When my dog Angus walked past his food dish on Saturday morning, I redirected him and said, "Goofball, you overshot it." When he stumbled down the steps, I worried that maybe he was a little tuckered out from our walk the day before. "You're getting clumsy in your old age, Gus," I teased, knowing full well that he couldn't hear me. (I still talk to him since he went deaf; I can't help it.) But when we got to the street, and he passed his arch nemesis, the Devil Dachshund from the Fourth Floor, without so much as a twitch, I suspected something was more seriously wrong, although I didn't know what. Angus did his business promptly and we went back inside, where I sat down with my paper. Angus remained in the entryway, which seemed odd for my little Velcro dog, but I didn't think too much about it.
A few minutes later, Angus made his way toward me, bumping into the dining chair and then the coffee table. He sat near my feet, but looked at the wall. I suddenly became alarmed. I was eating a handful of almonds, and his eyes should have been on the food with that accusatory, "You never feed me" stare. I held a nut up to his face, and his glassy gaze remained on the wall. I moved the almond in circles, left to right, up and down. Angus remained still. I put the almond right up to his mouth, and he started, surprised by my touch. I brought my fingers to his eyes, and they didn't blink. He had the vacant look of a zombie, and his head swayed gently like a canine Stevie Wonder, as he tried to figure out where I was. I realized then that he had gone blind.
I leapt to my feet and carried him to a better-lit part of the loft. I waved my arms. I shouted. I snapped and clapped. I leapt up and down. Angus walked toward the kitchen cabinet and bumped his head. I moved more frantically to get his attention, and he strode full speed into the bathroom door. He had no idea where I, or he, was. I blew on him and fanned my hands in his face so he could feel the air move, and he walked past me and nearly set his foot in his water bowl. I scooped him up in the nick of time and held him in my arms. I didn't know what to do.
A great sorrow engulfed me and I collapsed on the floor, still holding Angus. I began to sob -- great, heaving griefsobs that come from the same place as your first gasp for air after several minutes underwater. It wasn't as though he had died, I realized, but the pain of him losing a second sense so soon after he had gone deaf was overhwhelming. I shouted that it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. He was just understanding our sign language. Now how would we communicate? How would he know I was there, that I loved him, that I had a treat for him? If I had known his sight would be gone, I would have taken him swimming the day before, or to the North Shore, or to the woods by Battle Creek -- somewhere he could enjoy his vision one last time. And I sobbed until his fur was wet with my tears. "I love you, Gus!" I shouted over and over again, because I didn't know what else to do.
When the great waves of grief had passed, I called people. My mom. My ex, Patrick. My friends Doug and Sarah. I called Sarah because I knew she'd pray for us without me even having to ask it. I needed that. I needed another conduit to God.
Drained from the experience, I moved Angus to the center of the living area and tried to go about my morning normally. I picked up the rest of the Times and my now-cold coffee and started to read. And Angus sat there, swaying his head in confusion.
Now here's the part that I can't explain. Later, I'm not sure how much later, I got up and went to zap my coffee in the microwave. Angus rose to follow me. I assumed he had felt the air move as I went by him. I opened the refrigerator, and he came up next to me, waiting expectantly for me to pull something out for him -- a carrot, a piece of cheese, whatever. Something edible, his funny little face seemed to plead. He could see.
I walked around the loft and he followed. I jumped up on the bed, and he did, too. I took him outside, and he saw his friend Millie the Poodle and sniffed her butt. He saw that evil squirrel, barking and pulling me across the grass to chase it up a tree. And I laughed. And I looked through the trees to the blue Saturday afternoon sky, and I said, "Thank you."
My mind immediately went to a place of rationalization. Maybe he had a little seizure? Maybe he had some kind of allergic reaction? And as I, by no means a scientist, considered the possible medical explanations, I had to ask myself: were any of these more credible than the idea that I had witnessed a tiny miracle?
I imagined God on a cloud slapping his head in exasperation. "Dude, I fixed your dog's eyes! What do I have to do to get your attention?" And I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, God, or the Universe, or the three Fates, or whoever, had cared enough about my crazy little dog and me to give him his sight back.
The next day, I took Angus to Lake Nokomis for a swim. With summer ending, and the possibility of his sight fading unexpectedly, I wanted to watch him play in the water again. With people, you know when you have shared memories; you can talk about them, pull out old photographs, or reread letters. With pets, you almost never have the sense of common memory. Every time I take Angus to Nokomis, however, I know he is remembering the place. I know that he's excited to swim. He starts barking as soon as I open the back of my SUV and it's all I can do to contain him in the truck while I put on his leash. He wants to bound across the street and get to the lake. He pulls me; he looks impatiently over his shoulder as if to ask, "What's the hold up, old man?" And we get to the water's edge and he jumps in and scoops a big gulp of water and looks back at me. He barks. "We're here!" he smiles. "We're at the swimming place!" And we play fetch and we swim together.
Last Sunday, as we did this, I was acutely aware that it might be the last time we could swim. I did not chastise Angus for rolling in the sand; I didn't scold him for playing with the dead fish. We just enjoyed the wet, and the sun, and the day. When we were done, we walked, and Angus strode way ahead of me, pulling on the leash, chasing butterflies and smelling wildflowers (or the dog pee on them). Everything seemed bright. The end-of- summer grass was a brilliant green; the sky shimmered blue. The shadows of ancient oaks appeared dark and crisp; the lakeside barbeques smelled rich and tasty. Families of many nationalities -- Somali, Mexican, Hmong -- played games and ate their picnic meals. We all smiled at each other as Angus and I walked by. All of us shared the glory of the day and held onto summer's last moments like the string of a helium balloon that could slip away and vanish into the clouds at any second.
I have a Miracle Dog, and I will endeavor every day to show him something worth seeing, as long as he can see. It's an interesting paradox -- as if awareness of the fleeting nature of our senses makes possible the ability to enjoy them. Earlier in the morning, I had heard a radio personality quote William Blake, and his Swedenborgian philosophy proved strangely apt for the way I felt that day.
To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
