Enter Senility

NOTE:  The following chapter is excerpted from a non-fiction book entitled “The Klondike Chronicles”, which was authored by Fred Blahnik and published in 2015.

 

Enter Senility…..

In his later years subtle changes came over Klondike, and I would be lying to you if I said all of those changes were for the good.  For one thing–in precisely the same manner it happens with older humans–our beloved dog’s frame began to shrink, and a frail, fragile shell gradually emerged from where a sturdy, virile, ultra-proud canine gladiator’s physique once stood.  But this natural transformation did not negatively influence Klondike’s coat of fur, unlike elderly male humans who are decidedly prone to losing cranial hair over time.  No, if anything that thick fur of his grew ever longer, denser, and more matted as the years slid by, giving Klondike the false appearance of girth.  Thus I recall being very surprised at just how light Klondike really was on those infrequent occasions when I would stoop down to pick him up.

This benign act of affection calls to mind separate memories as well, again not all favorable ones.  When Klondike was a puppy–and in fact even when he was a young and middle-aged dog–he used to relish having me pick him up to cuddle and subsequently carry around our yard for a short while.  The hirsute rascal would huddle good-naturedly in my arms with his tail wagging enthusiastically, occasionally even making a cursory attempt to lick my face.  But in those older, senescent years, as the final chapters of Klondike’s life inexorably played out……no such luck!! 

I would have been an incorrigible dunce to have my face anywhere near Klondike’s jaws during those tense moments, because as a living, breathing fossil he would grow markedly hostile whenever I reached down and snatched him up from the ground.  Our mangy senior citizen would squirm uncomfortably in my arms and growl in an inordinately menacing manner, and cap off this pugnacious display of behavior by making frequent attempts to bite me in order that I set him down immediately on terra firma where he was convinced he authentically belonged.

Now understand, Reader, I wasn’t picking Klondike up just to antagonize him in those rare instances, but rather it was strictly force of habit in wanting to hold my longtime sidekick close to me for a few minutes and embrace him as though he was still an adorable puppy.  But nevertheless, given Klondike’s new propensity for biting and his obvious disillusionment with being held, I eventually–albeit reluctantly–put a stop to this lifelong habit.

But before leaving this line of thought altogether, I would be remiss if I did not relate a short anecdote from the final winter of Klondike’s life.  In the midst of that coldest of seasons–during a particularly savage blizzard one workday evening–I stepped out into our attached garage to check on our two dogs and to verify that both were managing to survive the swirling tempest okay.  Although the puppy Aleutian was doing fine and he came rushing to greet me wearing an ear-to-ear grin, sadly……his wizened, rumpled companion was nowhere to be seen. 

Dementia had begun to visit the old dastard more and more frequently by this juncture so I wasn’t totally surprised by his absence, yet I was duly worried inasmuch as the maelstrom raging outside was especially abominable, while our graying dog’s natural defenses against a climatic beast of that ilk were by now largely compromised.  Thus I reflexively began fretting worse than a wartime mistress with three equally committed lovers spread across three separate combat zones……

I thereupon donned the whole of my bulky, official Minnesota winter garb and walked outside into the teeth of the howling northwest gale, and it didn’t take me but a thimbleful of seconds to locate my longtime canine friend.  Klondike was cuddled up in a ball on the snow-covered ground–coiled up akin to a snake, his nose tucked safely into his mid-section–just to the east of our attached garage.  My heart melted immediately for him right then, for the simple fact an old grandpa dog should not have to endure such a vicious storm while being asked to absorb the full brunt of its demonic winter elements in stride.  I accordingly shambled up next to Klondike and instinctively scooped him up in my arms, just like I had done countless times in his youth.

A big mistake, maybe, but one inarguably rooted in compassion.

To say that Klondike was surprised when this happened would be a classic understatement……

The grimy old hound had no clue whatsoever with regard to what was transpiring as this took place, and he therefore responded to what he perceived to be a physical attack by striking out in kind–baring his front teeth, growling sinisterly, and making every attempt to bite me so that I would automatically release my grip on him.  Which, given the ongoing ferocity of the surrounding storm, I was equally determined NOT to do!

Next I carried the reluctant and still-battling old fart into our attached garage and shut the door behind us as we entered, thereby spontaneously creating a relatively warm, inviting haven for anyone or anything lucky enough to be inside that protected structure.  I lastly deposited Klondike atop his thick sleeping mat on the floor of the building.

All is now well in Fred Blahnik’s world, right???

Both of our dogs have been taken care of to everyone’s satisfaction, one would assume……???

I ONLY WISH!!!!!

It is fair to say Klondike wasn’t overly grateful for my act of kindness, to understate this case just a little, and he pursuantly startled me with a look of a pure hate–a look I had never seen inscribed in his eyes during any of his earlier years–before sauntering over to the dog door with as much dignity as he was able to muster under the grotesque circumstances attending that surreal evening……and then without so much as a backward glance over his shoulder, Ol’ Klondike subsequently headed back out into the fearsome elements as though it was the middle of summer.  

And I of course felt sad at that moment–dreadfully, inconsolably sad–since I knew I could not be a fulltime babysitter to my most loyal friend and consequently there was nothing I could do–short of locking Klondike up in a confined space, something I would NEVER consider trying–to keep or persuade him to stay inside our toasty-warm garage during a bilious storm.

Yet the preceding story was just a microcosm for the bevy of changes that overcame ancient Klondike by this late juncture, for he no longer resembled the dynamic pugilist of his youth any more than a graceful butterfly resembles a lumbering, intrinsically ugly caterpillar.  The vital juvenile dog who had spent an overwhelming percentage of his younger years frolicking out in our yard and investigating every square inch of our property–and even some territory that didn’t belong to us!–now lounged around disinterestedly each and every day, content to do only those activities that would sustain his physical viability—Nothing more!–and seemingly happy with this existential “decision”.  Said insidious languor seemed to closely correspond with a gradual loss of Klondike’s physical senses as well, which were once so acute he might just as well have been conceived a feral animal for all of his innate canniness.

With that in mind…..if one was preparing a scouting report on decrepit old Klondike Blahnik at this point in his life, it would go something like this:  Our once-proud cur’s all-important five physical senses had slowly and largely abandoned him by this juncture, his ambition had followed the same lonely route and all but taken leave of his body……only his will to survive seemed to remain strong, although given his increasingly torpid lifestyle one was left to wonder just how long that basic instinct would continue to stay healthy and remain entrenched as a driving seminal force during his twilight years.

And then, toward the very end, even as spring 2008 could be visualized as a sort of distant mirage when February arrived on the calendar and began to manifest with more days and ever increasing sunlight, Klondike proceeded to lose the few remnants that were left of his good common sense.  This fact was epitomized best by the times when he would venture down to the end of our driveway to relieve his bladder, something he had grown accustomed to doing throughout his by-now-long lifetime.  I witnessed the following condensed story on at least two separate occasions, and it broke my heart and worried me immeasurably both times it occurred.

Specifically:  Klondike would finish lifting his leg on a big snowdrift at the end of the driveway, and it would then of course be time for him to return to our yard and the garage he inhabited.  Yet it became obvious to me that, in the span of only a few puny seconds, our Methuselahesque dog could not remember the direction from wherest he came, and the befuddled creature would pursuantly stand there looking altogether confused–staring off in every conceivable direction before finally making up his mind and setting off steadfastly on a southerly trajectory down the township road on which we Blahniks live.

Fortunately, our young dog Aleutian rescued Klondike from his folly on both occasions–sprinting down to the end of the driveway, fraternizing with his old mentor briefly, and subsequently leading the confused pooch in the proper direction back to our house and garage.  The ever-noble Klondike didn’t see this as any sort of assistance, however, and probably thought–just as in times gone by–that it was HE who was leading the fledgling dog to safety as he unflaggingly had in years past.

Incredibly poignant to witness, that was, and incredibly worrisome too…..to see just how far Klondike had plummeted mentally and just how great a toll dementia had extracted from his once hyper-acute brain.

And I knew in my heart right then and there that something bad was bound to happen to dear old Klondike if things didn’t somehow miraculously change around our property–and change FAST!!!!!