She looks like a cross between Groucho Marx and a dust mop, and she’s a bulwark against despair.
Millie desperately wants to trust her new life, but she can’t. To her, the world remains a dangerous place. Months after joining our family, she is still reluctant to poop, apparently afraid to make herself so vulnerable. On walks, she pulls on the leash, straining to reach the neighbors who are walking at the same time, but when she reaches them, she trembles violently. Simple trembling is the best-case scenario, actually. Sometimes she still drops to the ground, flips over onto her back and pees on herself.
For Millie is not the only one who is sad and worried and afraid. Last summer, five weeks apart, I lost two beloved dogs — the aging hound-shepherd-retriever mix who helped us raise our children and the aging dachshund who was my mother’s greatest comfort in her own last years. They were old, beset by infirmities, but when they died I was undone by grief.
Late midlife is invariably a time of loss. If you’re very lucky, the losses are utterly ordinary, completely predictable — parents who die of old age, children who grow up and move on, dogs who live a long time and then can’t live any longer. But being ordinary doesn’t make loss less painful.
Millie reminds me every day that life isn’t only a casting off, that it can also be, at times, an accruing. There will always be friends to make and seeds to plant. There will always be ways to help alleviate suffering. This, she reminds me, is no time for despair. This little rescue dog is rescuing me, too.
Last week, an unfamiliar noise woke my husband and me in the night. We sat up, puzzled. Then we heard it again and got up to follow the sound.
It was Millie, standing at the back door, barking. A possum had climbed up onto our deck, looking for spilled birdseed. It was a clear night, a full moon, and we could see the possum’s toothy grimace as clearly as we could see what woke us. She was standing at our feet, looking into our eyes and wagging her tail.