Comet's Tale (14 page)

“This dog's a damn babe magnet,” Freddie remarked as she threw the carry-on into the luggage bin. I'll admit that I didn't discourage any of the fawning attention Comet attracted in the first-class cabin. I enthusiastically talked about the virtues of the breed and eagerly responded to the unanimous observation of all three attendants that “greyhounds aren't usually helper dogs.” Comet stood at attention in the space in front of my bulkhead seat, basking in the affectionate crooning. Meanwhile, Freddie spurned the flight attendant's repeated offers (to me) of a morning cordial. “He'll have some coffee and a glass of orange juice without vodka,” she instructed. As the attendant moved down the aisle, Freddie said, “We're going to have to rethink this idea of you flying by yourself. Look at what's happening even when I'm here!”

Comet's ears jolted straight up as the plane taxied for takeoff. She accommodated the swaying by subtly engaging her four-paw-drive system. “It's okay, girl,” I said, scratching her upturned ears and the bottom of her chin. Just when I felt Comet's body relax, the plane's throttles kicked in, causing her to slam backward into my knees. Her startled dog eyes blinked up at me—
What the heck was that?
We were halfway to Omaha before Comet finally flopped onto the blanket we had brought for her.

Comet and I traveled back and forth to Nebraska by ourselves twice that fall to get recertified for the fentanyl patch. I couldn't really tell how well the drug was working. So many places in my spine, legs, and feet were burning and cramping that it was no longer possible to figure out what was causing the pain, and I had started getting anxiety attacks whenever I was hit with unpleasant news. Amid this alarming decline, the highlight of my autumn became the plane rides with Comet. Curbside luggage service, along with expedited ticketing and security checks owing to my disabled status, made it easy to bring her along. All I needed was a carry-on with a blanket, a bottle of water, and a dish.

When our plane landed in Omaha or Phoenix, the flight attendants would open the door to a waiting wheelchair. After one of them pushed me up the walkway, I would decline further help, allowing Comet to take over so that I could revel in racing through the terminal. As we sped along, colorful concessionaire blocks mingled with glimpses of arms, legs, and open mouths in a cubist diorama that could have been stolen from Picasso. The flying scenery left me as giddy as a teenager on his first joyride.

My body might be failing me, but I still had the capacity to marvel at the sight of Comet pulling that chair. She reminded me of the magnificent Sandhill cranes that migrated through Nebraska, their long necks stretching into the wind and their skinny legs extending out behind them. Instead of a six-foot pair of wings, Comet's hind muscles propelled us swiftly forward. Her movements seemed as ancient as the cranes'. I couldn't help but think of all the men, from Odysseus onward, who had thrilled at their greyhounds' effortless power.

My third trip alone with Comet took us back to Omaha for Christmas. I was somewhat at peace because all three girls seemed to have arranged their lives in a tidy, responsible order. Jackie was enjoying her junior year at Fremont High. Kylie had received two full scholarship offers from her law schools of choice. Lindsey was on an academic scholarship in the marine biology program at the University of Tampa. Maybe now that they were a little older, they would feel more comfortable around me and we could have a few spirited arguments about life and politics, the way we used to.

But it's never that simple. Kylie and Lindsey stuck around for only one day after I arrived and then left on a holiday trip to Florida with their mother. Jackie vanished to a YMCA horse camp to be a counselor. One evening after the girls had departed, Freddie prepared a dinner for two and tried her mightiest to make it romantic. Candlelight shimmered on the ceiling, and a bottle of French Bordeaux warmed our weary bodies. Then Freddie let slip that one of the girls had dared to reconsider her plans. In seconds I was on high alert.

“What do you mean Lindsey's not happy? When did this come about?” I was talking louder than I should have, but I was upset.

“Lindsey wanted to work directly with marine life. Those jobs are almost nonexistent for new graduates. She was willing to work her way up, but then she found out that her ears won't pressurize when she scuba dives. Plus she's afraid of the ocean. It all goes back to that girl having her leg cut off.” Two years before Lindsey graduated high school, a young woman we knew had tumbled out of a motorboat on the Missouri River. Her entire leg was severed by the boat's propeller, and the event had an enormous impact on Lindsey. Still, that hadn't prevented her from pursuing a degree in marine biology.

“Why haven't I heard about any of this?”

The clock on the fireplace mantel ticked in time to the sound of dog nails crossing the wooden floor into the dining room. Comet had left the comfort of the oak fire and was now staring at me. Sandoz hid behind her like she had done something wrong. I could only sigh.

“Lindsey was afraid that you'd be disappointed in her.” Freddie didn't bother to sugarcoat it. “She feels like she can't talk to you about these things. It'll either make you sick or mad.” Sandoz and Comet split up, the golden pleading for Freddie's attention by hammering her elbow, the greyhound slowly sanding my hand, which had fallen to my side. Freddie struck the last nail. “I think she's upset because you've never been to her campus for anything—not even parents' days.”

Panic swelled as this information sank in, and I broke out in a sweat.

“Are you all right?' Freddie was patting my face with a cotton napkin. “Your shirt is soaked.”

“After I get back to Sedona, I need a ticket to Tampa.”

IT TOOK AN
entire day for me to drive 120 miles from Sedona to Phoenix in order to spend a night resting at my mom's house. The flight to Tampa was four hours, much longer than my usual flights between Phoenix and Omaha. I arrived late on a Friday night, Comet helping wheel and support me for more than two hours while we negotiated through a nearly empty concourse and commuted to the hotel. Lindsey was neither ecstatic nor unhappy to see me.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, but her smile didn't reach her eyes. “Do you want to see the campus first or my dorm room?” Her lackluster tone reminded me of how I used to sound when hosting out-of-town guests who had stayed too long at the lake house. I had been hoping for more fire from Lindsey, even an angry tirade—some evidence of her desire that I once again become emotionally invested in her life. But Lindsey's demeanor signaled that her own expectations of this visit were nil. Regardless of what did not occur, I spent most of Saturday upright and in her presence. I told her I loved her. Then I flew back to Phoenix. Comet was with me every step of the way, never leaving my side except when the hotel staff fought over who got to walk her at night.

I knew the girls were growing up and that many children distance themselves from their parents, at least for the first few years they're living away from home. I had been certain that my daughters were also avoiding me because they couldn't deal with my physical decline. Now I wondered if it had always been more complicated than that. Who was avoiding whom? Lindsey clearly thought I had been negligent. At least Kylie and Jackie would answer my calls, but even after my visit, Lindsey didn't respond to my efforts to stay in touch. I didn't like it, but I thought I understood. She needed to protect herself. Maybe she had felt abandoned by me once too often.

Part III

13

Four Years Later

WINTER–SPRING 2005—ARIZONA

All the main rooms of our new house in Sedona had picture windows that framed Lee Mountain. From my recliner I could watch its planes and ridges turn orange, mint, violet, and vermillion as the quiet hours passed. Bright, billowing clouds that cast shadows as big as the mountain drifted overhead, then moved down the valley. It was exactly the kind of place where Freddie and I had always dreamed of retiring.

Freddie had moved to Sedona, however, not because we were retiring but because we could no longer afford two homes. My doctors had made it clear that I couldn't move back to Nebraska full-time, and our savings were gone. We sold the lake house, to the dismay of our daughters, who lost their childhood home. We also sold the little stucco house in Sedona and used the money from both places to buy another home just a block away. This one was better suited to someone who used a walker and might soon be in a wheelchair. The house had the view, and it even had a swimming pool, which I could use for physical therapy.

It took us a year to sell both houses and buy the new one. During that time, as soon as I trained Comet to help me with one task, some other formerly trivial activity would slip beyond my grasp. I couldn't pull the sheets down when I needed to get out of bed, so I taught Comet to tug them off me. The only pieces of clothing I could place on my body without assistance were hats and shirts, so I used mechanical grabbers to hoist up my pants while I leaned on Comet for balance. Thank goodness for slip-on shoes.

Taking a shower was fraught with peril, even though the door was extra wide and opened both ways for easy access. Shortly after moving in, I made the mistake of falling to the shower floor. Comet heard my cussing thump and left her warm spot in bed to check out the commotion. Running over to the shower door, she pushed against it, banging the glass off my head. She continued to push, trying to gain entry, but instead the door squashed me against the shower wall.

“Comet! Back off. Or to the side. Go over there!” I couldn't think of the right words. Eventually she moved away, giving me space to swing the door open and crawl onto the bathroom tile.

I soon taught Comet to open the shower door by pulling on a bath towel I hung on the handle. After a few more spills she was an accomplished lifeguard, allowing me to grasp her collar while she dragged me out of the shower. At first, the sight of her drenched, whiskered face staring down at me like a seal looking at a fish made me laugh. As my condition worsened, that same face, dripping with concern, would prompt me to soothe her, “It's all right, Comet. I can't drown in an inch of water.”

When Freddie first moved to Sedona, she tried to lure me out of the house to explore the local galleries, restaurants, and clubs. She wanted to visit Ben Wright's studio and watch him work, as I had. Friends who had gotten to know us as a couple during Freddie's earlier stays were eager to have us over. I rarely felt up for any of it. Time and again Freddie had to decline invitations, except for a few events she attended alone. Even our former neighbors and good friends Bill and Jana kept their distance, not wanting to intrude. Though Freddie repeatedly asked if we could just have them over for a drink, I was too tired for small talk. Besides, even in informal settings, my panic attacks soaked me within seconds of conversing with anyone other than Freddie.

I could still muster circling a few blocks with Comet. I usually managed by using my canes and Comet for support, but more and more frequently I clipped Comet's leash to a walker. I don't know which of us hated that contraption more. When she saw me going to get it, Comet would move just far enough away to force me to drag the walker over to her. As I approached she would stealthily take one small step forward, always staying just out of reach. When my rumblings became more heated, she would finally allow the walker to be clipped to her leash. But she would angrily avert her head, making sure I understood just how embarrassed she was by this pathetic rig.

Freddie had resigned from her position as head of the cardiac unit in Lincoln that she had founded eight years earlier. We didn't think she would be able to find a comparable position anywhere near Sedona, and we were right. After a few months of being my handyman, maid, housekeeper, and full-time nurse, Freddie had announced that she was changing professions. The only growth industry in Sedona was real estate, particularly resort time-shares. Freddie didn't know a thing about real estate, but she took a three-week course that taught her enough to pass Arizona's real estate exam and get a license to sell resort properties.

Most days Freddie worked ten-hour shifts at her new job. The time-share agents she was friendly with took full advantage of Sedona's many film festivals, jazz festivals, and other cultural events, and I was relieved when Freddie joined them. It made me feel a little less guilty. It also made up for the downside of her job, such as dealing with skeptical strangers who were only at a time-share presentation for the free helicopter ride. The stress was compounded by the fact that there wasn't a regular paycheck, only a commission on sales. Freddie's workweek no longer ended with Friday night; Saturday and Sunday were the heart of her schedule because that's when the buyers were in town. She had to be available any time a client was ready to sign documents.

After a quick night out commiserating with fellow salespeople over drinks, Freddie often came home to a dark house and a golden retriever craving attention. She had little time and less energy to catch up on daily household tasks and help care for a sick husband. Sweaty sheets were stacked faster than my clumsy cleaning attempts could keep up with. Clean laundry stayed in the washer because I couldn't reach down to pull the items out. Clean dishes remained in the dishwasher for the same reason. Because of depression and, now, panic attacks, I had once again been prescribed a regimen of medications that was far beyond my feeble ability to track. Freddie was in charge of that as well. Sandoz missed Freddie's comforting body next to the fireplace and became increasingly despondent despite my attempts to console her. Or maybe she was just hungry. I couldn't feed Comet or Sandoz because I couldn't reach their dishes or place them on the floor, so the moment my wife walked in she was rushed by two ravenous dogs.

Comet had by now assumed the additional duties of guard dog. At periodic intervals throughout the day she would patrol the house, staring outside to the front and back yards from various windows and glass doors. When I asked her to relax, she would ignore me. If someone was in our front yard, she would run to my side and stare, her version of a bark. She had developed the ability to sense when I was about to have an attack of muscle spasms and would force me into the nearest chair before they occurred. I didn't resent the help, but I did think that Comet's superior attitude—standing in front of me and staring like she couldn't believe my stupidity—was a little annoying.

Comet began her morning shift after Freddie left for work. She would leap onto my bed, her whining bugle and excited eyes telling me it was
time to get up, time to get up!
She was usually able to rouse me for a walk. We left Sandoz at home to snooze in the backyard or mope inside, waiting for Freddie to return.

For years Comet and I had ventured around a three-block area of the neighborhood. Comet had always intuitively known that she should walk close to me, and over time she improvised her own methods of protecting me. One of her favorite strategies was to turn her head toward me and extend her muscled rear end in the direction of any stranger who approached without warning. By placing her body between me and the intruder, she could prevent me from getting bumped. Now, when Comet and I went for a walk, she assumed the casual yet hyperalert demeanor of a professional bodyguard.

One afternoon when the neighborhood was deserted, Comet and I went out for a stroll. As usual I was bent over my canes, for all intents and purposes no taller than a little old lady. Comet was acting spastic—walking a short distance, stopping with ears perked straight up, and then repeating the process. I strained to hear what she heard, but I caught only a faint rustling sound in the dried leaves beneath a row of shrubs. Then, out of nowhere, the shrubs spit a bushel of leaves at us. A skinny black and white dog exploded from the middle of the mess and rocketed straight at me. Without a bark or growl, the English pointer launched his attack directly at my face. I crooked my arm over my eyes, losing a cane and my balance simultaneously. As my arms flew out to break my fall, I saw Comet spring between the pointer and me. The pointer bounced off the asphalt, then spun back toward us with its teeth bared. Comet rushed to where I lay helpless on my back and stayed next to me, bracing herself. For the next three minutes—180 agonizing seconds—Comet sacrificed her fierce inclination to fight back, stubbornly placing her body between the crazed dog and me. I was forced to watch as Comet's face repeatedly contorted in pain from the pointer's slashing bites, her chilling cries sounding nearly human. My mind howled at my body,
Do something!
ANYTHING!
I snatched the end of one of my heavy wooden walking sticks and lashed out at the pointer's head. Several heavy cracking thuds told me I had hit my mark—the attacker vanished in a stream of yelps.

Comet collapsed in a whining pile onto the chilly asphalt. Years of lethargy vanished in an instant, and I managed to coordinate enough muscles to roll to my side and firmly seize the cane I had used to clobber the pointer. I pushed my lazy body across the grainy asphalt to Comet's side. “It's okay, girl. It'll be okay.” I tried to remain calm as blood poured from jagged wounds in Comet's chest and flanks, her eyes rapidly rolling in fear and pain. “Damn it!” I wasn't cursing the other dog, not yet. I was screaming at my flaccid muscles, trying to inspire them to action. I groaned as I hoisted my body off the ground and, hand over hand, pulled myself up the walking stick. I couldn't have cared less about the searing pain that ripped through my lower back muscles, scorching my legs and feet. I had to get up and get help!
Now!

Finally I grasped the top of my cane and clung to it, upright but dazed and moaning from the pain. It was precisely at that point that my best friend—the beautifully gentle greyhound who had just risked her life to save me from a vicious assault—forever sealed her throne in my heart. As she watched my clumsy effort to maintain balance, Comet tapped into some incredibly powerful spirit, yelping as she struggled to maneuver her rear legs beneath her. Slowly, shakily, and with small whimpering cries, Comet raised herself from the street. Shivering and slightly stumbling, she walked to my side and offered her assistance.

I hadn't wept in a long, long time, having given it up as a useless and energy-taxing activity. Now, in the middle of an empty street, banged up, covered with dirt, and balancing on one stick and a bloody dog, the tears gushed and I let them flow.

In a few minutes I collected myself enough to call Freddie's office from my cell phone. I looked up and down the block, but there was nobody around to help. Yet after what I had just witnessed, I'm not sure I would have accepted assistance anyway. Asking for help would have been an insult to Comet, who limped along next to me, absorbing my weight when I couldn't balance without her support. The blood from her wounds glistened in streaks of red and dark purple and dripped down her chest onto the pavement. Tears dripped from my chin onto my sweat-soaked shirt. Blood and tears muddled along a step at a time. Yet I found myself
wanting
to stumble in step with Comet, proud to be included as a member of her personal fife and drum corps. This dog had more courage and integrity than a platoon of people like me. Twenty minutes and one block later, we fell through the front door into the living room.

Freddie immediately left work when the receptionist gave her my message. She loaded Comet into the back of the SUV and turned to me. “Stay here. It'll take too long to get you into the truck. Call the vet and tell them I'll be there in fifteen minutes.” Freddie was locked into serious medical mode; that drive took twenty minutes on a good day.

Later that night, Comet gingerly adjusted her position on the fireside dog bed, her bandages oozing salve. Sandoz watched from the nearby floor, unsure about what had happened but giving support nonetheless. Despite Comet's obvious discomfort and the ferocity of the battering, she didn't act frightened or spooked. Instead, she watched me adoringly as I told Freddie about the attack. People who live with rescued racers often describe “the look,” a gaze that makes you feel as if you're wrapped in warm, tender kindness. It's the sort of look a mother bestows upon her newborn. That was the expression on Comet's face as I fumed, “What the hell have those people done to that pointer to make him so mean?”

“Wolfie, you need to calm down,” Freddie said soothingly.

“You can't own a high-energy dog like that and not give it lots of exercise. I've never seen anybody walk or even play with that dog!” Usually when I yelled, Comet would come over and stand until I petted her, almost always prompting a quieter dialogue. The fact that now she couldn't even get up from her bed made me whack the nearest chair with one of my canes. “I'm going over there! Those people need to know what they've done to my dog!”

Rather than pleading, “Stop! You can't go over there! Please, oh please.” Freddie stifled a laugh.

“What?”
I demanded.

She walked across the room and squeezed my cheeks until I was making a fish face. “I'm sorry. It's just that the vision of you dressed like that”—Freddie gestured at my saggy bathrobe—“ringing the neighbor's doorbell . . .” She coughed two more short laughs. Then, as quick as a spring shower, she changed into Miss Logic. “We're not letting this slide. Let's call the animal control people and file a complaint. They can handle it. Comet needs you here.”