I still had to think about whether protecting myself against a deadly strain of influenza virus was really something I wanted to do. A likely outcome is that I will have a longer old age, which is not something I necessarily want. (Healthy but not particularly long would really be the ideal for me.) But another likely outcome is that I will not be a vector transmitting H1N1 to other people who might actually be gunning for that long, productive life but who might not be in a condition right now to be vaccinated: small babies, for instance, can’t be effectively immunized against influenza. My friend with cancer, who most definitely wants to live, may get only limited protection from a vaccine and is largely dependent on the people around him to not transmit it to him. The girlfriend of the woman who is dying of lung cancer in the apartment upstairs will not be able to point the finger at me as being the one who infected her with her final illness. And I will not interrupt the old ages, happily surrounded by children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, of my old relatives.

So I got the H1N1 vaccine and will get the seasonal flu vaccine when it becomes available. If I ever decide my old age is dragging on too long there are ways around that that do not involve making other people sick.

 
 
Over the next few days Pepe had ups and downs. Sometimes he would eat; other days he would just sleep. I asked Mark if I could make another appointment, and he agreed so I did. This appointment was again on a Tuesday, a week after the first one.

 
 
On the weekend we took Pepe on a nice long walk along the river.

 
 
When we got back we dug a nice big hole under the patio stones in the back yard.

Pepe tried out the hole and approved it.

 
 
Today I came home from work at mid day and we took the dogs out for a sunny walk in the park. Pepe peed on things.

 
 
I took off his harness and he stolidly pressed on and followed me. This was poignant because Pepe runs away and is not bright enough to come when called. Today he was slow and tired enough that for the first time ever I could let him off leash and he could walk around on his own.

 
 
When Pepe got tuckered out we dropped our other dog off at home, picked up a towel and continued to the vet.

 
 
The vet handled everything beautifully and quickly. She reassured us that we were not being premature.

We held and petted Pepe for a few minutes after his heart stopped until we were sure he could not be conscious any more, wrapped him in the towel and carried him home. Mark wanted to bury him right away, but I felt as though he were just sleeping so I insisted we wait until he got cold so that he would feel dead.

 
 
After about an hour I acknowledged that he was cold enough. We put him in the hole.

 
 
I didn’t want dirt to get in his eyes so I put a paper towel over his head. Mark filled the hole halfway with dirt, I used the hose to fill it with water, then Mark filled it in with the rest of the dirt. I put the patio stones back to cover the spot. When the soil settles Mark will reset the patio stones so they are level.

We went into the house to put away his things – collar, winter sweaters, the baby carrier I used to carry him when we went for long walks, his basket. Then we went out to a Mexican restaurant in his honour and came back to no trace of him left in the house.

(No need for sympathies in comments or emails; he had a good life and we’re fine.)

Yeah, I figured as much. That’s why I had been kind of hoping it would be the vet I like less.

I’m ok with it. I’ve been reviewing my dates and I think he’s 15 years old. It’s just hard getting the balance right: you don’t want to drag an animal’s life out with indefinite suffering, but if the only goal is to spare suffering you might as well drown them at birth. 

Of course it’s going to upset me more than I think, but I’ll worry about that when I get there.

Next decision: shall we spend our weekend digging a nice deep hole in the back yard?

Oh dear. Magical thinking. Ineffective remedies. And badgering the poor man in his last days. Can’t she just let him die in peace?

And then I thought: good thing he’s not my brother. I’d probably be muttering “What, not dead yet? What are you waiting for? Look, it’s in your brain, no point in hanging on now.” At least my neighbour’s brother knows he is loved.

I cried at the beginning when Orfeo was mourning the loss of Euridice, because of the utter completeness of loss through death. And I cried when Euridice was contemplating a life loving someone who did not return her affection, because that’s what life with Mark is often like. (Euridice determined that death was preferable.)

After the opera Mark went home with somebody else, and I cried again.

But whatever they are, they are getting worse and more frequent. Up from a yearly fainting spell to attacks of paralysis every other day. Compared to yesterday, today her leg is the same, her arm is worse but her speech is better; last week she was speaking just fine and walking with a cane, and had bought tickets to come visit us in Montreal.

Anyway, M. is off. Mixed feelings. Not wanting to assume the worst, or to give the impression that he is, or to have his mental image of his mother replaced with a sick person, or to get her so excited she has a heart attack, or to become impatient for her to die and get the suspense over with. But feeling that this is an important time and that he should be there.

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us – don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Edna St. Vincent Millay
(1892-1950)

Recuerdo

We were very tired, we were very merry–
We had gone back and forth all night upon the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable–
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on the hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry–
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and the pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

[originally transmitted by e-mail July 14, 2003]

In the guise of the sewing fairy, Suzanne came by last night bearing gifts. Sewing patterns from the fifties, sixties and seventies. Her mother was tall, so bought large-sized patterns I can use; more important, she had simple, classic tastes so I want to use them.

Attachments for my sewing machine: her mother’s Necchi went to another friend, but I got the attachments. Including a keyhole buttonholer! *Very* special! And a ruffler. The ruffler was bought for making curtains: in the pile of treasures were two books on soft furnishings and strings of orange bobble trim. Suzanne remembers the ruffled curtains in the kitchen. She also remembers the ruffler being turned to evil purposes once the curtains were hung, and being tortured with frilly dresses. I have twenty-first century plans for the ruffler but it will be used once again.

Books and books of knitting patterns for men’s cardigans A bag full of wool ends (dog sweaters!). Kniting needles. Darning needles. Snaps. A box of buttons.

A recipe book published by Lowney’s: 55 recipes for dainty marshmallows. I suspect I won’t be cooking much out of it, but perhaps it could be framed.

Everyday Etiquette by Amy Vanderbilt.

Scraps of vinyl left over from covering chairs. A little square of printed fabric probably intended to cover a small coffee table. Pre-printed fabric for embroidery. Embroidery floss.

Duvet covers from Germany. They are simple damask rectangles with embroidery and Suzanne’s Oma’s monogram at the foot end; all four sides and corners have buttonholes in them for attaching to a button-covered duvet.

Christmas time! Suzanne and I spent a happy afternoon opening packages, reliving and reconstructing the past and making sense of the present. And drinking beer.

We walked to a local artsy café for supper so that Suzanne would be okay to drive home. As soon as we sat down Suzanne announced that she disliked the waitress for treating us like dirt. Um, whatever, we’d just gotten there. We ordered.

Suzanne wasn’t having wine so the waitress brought her Perrier. She assumed it was free because she gets free bottled water at her neighbourhood Indian restaurant. Turns out it was $4.50. I had to ask for my tap water; in fact, I had to ask every time I wanted my glass filled.

The waitress got my order wrong. She brought us both what Suzanne had ordered. She was tight-lipped, not at all gracious when I asked for time to taste the food before having cheese grated or pepper ground onto it. She said she’d come back later, but had to be signalled and asked for the cheese; she promptly grated a huge mound of parmesan onto my meal with an electric grater, ruining the food. I abandoned any idea of getting pepper from her to balance the now much-too-salty meal.

Suzanne felt vindicated in her assessment of the waitress; I still defended her, saying she wasn’t a bad person – just someone who shouldn’t be a waitress, who didn’t grasp her role as hostess, who lived in her mind rather than feeding off the stimulation around her.

Guido Molinari was at the next table; the owner of the café introduced the waitress to him, who gushed her admiration of his work.

The waitress cleared our table, taking our napkins and bringing tisane. Um, our dessert? Apparently we hadn’t selected the dessert option. Yes, we had. We wanted dessert and had selected the dessert option. The waitress argued with us: we had asked for something not on the menu and she had arranged it specially for us. We were amazed: we had asked for no such thing. She angrily announced that she would have to go and get the owner to settle our dispute.

Okay, Suzanne was right. The waitress was not just spacy, she was narcissistic and treated us like dirt. A waiter came to our table, gave us our dessert for free (not what we’d asked for either – we just wanted dessert and to pay for what we got). He was very gracious, not obsequious, just a considerate host who wanted his guests to be happy.

Suzanne and I had a grand old time talking about the waitress. We speculated that she was an actress and was hired as a sort of jester to give patrons something to talk about, but Edsel Fung she ain’t.

On leaving the restaurant we tested the hypothesis that we were being hypercritical, getting sadistic pleasure out of tearing people to shreds, by going into a laundromat and criticizing it. But there was nothing to criticise: it was clean, the decor was nice, the music unobtrusive, the machines new, the change machine convenient, the bathroom large, the clientele polite. No, it was definitely the waitress.

We’ll be going back.

[originally transmitted by e-mail March 16, 2003]