Nearing the end his life, he’s not worried about eternity

More than sixteen years ago, when we had bought the land but not yet begun construction, a small stray dog showed up at the gate merrily wagging his tail as if we were all old friends. We started to feed him each morning and for some reason I can’t recall named him Malcolm. He readily adopted his name and would dash from under a bush, from behind a stone fence or a number of hiding places, whenever we brought his daily bowl of kibbles. Later, when we became better acquainted, Malcolm would not wait for the food but run out at the sight of one of us, or even our car coming down the road, to greet us enthusiastically.

Malcolm’s appearance is central-casting mutt: Medium size, about 20 pounds, his coat a dirty shade of orange with random blotches of white, and a tightly coiled tail. His bright eyes and perky ears, though, hinted that he was an uncommonly clever, street-smart dog—a survivor—qualities that have kept him alive all these years, long after the seven or eight fellow mutts in his pack had succumbed to the perils of a feral existence, such as attacks by other dogs or getting hit by cars. The only other dog as long-lived as Malcolm was Chucha, possibly his mother, which was a lovable bitch, whose eyes at the end were clouded by cataracts, her walk a lumbering gait and her teats dangling low from too many litters. She was indeed very old and weary. One day she marched into our house, laid on a blanket we’d put on the terrace and called it quits. She died overnight.

Throughout the years of our acquaintance we tried to lure him into the relative safety of our ranch, to formally adopt him, but Malcolm resolutely refused our entreaties. A year ago, though, he showed up at the back door of the garage, accepted our invitation matter of fact and moved in with the rest of our dogs. I have no idea why he’d changed his mind, except that by then he was the only survivor of his dog pack or perhaps become aware that his free-roaming days were coming to an end. According to a rough formula for computing a dog’s age, one dog year equals seven human years, so by now Malcolm would be well over a hundred years old, or considerably older than my 78 years at the end of this month. But putting aside all the obvious differences between humans and dogs, since he moved in with us a year ago I’ve admired the equanimity with which Malcolm deals with his rapid aging, failing senses—and his imminent demise. Humans might pick up a pointer or two from Malcolm.

In his heyday, Malcolm would follow us contentedly in long walks, taking time to sniff this, pee on that, and chase rabbits he never would catch. Once he followed us when we visited a neighbor and invited himself in, jumped on a patio chair and went to sleep as if he owned the joint. When we left an hour later, he just followed us back to the gate of our ranch and disappeared to wherever he spent his nights.

Not any more. We still walk in the morning, though not nearly as long, and anymore Malcolm follows us only occasionally and prefers to quit after a while and wait by the gate for us to return. Sometimes he won’t join us at all and just go back to sleep, either on his bed under a table in the garage or on the grass outside on a sunny day. Sleeping must consume twenty hours of his day, except at food time when the old Malcolm reemerges briefly, jumping and barking for attention. With most of his teeth missing, Malcom takes his time eating, a process one of us has to watch lest one of the other three dogs steal his food.

Yes, Malcolm is a mess. In addition to his abbreviated walks, he’s deaf as brick and his mind is not functioning well either. He wanders but then stops, apparently forgetting where he was going. One routine he hasn’t forgotten is to beg for scraps at the table. Lately he’s also drooling. Most obvious is a growth on the left side of his neck which the vet diagnosed a year ago as some sort of inoperable tumor. He advised doing nothing about it and we concurred. I pet Malcolm often and palpate the lump and he doesn’t seem to feel any discomfort. He is still housebroken and his life, diminished as it may be, goes on.

I often envy his equanimity in the face of impending death and multiple health problems, but then remind myself of his one clear advantage—a lack of self-awareness except about hunger and other bodily functions. He hasn’t asked for a lawyer to help him “put his affairs in order,” draft a testament, or ask to run to the vet at the slightest discomfort. He doesn’t waste any time brooding about the past or the future, like humans tend to do. He just takes it day by day, in a state of unwitting acceptance that humans could learn a bit from.

Organized religions have tried to accommodate man’s obsessive worry about his own mortality by creating an alternate ever-joyful universe, with chorus lines of angels plucking harps, saints with halos strolling by—maybe people or relatives from our previous life—and St. Peter as the gatekeeper to decide who gets into paradise, depending on how they led their lives, particularly how well they observed religious rituals and regulations. Some religions promise reincarnation in various forms. Agnostics affirm we should do good on this earth right now and not worry about what might be next.

I’m not sure the Pearly Gates and all the rest really exist, of if I’ll make it in. But if they do, I’m sure Malcolm will strut, tail wagging, past St. Peter, who’ll wave him to the Express Lane and wish him a Merry Christmas. After a long and eventful life, that lovable mutt deserves nothing less

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