“Why are there so many dogs here?”
My brother Phil walked through the front door carrying his laptop and a bag of sandwiches from Sammy’s Deli.
“They started showing up about a week ago,” I said. “They’re all senior dogs.”
“Showing up? Did someone drop then off?”
“I don’t know. They just showed up. Dad won’t let me get rid of them.”
“Does he know…”
“Dad doesn’t know anything. He likes the dogs. There are more of him in his bedroom.”
Our father was 96 years old and in the process of checking out of life. Now unable to walk, or remember much of anything, he sat in a big chair in his room, with an ancient cat named Sprint on his lap, and five dogs I’d never seen before six days ago.
One dog showed up last Sunday – a medium sized black dog with a gray muzzle and dull fur flecked with white. She must be at least sixteen, or maybe older. No collar. No chip. She walked up with driveway and scratched at the door. I let her in and she went back to my dad’s room. Over the next week his caretaker and I watched two dozen more old dogs slowly walking down the driveway to see my dad. No collars. The ones with chips belonged to people who no longer wanted to respond to calls, or people who had died.
The dogs were of all breeds and sizes. There were three German shepherds, six small terrier and fluffy toy breeds. One was a black standard poodle, another an Australian shepherd. A huge ancient German shorthair kept guard on the front porch. An old Doberman curled at the foot of my dad’s bed. The rest looked like Labs and assorted Lab mixes.
“The last dog came yesterday.” I told my brother. “There might be more coming today. I don’t know how many more they will be.”
“Did you or Bill see any cars or people drop them off?” Phil asked.
“No. I didn’t see or hear anything. The dogs just walk up the drive from the road.”
Dad was glad to see Phil. The cat purred. The dogs all wagged their tails, except the ones without tails who just wiggled their old butts.
Phil, Dad, Bill, and I all had sandwiches together. The dogs didn’t beg. I gave a piece of ham to the the cat.
After lunch Phil and I went to the backyard and sat down on the old swings we’d spent hours on when we were kids.
“What are we going to do with the dogs when Dad goes?”
“I don’t know Phil. Find homes for them, I guess. Call the local news stations. People will adopt them. I might take one or two of them.”
“What if they die when dad dies.”
“I guess we call the vet and ask if they know of someone who can, you know, take them away in a respectful way. I’m not going to bury them. Are you still going to take Sprite.”
“My kids would kill me if I didn’t. I love that old cat.”
“Me too,” I said.
The dogs started to take their last breaths, one by one. Ten days later our dad took his. There were only three dogs left to see my dad off on his journey.
In all there were seventeen old dogs who came down the driveway to see our dad off. The last three were with us, our kids, and a few friends when dad finally left us.
Phil took Sprite and a sweet old dog who looked like a scruffy Toto. I took an old German shepherd and a dog who looked like a golden lab mix. We got a name from the vet of someone who could come take the other dogs as they left us.
We never called the news stations. We never knew where the dogs came from. My dad never said anything about them. He was just glad to have them there.
And so was I.
~ end
~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman
Vampire Maman 