[Dailydrool] Young Charlie is no longer alone, but he's still an only basset

[Elizabeth]

Our Elsinore Basset died of old age and cancer on July 16, 2015. As her chiropractor puts it, “She was a pistol, all right.” And as much as bassets with strong personalities can make a person want to bang her head against a wall sometimes, their absence is truly felt when they’re really gone for real in the end.

Except young Charlie hasn’t seemed to miss her at all. In fact, from the time we left her body at the crematorium he’d been giving every impression of enjoying being an only dog and basking in my undivided attention and adoration. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I’m a little sad he doesn’t seem to miss her, and I’m also relieved he’s been spared the sadness of grieving her loss.

But then my eighty-plus-year-old mother, who’s long had a propensity for falling, began falling even more frequently. She lives in a retirement community, which, if you’re going to be falling a lot, is a pretty good place to do it because they have people there who know how to pick you back up again. My mother does not believe in doing any kind of physical exercise unless a doctor prescribes it as physical therapy, which doesn’t happen often enough to help her build or retain any upper or lower body strength. So once she’s down, she’s down until someone can return her to an upright position. And a surefire way to get to her fall down is to put her in the position of having to bend over to do something, like put a leash on a tiny dog or refill a water bowl.

My mother has a tiny dog because of me. After my late father’s Jack Russell Terror (that is not a typo) finally died of old age, my mother was lonely and wanted another dog. Specifically another small terrier like Daisy because she can pick them up and “I like their spirit." She and Dad were the only ones who liked Daisy and her spirit, the only dog, I’m sorry to say, I haven’t missed once since her death. When my mother began telling me she was thinking about going to the pound and picking out another dog like Daisy, I panicked. Thirteen years of Daisy had been a very long thirteen years for me. 

So I started looking at various rescue groups for a small dog with no terrier tendencies, which isn’t easy since most small dogs are in the terrier family and my mother was adamant about not wanting a beagle. But eventually I found one, an overweight twelve-pound chihuahua mix whose owner had been leaving her with his elderly mother while he worked, until his mother wasn’t up for it anymore. Wee Molly went from one old lady’s lap to another like a pro, which of course she was since she’d been sitting on an old lady’s lap from the time she was a pup. 

Fast forward five years, the summer before last, and Molly wore out her second old lady, my mother. Apparently the now-seven-pound Molly had jerked on her leash after a squirrel and managed to pull my considerably heavier but badly balanced mother over. My mother wouldn’t tell me how long she’d been down before another resident’s visitor heard her and went for help, but it was long enough for my mother to have time to reflect on the wisdom of future dog ownership. She called me that afternoon, still shaken from her fall, and asked if I’d take Molly. 

I’d been expecting this call, which is why I’d spent so much time talking with the rescue group about Molly’s personality traits before I ever mentioned her to my mother. I cannot live with a terrier. They set my teeth on edge. I knew the odds were good that Molly would eventually end up with me. I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon. 

So now Charlie has a tiny companion. Only she’s not a companion. She doesn’t snuggle with him, won’t play with him, and is only actively interested in him when he has food. Charlie has been disappointed about this, especially her refusal to play even when he asks her so beguilingly, but he’s accepted her presence in our home with admirable good grace. The two dogs live parallel but very separate lives in this house, pretty much ignoring each other. Which is a whole lot better than them hating each other so much they want to rip each other’s face off. 

Molly is disappointed in me. I am not an old lady who wants to sit on a recliner with a purse-sized dog on my lap all day. For my part, I’m learning how to live with a little dog despite the fact that I am most definitely not a little-dog person. I’m so used to having dogs who see the world through their noses. Molly sees it through her ears. And then has to comment loudly on it. Her voice is not a mellifluous hound’s voice. But we’re adjusting to each other’s less-than-appealing characteristics, and my easily toppled mother is happy to be able to have periodic visits from Molly without the responsibility of caring for her anymore. 

Elizabeth
linktolindsey at gmail.com