At the Twilight of a Dog’s Life, How Do You Know When It’s Time?

She’s seventeen pounds of poodle fur, minding her own business, peeing on a tree. Then suddenly, like a Stinger Missile, the bird dives in. Within seconds, my front yard’s a combat zone.

Sitting on my porch wasn’t always so stressful. To my right are the Tetons, tall and majestic, a jumble of tectonic plates that almost reach the sky. Nearly three decades ago, my husband and I built this cabin to escape the Miami heat. Jackson Hole’s everything our hometown isn’t. People leave their doors unlocked. The air smells like Christmas all year round.

I wake up with the sunrise, check the thermometer, grab a sweater. Even though it’s July, icicles stripe the dew. The horizon’s washed in reds and blues. The valley’s covered in mist.

The dog, as always, follows me like a shadow. Maggie’s just turned sixteen. Her eyes are cataract cloudy. She’s deaf to the sound of my voice. Snout down, she leaves my side just to amble a few feet away. Then she lifts her head, catches my scent, and forages some more.

The bird, like all our worries, is relentless. Waving my arms, I scream. “Shoo! Go away! Scram!” But once again, the beak zeroes in, missing Maggie by inches.

Years ago, my dog would hike through the woods and parade by our side while we shopped. Now her world is smaller. A clutch of fir trees. A few lupine. A clump of Queen Anne’s lace. Aging is a funny thing. You’re not sure if the world has changed, or if a hundred cellular mutations have changed your place in it.

I live at the vet’s office. Pills to ease her pain. Pills to help her bladder. Pills to settle her stomach. Taking care of an old dog is like taking care of an aging parent. The expense. The patience. The daily humiliations. I refuse to buy doggie diapers. Instead, my husband and I walk the house on tiptoes, never knowing what surprise our feet will find.

At the vet’s office, I weep. And in between sobs, I ask the question that always lingers: How do you know when it’s time?

On the walls are canine cartoons. In the distance, I hear yipping and yapping of unspeakable sorrow. Of course, it could be nothing. A bath. A haircut. Some animals complain over the slightest things.

The vet stops writing on his clipboard and looks me in the eye. “It’s all about quality of life,” he says.

I interrupt before he’s through. “The pills are working, right? She wags her tail, right? She likes her food.”

Now he’s counting down on his fingers. “Maggie’s incontinent. She can barely walk. It’s been years since she did stairs.” Then his voice twists like a knife. “I’m not talking about hers. But I’m talking about yours.”

Some days, I grab a handful of pebbles and take aim at the goddamned birds. But so far, I haven’t worked up the nerve. I’m overwhelmed with anger. Who would know where to throw?

At the vet’s office, I weep. And in between sobs, I ask the question that always lingers: How do you know when it’s time?

This year, my daughter’s taking a breather from her marriage. She’s here for six weeks and brought along her yellow lab. Each morning, her dog runs in circles, barking and yelping, jumping and whining, until Rachel takes out the leash. Then they head into the foothills for hours. Maggie scuttles to the garage, hoping she’s invited. But once again we end up on the porch.

Some days, there are three of them. Gray bodies, pink bills, a flash of white when they fly. They glide along the ground in a Michael Jackson moonwalk, searching for seeds and bugs. Their strategy is simple. As soon as they see Maggie, they dart in all directions, diverting her from their hidden nest. The ploy always works. In seconds, Maggie’s outside her cone of comfort, lost in the thigh-high thistle by the side of the house.

Panic, then whimpering ensues. It takes me two, three tries to get out of my rocker. Then I limp to the rescue. We’re quite a pair. My geriatric dog. Me with my sixty-five-year-old knees.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The most peculiar thing about these birds is their song. As they chase Maggie, they tick tick tick like a metronome run amok. In the quiet, every noise is amplified. An owl hooting. A squirrel scurrying. The smallest gesture is laden with meaning. Tick. Tick. Tick.

After practicing law for forty years, my husband Michael is easing into retirement. He spends hours folding the laundry I’ve already folded. After I unpack the groceries, he sneaks into the pantry and lines up the cans just so. He’s testy and cranky and has way too much time on his hands.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Do you believe Trump’s latest tweet! rants Michael. He’s ruining our country! He’s destroying the environment! Don’t forget to look behind the couch! Your dog’s left another pile of poop!

Even in the woods of Wyoming, there’s no escaping problems big and small. When we first built our cabin, the town faced a shortage of manual labor. Your housekeeper was usually a college kid who had no idea how to swing a mop. Then a few years ago, a Mexican community moved in. Soon every maid, every dishwasher, every guy who pulled your weeds came from south of the border. They’re hardworking, family-loving, and tackle the work no one else wants. Now they live in daily fear of a roundup. They flit from job to job, apartment to apartment, always moving, never still. Even in heaven, there are cracks in the firmament.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Meanwhile, the birds persist. According to my Petersen’s guide, they’re juncos, a kind of sparrow. Pink-sided, dark-eyed Oregon juncos, to be exact. A variation of the species once thrived in the Yucatan peninsula. Though they’re no longer found there, the Spanish name stuck.

The good news is that they migrate. With the first signs of autumn, the juncos will leave our yard and seek milder climes. Then they’ll find new front yards and torment other dogs.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Today, my husband’s running a rag over our sills. The mornings are getting colder. The windows are tatted with frost. In a few weeks, we’ll pack our bags and ready our suitcases, too.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Like gears of a clock, the future advances. There’s no evading the inevitable. While the animal kingdom commands our respect, human nature demands our attention. Yes, the President’s a fool. Yes, my husband needs some hobbies. Yes, my daughter’s getting a divorce. And the fact is that I need my dog as much as she needs me. So I lift her. And I cradle her. And I savor every last minute that we have together. Is there ever enough time?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

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