Instinct

I had absolutely no intention of writing about this topic...in fact, I've had two other topics on my mind for the last few days that have been rolling around continuously. One is a typical what's-been-happening-these-last-few-days type story and one is more philosophical. But they will have to wait for now because another topic has entered the fray and I want to talk about it a bit before I lose the thought.

I was just looking at a picture of Shabbi that I posted on Facebook (yes, I have a page there now, so feel free to "friend" me if you are also there). The picture I was looking at was taken in the last year of her life, so she had the far-away look of a dog without all its faculties about it; essentially, she was in the clouded world of dementia. It still makes me sad to see her like that, but in some ways, I'm extremely glad that we held onto her as long as we did. Because throughout her steady downhill regression, she still held onto some very base instincts that to this day surprise the hell outta me.

Just the very idea that she knew to drink water when she was thirsty, and had memory of where her water dish was---was that actual memory or some type of instinctual basis that can't be lost no matter how severe the dementia? Stick food in front of that girl and she would gobble it down, biting your fingers in the process if you didn't move them fast enough, even on her last day. One of Adam's and my favorite stories (well, favorite stories now; he was pretty peeved about it when it actually happened) occurred the day before Shabbi passed away. We were still living out in California, and had a nice, expensive loaf of Cheddar cheese bread that we had bought while visiting San Luis Obispo. I had purposely put the loaf (what I thought was) out of reach of both Shabbi and Kika while I drove Adam to work the next morning. When I got back to the hotel room, I found Shabbi unceremoniously and unabashedly eating the bread, not even stopping with any sense of guilt when I caught her. I knew that the bread loaf had been too far out of Kika's reach, but somehow Shabbi, with her bad legs, incontinent-diaper-clad self, and through her senility, had managed to locate the source of the fine aroma, access it and eat it without guilt. I immediately took it out of her reach, but the loaf was too far gone at that point, so I divided the rest between the two girls and watched, half annoyed and half overjoyed as they finished off the rest. Some type of instinctual desire for food and pleasure was at work there, and even failed sensibilities couldn't trump that.

Shabbi was no longer able to give love or affection to us that last year. Sometimes I doubt she really recognized us, although since we were the hands that fed, she kept us around. But one thing I did notice was her ability to receive tenderness and affection. One of my favorite things to do was roll her on her back, with her head in my lap, all the while stroking her belly and kissing her cheeks. No matter how little she knew or remembered me, she would always be lulled into utter contentment, her eyes rolling back into her head, by this simple act. I convinced myself that it was the one way for us to connect, even though I knew she didn't know me from a hole in the wall. Does this mean that instinct allows us to accept nurturing because we need it, even if we're not in a position to reciprocate?

But to say that she didn't show me affection is probably not a fair statement. While she wasn't able to show it in the same way anymore, I think she showed it in the only way she knew how--by staying alive. Shabbi's existence, while pitiful, never seemed to cause her pain until the very end. By then, Adam had returned and I was no longer on my own. My friend Janice who Shabbs, Kiks and I lived with in Oregon, insists that Shabbi held on so long because she was waiting for Adam to return, not only so she could see him again, but also so she wouldn't leave me alone. If this is at all true, Shabbi's one last final act of love toward Adam and me (and Kika) is one that we will never, never forget.

Even now, more than a year after Shabbi's passing, I continue to be amazed and intrigued by the spirit of her 14 years of life, and by the spirit of her last difficult year. While I look back with sadness over the life that I miss having with me everyday, I know that I will always value every single second--both good and bad--for all that they taught me. Shabbi was not just any dog; she was our very wonderful girl, right until the end.