flash friday 2-14-14 dogs with human faces plus entry in Flash Friday

dogs with human faces

“It’s about quality of life.”

“Like dogs.” I said. Ok, it had been leading to hostile and hadn’t the patience to let it steep.

She took a deep breath, I could almost hear her counting to ten in her mind, slowly let it out.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean?” Turning it around, not taking the bait, calling my bluff.

“Canines, furry things, people keep them as pets, you know, man’s best friend.”

“Yes, I know what a dog is, how does it relate to this institution probably quality care for quality of life?”

“Dogs, they eat, shit and nap, the very young and very old ones aren’t real particular where they do any of that. The in between ages like chasing things, they’re glad to see you, real glad when you have a treat. Quality of life for a dog is pretty simple, I mean, given quality care; A roof, food, the occasional atta boy.”

“No, sir, these are human beings. Would you prefer a list of alternative placements?”

I paused a beat, not to deescalate, more like the defense calling a time out right before the offense is going for fourth and inches. Throw off the rhythm.

“No? So no food shelter or atta boys? You’ll forgive me for these questions; does one of your alternatives have more patience for us novices at durable power of kenneling?”

It was a personal attack guised as my own wound and wrapped up in a general barb for her institution. She didn’t own a dog, puzzlement crossed her face (kenneling?) before she could cover it with her patronizing professional look and thinly guised hostility. It’s possible that most of the asses who’ve sat in my chair were too beat down or relieved or scared or, I don’t know, something, and just went along, initialed where they were supposed to, signed where they were supposed to, walked out with a pamphlet full of documents and a teary good bye to their old dog. It’s not like I wasn’t going to something along the lines of the latter, I just, I don’t know, wanted a fight, wanted someone not to go fucking gentle into that fucking good night.

A deep breath that loud mental count, slow exhale.

“Sir, I just meant I don’t appreciate likening men to dogs. We treat our patients like living, feeling human beings. This isn’t productive; I don’t need to defend our standard of care. If you would prefer not placing him with us there are others who’ve been waiting for the bed.”

“No. Let me sign things,” and I scribbled my name where the little red tags were stuck for a few minutes, “You know when an old dog has lost his will to live or an old horse is unable to stand, you put it down. It’s mercy, it’s unconditional mercy, it’s an act of love, honor, quality of life.” I paused, this time to make sure my own voice stayed strong “I have something for you to sign. It’s durable power of attorney. Sign this so I know you know his wishes --- DNR and DNI.”

She took the stack of paper and read slowly.

“I expect him to be treated at least as well as a dog, with at least the dignity we give a dog. Love, life, pain, grief, joy all those things this world stages for us to participate or not, they are all unconditional for a dog. Quality of life is internal. The best care and the best advocacy is to interpret that voice for the mute.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

So, yeah, not much of a flash. I mean I didn’t use the process that makes me feel like I wrote something that exercised my chops. In theory this could have been a great way of saying things I missed in twenty twenty hindsight or be somehow cathartic; it isn’t, wasn’t. It’s more like one of those little red tags.

I actually appreciate the place my dad is and appreciate it took, for lack of a better word, political advocacy to get him there. Don’t feel like going into the nuts and bolts of it, but we are basically taking a back door into assisted living. Every system has it’s back doors, doors you could even stumble into accidentally. For instance; the fire department will always come out to help an old guy (or woman I’m sure) who has fallen. Three times for the same thing they take him to an ER. I think there is probably a similar thing with transplant patients, like, three ER visits moves you up the list.

I’m navigating waters I don’t know, but Neptune seems to favor me. Heh. I guess I mean though I haven’t been told directly how to get through the next few back doors, the Stage winking seems pretty clear to me.

My dad looks much worse than he did. I’m doing the opposite of what the guy in the awful and meaningless flash did, though, I do think dog lovers have one set of standards for dogs and one for people and the dogs get the better bargain. My father might as well be barking, he hasn’t made cogent sense for ten straight minutes in over a year.

Before the Box even opened I was writing angry little entries about all my dads doctors saying “Yeah, but that’s not what’s going to kill him.” I mean it was too indirect and seemed callous. I knew what it meant; his heart is going to fail before anything else becomes life threatening.

All the flashes in the world, good, bad, ugly or profound and poetic won’t be very potent, and good health care, bad health care, Ugly health care he’s indifferent too and it’s cosmetic, taking care of what isn’t going to kill him.

I have nothing, really, specific to be sad about or angry about and the stuff I feel guilty about isn’t weighing very heavy on me. If I were going to throw myself a pity party it’d be the sacrificing my entire Oregon life to buy about a year and a half for my dad in the home, this one, I felt sure that he wanted to be in, at least when he was in his right mind. Thing is a year and a half is a pretty good run. If there had been a betting line I’m thinking most of the money would have been way earlier.

Besides, if I wanted a pity party it’d have more to do with the impending birthday of mine. After about ten years old or so, birthdays aren’t really that cool. I mean I suppose the eighteenth is a big deal, I literally don’t remember, I got pretty wasted, I mean I remember the recreation I was told, but, shit. Anyhow at the time it was the age of majority or maturity or whatever you call the age you can legally walk into a bar. Even if I didn’t have the worst birthday luck in the world, the growing older part sucks and with all the end of life shit going on around in this town and household, well, shit, don’t wanna think about it.

I’m going to spend that day under the covers. I may have company, I may not. Still spending it under the covers.