The Jacket

It's raining again. Of course it is – it's Oregon and winter, after all. This morning I forced Nicholai to wear a jacket for our morning hike out where the Sandy River runs into the Columbia. The temperature was about forty-two degrees and the rain, like now, came down steadily. While I fastened Velcro around his neck and under his belly, Nicholai gave me a tortured, whites-of-the-eyes look that said, "Do I look like a Chihuahua?" I held firm. He's got a terminal disease, so the mom in me is doing what moms do, going into protective – and some might say over-protective – mode.

I walked a few paces ahead and when I looked back, Nicholai was standing on the trail, stock-still. "Come on buddy," I called. "It's just a coat." He didn't budge, just squinted his eyes. After a moment, he took a stiff step, as if I'd tied him in a straight-jacket. I laughed out load. "Oh bubba, you're alright. Come on." I believe that Nicholai understands my intentions, or my emotions, via cues I don't know I give. If I see someone on the trail or in the woods and I wonder what they're up to, Nicholai will raise his hackles and give a low growl, even though we're not connected by a leash and I've said and done nothing (that I know of) to indicate my concern. So I knew that Nicholai would be able to read the fact that no amount of complaining or martyred looks on his part would get me to change my mind about the jacket, and I turned and headed down the trail. In a few moments, he caught up to me, moving stiffly, like he suspected that this strange new apparel was out to trip him up.

When I realized that Nicholai was entering his second winter with lymphatic cancer –against the odds – I rushed out to purchase suitable raingear. In a whole decade with this dog I have never felt compelled to put clothes on him. He has his own thick insulating coat that belies his short-haired pitbull mamma. But now, now that he is getting to be an old man and he has cancer, I worry about his immune system and I worry about running him into the ground. I'm attempting to skate what turns out to be a surprisingly thin line between ignoring his disease and caving to it. This new fleece-lined red and black water-resistant coat is my nod to the seriousness of his condition. A nod I can't give by staying home, or limiting our walks to leash walks, or rushing about for multiple medical appointments. I can keep the pelting rain off his back while we wander the trails and woods and beaches that we have come to love, that I can do.

In another ten minutes, Nicholai is trotting along, head and tail up, looking quite jaunty. Something about his blackness, the high collar standing up behind his neck, and the sweeping nature of the new garment, come together to give him the debonair flare of Count Dracula. As I think this, he turns to me with his mouth open, all pointy sharp white teeth. "You, my man, look downright dangerous." He gives me what I can only describe as a roll of the eyes and trots away ahead of me.

I love this old black dog. My heart aches, I'm counting days again. I can barely believe we've made it this far. I tell myself that it can't last. I try to prepare for the end. Meanwhile, the big old black dog is rolling his shiny new coat in the stinking poop of a Great Blue Heron, blissfully unconcerned with "the end." Great, I think to myself, the greasy, fishy stench wafting over to me. And then I smile. It is great.