I wish I spoke your lingo, dear suffering dog. I know you hurt somewhere; I know you pant with anxiety or pain. But I cannot catch the language in your breath-related anguish. I do not know what to do for you, how to comfort, how to soothe.
You stand there, frantic – with a need I cannot read. I try all sorts: Stroke your fur, which makes the panting worse; touch your back, which you pull away from; open the back door and let you out…and there you stand, in early morning light, a lost canine soul, unsure of your world, unmoving, breathing harshly to be let back in again.
I wish I could converse with you, my lovely friend, Jumble, in words or sounds we both understood. I wish you could tell me what ails you so that I could do something – other than the drugged hit-and-miss nature of Tramadol – to ease the ravages of age and soreness.
I wish I were fluent in Border-Collie…
Chronicles of an Orange-Haired Woman! 