absorb for our kids — and felt the weight of geographic distance as older members of my family struggle with health matters. In a month when we devote a holiday to gratitude, I’ve had to extend my reach at times, the “blessed” and “fortunate” parts getting blurry amid life doing its thing. But Rita’s still here, still there in that universal sense, and she provides balance.
Dogs sense stress. And they feel it deeply enough to show a sympathetic touch. In Rita’s case, when she sees and hears my reaction to the Cardinals blowing another late-inning lead, she’ll approach me and place her left front paw on one of my knees. I’ll take the paw in one of my hands (sometimes both), and rub it gently. We’re gonna be okay, sweet Rita, even if this dreadful baseball team is not.
Among the most valuable lessons Rita has shared during her own health battle is the simple act of acceptance. She’s thin. It appears she could remain thin the rest of her life. Does she feel malnourished? Hungry? That’s an impossible question, even for a seasoned vet. Rita is enthusiastic at play. She strains the leash on our walks. She loves meeting new human friends. All of these are indications that, by her own definition, Rita is healthy. And this keeps my wife and me healthy, even if Rita’s ribs are too easy to tickle.
I am, in fact, quite blessed. We can afford to manage Rita’s IBD, and not every dog-owner could adjust a budget for such needs. I’ve lived nine years with a delightful, fun companion, and I have hopes for more, with an understanding today — the now — is most important, both for Rita and her human family. Will we feast on Thanksgiving? Yes, we will, but by our own standard for the word. Rita is living proof that the food we consume is actually not who we are, and that nourishing oneself comes in many forms and methods beyond a dining table.
Rita extends her paw, you see, but it’s her heart she gives. We can all follow that lead.
