On Easter Sunday, my dad and I eat breakfast with my grandparents, Lulu and Papa, out on their deck. They’ve abandoned formal observance, but still want to gather family together on holidays. They got vaccinated, so we felt comfortable eating with them.
I study Papa as I pick at the melon Lulu cut up. He looks older. Much older than he did in August. Years have etched themselves into his face since then. The camera quality on our video-calls didn’t pick it up.
Their dog, a fifteen-year-old cockapoo named “Biscuit” hobbles out on the deck. My brother chose his name when he was seven. Biscuit is in “old-puppy hospice” now. Lulu gives him pain medication every morning. He looks older than he did in August, too. His hind legs keep giving out, but his tail doesn’t stop wagging. My dad reaches down to give him a pat, but he misjudges his strength. Biscuit topples.
I go to help him.
Papa and my dad are talking about the Red Sox. Papa can’t think of the name of that right-fielder who now plays for the Dodgers. The neighbors had a dog named after him. It’s Mookie Betts.
I’m kneeling on the floor when I first touch Biscuit. He feels grimier than he looked. Touching him leaves a film clinging to my fingers. I pull him onto my lap.
“When was the last time you guys took him to the groomers?” I ask Lulu.
“Well,” she says, “Papa always took him, and he hasn’t since, you know, everything.”
Papa got into a car accident a few months ago. No one was hurt. He just ran into a parked car in a lot. His truck was totaled. He went to a neurologist, who sent him to more neurologists, who told him he couldn’t drive anymore.
Biscuit feels grimy.
“I could come by, tomorrow, to give him a bath, if you guys like?”
“That would be fantastic!” she says. Her voice changes to a whisper “While you’re here, talk to Papa for a while. No more being a shut-in for him. The doctor said that Covid has been bad for his condition.”
Last week, one of the neurologists diagnosed Papa with dementia.
I get there at 2:25 and walk right in. There’s dog shampoo and towels on the table. Papa’s sitting on the couch. I can see he’s reading a printed packet on medical insurance coverage. I startle him when he looks up.
“Lou’s at lunch with her friends,” He smiles, “and Biscuit’s sleeping in the back room.” He goes back to reading, so I walk back to find the dog.
Biscuit is similarly startled when I pet him. His eyes are clouded, and he’s deaf to all but the loudest noises. With a gentle pat, he jerks awake. I go to run the bath with warm water.
Biscuit squirms a little when I pick him up, but once I put him in the half-filled bath he stands still. I pour the water all over him and in less than a minute it’s murky brown. I drain it, fish the crud out of the drain, and fill it again. Biscuit stands patiently.
This time I get to shampooing him. I’m kneeling in the murky water. I keep feeling these lumps on the skin, and clumps of something stuck to his fur. I look closer.
Angry, deformed mounds of skin jut out in little bald spots. The clumps stuck to his fur are scabs of dried blood. I clean that out. It reeks in the bathroom. I never knew dogs could smell that bad wet.
Then I can’t stop thinking about the dried blood under my fingernails, and the probably-dog-shit infused water I’m kneeling in. I get out of the tub quickly, disgusted.
I’ve let go of Biscuit, and his legs have gone out.
He slips, splayed out in the filthy water. I rush back in and lift him up. I know he can’t see, but it still feels like he looks at me with accusing eyes. I can picture him as a puppy, running around the kitchen at full speed. Now he can’t stand for more than a few minutes. I drain and refill the tub again.
By the time I do my final rinse I’m holding Biscuit up completely. He’s still sort of dirty, but now he’s shivering. The water’s warm, but he’s still too cold. I figure I’ll come back next week.
I dry him off and a bit of blood gets on the towel. I’m worried I hurt him in the bath, but he doesn’t seem like he’s in pain. When he’s dry enough, I open the bathroom door.
I’ll ask my grandparents about the lumps later. Biscuit has a type of cancer. The Vet said there’s not much to be done about it. At least he’s not in pain. Yet.
Biscuit takes off like a puppy in the spring-time of his life. He bolts. Rolls around on the carpet. Slams into Papa’s knees. Papa laughs.
“He’s a funny little guy, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he’s a good boy. I can’t believe he has that much energy, I thought he could barely walk.”
“He does this sometimes. I’ll let him in from the yard and he’ll bolt around like crazy. What a funny guy.” Biscuit is laying belly-up on the floor in front of Papa. Papa leans down to pet him.
“He’s an old puppy.” I say.
“Grab me the brush, will you?”
All of Biscuit’s supplies are in their laundry room. He’s got enough equipment to serve in the army. I remember Papa saying. There are two brushes. I grab both.
Two months later, when Biscuit’s pain medication stops letting him sleep through the night, my grandfather will lie on the floor with him for hours. Biscuit will whine and wheeze through it all. The vet will recommend saying goodbye. On the third sleepless night my grandfather will acquiesce, but then get to the vet’s office and imagine Biscuit running like he is right now, on the living room floor. My grandparents will bring the biscuit home for another two nights.
Papa sits on the couch, and I sit on the rug with Biscuit. We both brush him, and Papa gets to talking. He’s telling me stories about the dogs they’ve had. They always had dogs.
I’m thinking about the way his voice sounds, trying to memorize it. He’s a big man with a deep voice, but his words are softly crafted. He speaks gently.