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 throw back 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" and "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. Blossom 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.
Blossom'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 (here) was shortlisted for the 2020 Hamilton Arts Council Literary Awards. Her second collection, Mosaic through East-Facing Glass: A Collection of Personal Essays (here), was shortlisted for the same awards in 2024 and includes “Invasions,” an essay which won the creative nonfiction prize in the 2022 Hamilton Arts & Letters contest.
She’s also published several opinion pieces and many letters to the editor in The Globe and Mail and The Hamilton Spectator. The spring retreat at Elm Hurst Inn ignited a spark for her new project which is unnamed, unfinished, but less untidy now that Scrivener’s been downloaded to her laptop.
“Summer of
Cones” was originally published as “Stitching” in Commuterlit.com here. For information about submitting
to CommuterLit (and to a few other places), see here.
https://intheshade2019.blogspot.com/
https://mosaicmarg.blogspot.com/
https://www.instagram.com/intheshade2019/?hl=en
For more short stories, poetry, and essays by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).
See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, afternoon workshops, and writing retreats here.
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