WEDNESDAY: Stitching

BY MARG HEIDEBRECHT

Copyright is held by the author.

IT’S BEEN a summer of cones at my house. Not just the ice-cream variety devoured by grandchildren on the front steps, while we play a game where we each choose a car colour, and count until someone’s tally reaches ten. This summer required a different cone, the one pet owners recognize; the plastic weave-a-collar-through-looped-tabs contraption that extends and widens to prevent an animal’s mouth from reaching a site that needs to heal. Think lamp at a party if an exuberant dancer flipped the shade upside down before pulling it over their head. In July while our American neighbours were celebrating their independence, 13-year-old Blossom was losing hers. A tumour, an anaesthetic, an incision. And a plastic cone.

There are complicating factors. A husband who’s also endured an anaesthetic, an incision, though thankfully not a tumour. Plus, a second dog, Gilly, who’s prompted by instinct to lick and clean her companion which could, probably would, loosen the stitches that are doing their best to hold the wound closed.

“Keep the cone on. Keep the dogs apart.” The vet is calm, competent; a man of few words. I once asked how he made a diagnosis given his patients’ inability to describe their symptoms. He told me he wouldn’t know what to do if they could. He relies on observation, experience, and I rely on him. On his assistant too. Amelia is upbeat, chatty. She reports with enthusiasm on a recent pig roast and describes how she nabbed tickets for an upcoming rock concert; a peek into how she spends her time when she’s not answering the phone or passing sterilized instruments to her boss.

With the older dog restricted to walks to the curb and the younger free to explore the yard, I become an elementary school principal setting up a schedule for outdoor play. Blossom: cone off, leash on, outside, inside, leash off, cone on. Gilly: backyard, back in, leash on, long walk, leash off. On repeat and on my own since my usual assistant is occupied with his own regime of ice packs and physiotherapy.

The conversation inside the house sounds like Abbott and Costello’s on-stage banter in Who’s on First? in which the similarity between names of baseball players and the questions about their field positions creates confusion. And a hilarious skit. My own frantic opening and closing of doors to check Who’s Where? is less amusing; a slip-up could lead to a set-back. Forget stitches for snitches. It’s glitches I’m worried about.

Overnight requires a sleep divorce. I move into another room with the recuperating dog; a 40-year throwback to the broken sleep that accompanied a newborn. This time, it’s a thump, not a cry, that startles me; the sound of a restless dog bumping into the door, a wall, the bookshelf in her attempt to find a comfortable position. Wide awake. Both of us. Other nights are too quiet; I turn on the bedside lamp, observe the subtle rising and falling of her chest that indicates she’s still alive. Again, as with infants.

Eight medical appointments over six weeks; we persevere through antibiotics and additional sutures until a single word is entered on her chart. Healed. Insert celebratory, party-popper emojis here. An extra hour has been added to my day. I no longer slide chairs toward the table to clear a path or set partitions between Gilly and Blossom with the diligence of those separating church from state. When I open the back door to watch two exuberant dogs scoot across the deck and scamper down the stairs, my shoulders relax.

It’s Friday. I’m lingering over the crossword instead of driving to the clinic. Unsettled, out of whack. I call Amelia. She laughs when I tell her we’re fine but that I miss the established routine. She uses words like special, favourite when referring to Blossom; since part of her job involves building rapport, I expect she sprinkles these phrases into conversations with dozens of clients about a roster of pets.

But special, favourite? I agree. Of all the dogs, in all the houses, over all the years. She joined our family after birthing three litters of pups, and is unphased by the time it takes little visitors to clip the purple leash onto her collar for walks to everyone calls The Blossom Park in spite of what’s written on the sign. She’s the one who eased me into retirement and provided a routine to cling to during months of lockdown. Our other dogs have liked me, even loved me, but this dog adores me. She follows me from room to room, from my desk to the microwave to nuke my coffee; when I leave the house she waits by the front door for me to return. 

Using the dog math equation for calculating age, Blossom is 91. At some point, there’ll be another visit to the vet and difficult decisions to make on her behalf.

But not this summer. Not yet.

***

Marg Heidebrecht lives and writes in Dundas, Ontario. Her first book of essays, In the Shade: Friendship, Loss, and the Bruce Trail was shortlisted for the 2020 Hamilton Arts Council Literary Awards. Invasions won a creative non-fiction prize in the 2022 HA&L (Hamilton Arts & Letters) contest and is included in her 2024 book, Mosaic through East-Facing Glass: A Collection of Personal Essays. Several opinion pieces and many letters to the editor have been published in The Globe and Mail and The Hamilton Spectator. Visit her blog at: mosaicmarg.blogspot.com. Or on Instagram @intheshade2019