Looking out my Backdoor: Dude, the Dementia Dog

Poor thing. She’s elderly, has hip pain, a neurological disease and dementia, which is also neurological, I’m told.

Who knows what goes on in a dog’s brain. As if the above were not enough, Dude thinks I’m hers. I wonder who I was in her past life, or who she thinks I was.

She is a large dog. In size, comparable to a Labrador or German Shepard. This gal is long-bodied and blonde. Perhaps blondes do have more fun. She would be happy if she could sit in my lap all day. I shudder to think.

Most of the time this is not a problem. My area is private, a “one-dog yard”. My fence is a clever blending of various discarded sections of wrought iron rescued from a junk yard, painted white.

I share a common area with my neighbors and landladies in which their dogs, Dude, Paco and Monkey, run and play with my dog, Lola. Lola lives with me. Not on my lap, but in her doghouse on the patio. Lola goes back and forth, from home ground to the common area.

The first time Dude breached my fence, she squeezed between openings in the wrought iron, through space logically impossible. (Open space is X wide. Dude is XYZ in width. Do the math.)

Once in my patio, getting Dude to move out was logically impossible. Dude is impervious to pain, curses, pushes, pulls, ropes, cajoling, pleading and prayer. She simply splayed herself onto the ground as if locked in with Gorilla Glue, looked up with big brown eyes and said in dawg, “I wuff you.”

A generous application of chicken wire secured the breached section of fence.

At the time of day when Sundowner Syndrome takes over Dude’s brain, I am usually on the patio, relaxing with a book. Back and forth, back and forth, Dude paces, just outside my fence, with an occasional whimper rcombined with gazes of adoration. I harden my heart.

One day she discovered that if I sat in a certain chair and if she stretched her neck to the ultimate length, salad-plate paws atop that section of fence, she could lay her head on my shoulder. Think 1950s love songs. Dude is not Paul Anka.

Dude, being a dog of little brain, took a couple weeks to figure out that if she scrabbled one hind leg up just enough to imbed her claws in chicken wire, this section of fence also being reinforced, and, remember, she is impervious to pain, the fourth leg would eventually follow. Up, up and over. Once, twice, thrice. Easy.

Ordinarily, Dude would not dominate our lives. However, Ana and Michelle have planned a needed vacation, a Mayan Train tour up the Yucatan, with friends. They don’t want me to have to lap sit Dude the whole time they are gone.

Hence, extraordinary activity these past days has included reinforcing my privacy fence with tall sections of heavy wire-grid panels. The panels do the trick while enhancing the look of the place.

Raising the fence necessitated moving my rotary clothesline, which had been wired to a fence post. Not a problem. Back to my Plan A which was to imbed the post in a large trash can filled with concrete. Works like a dream.

Changing location of the clothesline also meant changing location of several of my potted herbs and mini-garden. The entire arrangement is more pleasing to the eye, which is more pleasing to me. Wins all around.

One more positive thing out of this whole emotional mess is that we have discovered that Lola has therapy dog qualities. When Dude is anxious, Lola helps settle her down.

My friends and guests are off on a Train adventure. I’m not Dude’s caretaker. Laundry is hanging on the line. I’m listening to Paul Anka sing the lyrics to “Put your head on my shoulder.” What could possibly go wrong?

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].