Life with Nicky
Nicky is my Shetland Sheep dog and my constant companion, but we’ve got to get back to the beginning to really know him. Back to the time when my Alzheimer’s afflicted brother lived with us and I felt he needed a dog.
Marshall’s condition had declined to the point that he didn’t know who I was. He no longer recognized me but accepted me as That Lady. He didn’t read the morning newspaper or watch what was on television. These had occupied him during the day. Now he just sat in his recliner and waited as I watched him sink further and further into the darkness of Alzheimer’s. But he had not lost his love of dogs. So one morning I stood in front of him and with great determination said, ‘I’m going to get a dog for us.” He was startled for a moment and then said “If you get a dog I’ll have nothing to do with it. I’m not going to care about it. I won’t go through the pain of putting another dog to sleep.” Still standing in front of him, I replied “Marshall, you are 76 years old and I am 80. What makes you think we can outlive a Sheltie? I’m going to get our dog.”
We’re Sheltie lovers and I was about to find our fourth Sheltie. I called Sheltie Rescues. None had a dog that needed a home. The last one I spoke with told me about a friend who had a young Sheltie that she might sell. I phoned and discovered that she was a Sheltie breeder who would sell a 9-month-old Sheltie for $119.00. My heart skipped a beat. I could handle that. I drove out to meet her the next morning.
After explaining that she had kept him for best of show, but he failed to qualify, she introduced me to a beautiful, happy, perfect little dog. “Did you bring a kennel?” Stupid me, how could I not realize that I needed some way to take him home. “I’ll be back tomorrow with one” I said and left. Early the next morning I received a phone call. “I’m sorry” she said. “A family who saw Cody before, had first right and they bought him.” Tears came to my eyes; I really wanted that dog.
About two weeks later I received an unexpected call. “Are you still interested in Cody?” the kennel owner asked. “Oh, yes.” I replied. “Well,” she said “The people who bought him brought him back and said it was because he wasn’t housebroken. Who in the world would expect a dog from a kennel to be housebroken?” She didn’t explain that they had brought back the most frightened, traumatized dog I have ever see.
With a kennel in the back seat, my granddaughter and I drove to pick up my dog. She suddenly turned to me said “I don’t like the name they gave him.” “Neither do I” I said, “but I’ve got the right name for him. It’s Nicholas McTavish the Fourth.” I saw the amazement on her face, “Hold it!” I said “He’s from Royal Blood. Many of his ancestors have won Grand Prizes all over the world. Nicky could be listed in every dog-show. He deserves a dignified name.” She shook her head and said “Only my Granny” and so began my life with Nicky.
A few days later I phoned the kennel owner. “This is the most frightened dog I have ever seen. He stays hidden behind the recliner. If I can’t get him to come out within two months, I’ll have to return him.” In one month I fell in love. But a question arose in my mind. What was I to do to help this poor little dog? Then a great opportunity opened. I was able to place Nicky for dog training of assistant dogs. Those two years of training changed my once shy dog to the one that now thinks he rules this house. All is well. He’s my constant companion and my source of comfort. He’s also the smartest dog I’ve ever known. I qualified that the evening I opened the Internet and saw “The Ten Smartest Dogs in the World.” My Sheltie was number 6.
Marshall loved him as much as I did and Nicky was a great companion for him, but Nicky decided himself that he was my dog. At night Marshall would want to sleep with him in his room. Nicky stayed with him for a short time and then began scratching on the door. He would not be satisfied until I opened the door, let him out and watched him be contented as he jumped up on my bed. We still sleep that way every night.
Nicky often makes his own rules. I didn’t teach him not to wake me in the morning. He just waits until I open my eyes. When he’s on medication, I don’t have to call him. Much as he hates it, I have only to shake the pill bottle and wait. He will appear before me, place himself in a sit position, lift his head and silently say “I’m ready” He will always be on the bathmat waiting in front of the shower until I get out and I’m safe. There's more, but I didn’t teach him these things. They are his rules. The things I did teach Nicky only needed to be taught once. The puppy that entered our house started to wet on the floor. I picked him up, took him outside and said a very positive “No.” Just one No for Nicky has never had to be repeated.
He is a joy to take shopping, whether to the grocery or Nordstrom’s. Equally wonderful to take into a restaurant or a movie. How do I accomplish that? After his assist training he wears a coat much like the Seeing Eye companions wear, so he can go wherever I go and he has.
Before my illness Nicky accompanied me everywhere. Now, when the days may be difficult, he will always appear and lay by my side. He is aware when his Mom is not well and is ready to protect her. He also understands everything I say to him and that is truly amazing. It’s not only what I tell him to do but usually tell him what we will do like “let’s go to bed now” and he’s ahead of me waiting in the bedroom. Mom’s got to take a nap means he will spread out on the floor in front of the couch to remain until I get up. These are all his ideas. I know that dogs can understand about 300 words, but Nicky goes far beyond that. I’m pretty certain that Nicky is 70% dog and 30% human (with a slight possibility on the reverse),
Nicky has one problem, he barks too much. We’ve overcome that some, but he can be an annoyance to those who visit. They don’t quite understand, but it’s still a trade-off. This love-expressive, understanding companion has replaced the life I lived before my illness. I live alone but in my aloneness I am not alone. In my times of severe illness I have my protector close to my side waiting until I tell him, “It’s O.K. Nicky, Mom's better now.” Then he will leave to look out of the window. Nicky brings into my existence a completion that I would never have had without him. I guess it’s alright if he barks.
About Me
- Vailia Dennis
- Thank you for visiting and welcome. I am a terminally-ill, 90-year-old mother, grandmother, and published author. I created this page at the behest of my friends and acquaintances. The purpose of this page is to share with you the many thoughts that have occurred to me during their frequent visits to my home. I've entitled my thoughts, "Vailia's Reflections". They're listed in reverse chronological order. I hope you find them to be of value. My book concerning Alzheimer's disease, Marshall's Journey, has been my most rewarding achievement to date. It practically wrote itself and demanded to be heard. As my understanding of Alzheimer's grew, I knew that I had discovered skills that would help victims and caregivers through the painful devastation of the illness. I have also been proactive in negotiating the terms of my own death. My views have been the subject of several local television newscasts. In addition, I've been quoted in articles that appeared in recent editions of the Wall Street Journal and San Diego Magazine. Please enjoy your stay.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
37 - The Priest and Bruce
The Priest and Bruce
This story goes back many years but it is worth repeating. It started when we lived in a small house only two doors from a Catholic church. In between was another very small home where many children lived. The eldest child was Virginia. She became the baby sitter for Robin and Bruce
and I was really concerned when I moved to live with my mother and father.
My family had rented a large home in Mission Hills (an elegant section of San Diego) and insisted that the children and I come and live with them. It proved to be a wonderful arrangement except for my loss of Virginia who was the only baby sitter I could trust. The family usually left on Saturday evening to drive to Tia Juana for the Jai Alai games. That was a fun night out but, until I was comfortable about leaving them, I needed to be home with the children. Then Virginia’s family finally approved of her staying overnight Saturday and I could drive her home on Sunday. I was free to go with the family. Robin and Bruce would be safe.
One Sunday I was climbing upstairs to see if the children were dressed. As I neared the bedroom I heard Bruce say, in a very loud voice, “Ginny, you’re wrong and I’m right. Only the Jews are right.” It was shortly after that my son got his first really hard swat on the bottom and stood teary-eyed before me as I explained, “Don’t you ever say anything like that again. You may not understand now but Virginia is right for her and you are right for you. And that is the way it is in this world.”
It was about two weeks later that Virginia wanted to go to the Vincent Saint Paul church just a few blocks from my home. She also asked if Bruce could go with her. “What a wonderful idea” I thought, “Bruce can now begin to experience other religions”. I dressed him in a little navy-blue suit, a bright white shirt and white shoes with navy-blue socks. He was such a beautiful child and looked so handsome that a very proud mother stood on the porch to watch them as they walked away. The rest is as told to me by Virginia.
They entered the church and walked down to the seating closest to the podium. Services began and a young priest approached the podium and was about to speak when Bruce suddenly stood up. He looked around and said in a very loud little-boy voice “Ginny, what kind of a place is this anyhow. There ain’t any Jews in here.” Virginia said that she pulled him down to his seat and swore if purgatory had opened she would have gladly fallen in.
Services resumed and after they ended the priest walked to the entrance to say farewell to the leaving parishioners. Virginia entered into the crowd and holding tight to Bruce’s hand bent down very low. That way she thought she might be hidden enough to leave without being seen. It worked for a short time until she heard the priest call “Virginia”. She said she was terrified as she approached him with Bruce in tow. As she neared she was trembling but he paid no attention to her. He simply reached down and pulled Bruce up in his arms. He held Bruce close and said, “Don’t you worry, young man, there’s a Jew here all the time.” It still clutches at my heart and brings tears to my eyes.
I don’t remember the name of that wonderful priest nor can I remember his family. I called them about two years later, after he had been killed in an automobile accident. I had to let them know the wonder of their son. I will continue to try to find his name but we’re talking about something that happened sixty-years ago. Something I will never forget.
(I’ve often wondered how Bruce knew that there weren’t any Jews there. It seems that kneeling on the floor, which is not done in the synagogue, may have caused the remark or perhaps making the sign of the cross. But he had no answers when asked…and neither do I. By-the-way our dear Virginia became a Nun.)
This story goes back many years but it is worth repeating. It started when we lived in a small house only two doors from a Catholic church. In between was another very small home where many children lived. The eldest child was Virginia. She became the baby sitter for Robin and Bruce
and I was really concerned when I moved to live with my mother and father.
My family had rented a large home in Mission Hills (an elegant section of San Diego) and insisted that the children and I come and live with them. It proved to be a wonderful arrangement except for my loss of Virginia who was the only baby sitter I could trust. The family usually left on Saturday evening to drive to Tia Juana for the Jai Alai games. That was a fun night out but, until I was comfortable about leaving them, I needed to be home with the children. Then Virginia’s family finally approved of her staying overnight Saturday and I could drive her home on Sunday. I was free to go with the family. Robin and Bruce would be safe.
One Sunday I was climbing upstairs to see if the children were dressed. As I neared the bedroom I heard Bruce say, in a very loud voice, “Ginny, you’re wrong and I’m right. Only the Jews are right.” It was shortly after that my son got his first really hard swat on the bottom and stood teary-eyed before me as I explained, “Don’t you ever say anything like that again. You may not understand now but Virginia is right for her and you are right for you. And that is the way it is in this world.”
It was about two weeks later that Virginia wanted to go to the Vincent Saint Paul church just a few blocks from my home. She also asked if Bruce could go with her. “What a wonderful idea” I thought, “Bruce can now begin to experience other religions”. I dressed him in a little navy-blue suit, a bright white shirt and white shoes with navy-blue socks. He was such a beautiful child and looked so handsome that a very proud mother stood on the porch to watch them as they walked away. The rest is as told to me by Virginia.
They entered the church and walked down to the seating closest to the podium. Services began and a young priest approached the podium and was about to speak when Bruce suddenly stood up. He looked around and said in a very loud little-boy voice “Ginny, what kind of a place is this anyhow. There ain’t any Jews in here.” Virginia said that she pulled him down to his seat and swore if purgatory had opened she would have gladly fallen in.
Services resumed and after they ended the priest walked to the entrance to say farewell to the leaving parishioners. Virginia entered into the crowd and holding tight to Bruce’s hand bent down very low. That way she thought she might be hidden enough to leave without being seen. It worked for a short time until she heard the priest call “Virginia”. She said she was terrified as she approached him with Bruce in tow. As she neared she was trembling but he paid no attention to her. He simply reached down and pulled Bruce up in his arms. He held Bruce close and said, “Don’t you worry, young man, there’s a Jew here all the time.” It still clutches at my heart and brings tears to my eyes.
I don’t remember the name of that wonderful priest nor can I remember his family. I called them about two years later, after he had been killed in an automobile accident. I had to let them know the wonder of their son. I will continue to try to find his name but we’re talking about something that happened sixty-years ago. Something I will never forget.
(I’ve often wondered how Bruce knew that there weren’t any Jews there. It seems that kneeling on the floor, which is not done in the synagogue, may have caused the remark or perhaps making the sign of the cross. But he had no answers when asked…and neither do I. By-the-way our dear Virginia became a Nun.)
36 - The Boy in the Attic
The Boy in the Attic
This story takes us very far back in time. So far back that very few of us can remember, but it’s been a part of our family since the early nineteen hundreds. That was during the period when my grandfather Hyman fled from Russia, came to the United States, settled in Canton, Ohio, opened a saloon and married my grandmother, Anna. It was also the time that he bought a home next to the saloon. It housed his wife and budding family that eventually housed two girls and four boys and an occasional man who was too drunk, when the saloon closed, to be left out on the street.
Hyman had it all figured our. He made the attic stairs sturdy enough to climb. Placed
a mattress with blankets on the floor and supplied everything that could be needed for an overnight stay. The drunken visitors did not please Anna and there were many times that Hyman tried to console her with “It’s just for one night, Anna. Just for one night.” That might have calmed her until he brought a visitor home who would spend three nights.
The visitor was a young man who was obviously addicted to alcohol. He also was soft, caring and very lost. He touched Hyman’s heart so much that when closing time arrived he just couldn’t let the boy wander the streets. He had to take him home knowing that Anna might be angry. How angry? He wasn’t certain until he found out early the third morning.
“You’ve got to stop bringing these people home” she said very loudly that morning “I don’t want anymore of this. The girls are growing up, we don’t need strangers around them and not bad boys like the boy you’ve brought home. I don’t want anymore bad boys in my house.”
Hyman understood her anger but not her remarks. He took her by the shoulders and said firmly, “Anna, that is not a bad boy. There’s no such thing as a bad boy.”
The young man had come down the stairs and was able to hear the last statements. He walked over to Hyman and explained that he would leave and he wanted Hyman to know that he was going home. Back to Omaha. Back to the Priesthood. Back to get help with his addiction so he would be able to live a productive life.
“Thank you, my friend” he said “for all you have done for me” and quietly left the house.
For a long time my grandfather didn’t hear from the young man. Several years passed before the sunny day when he was sitting on the porch and heard the phone ring. Anna called out saying he was wanted on the phone and it was long distance. He hurried inside and picked up the phone. “Hello” he said and the voice on the other line replied “Hello Mr. Bobrof, this is the boy you helped a very long time ago.” “I did?” Hyman questioned and the conversation began. Hyman was reminded about the bed in the attic and the hot cup of coffee in the morning and the things he had done to help the young man.
They spoke for a while with Hyman doing most of the listening. The voice on the line explained that he had returned to the city he had come from. That he spent most of the time helping young, often homeless, boys on the street. He found a house he could use and was able to keep some of the boys there. As time went on there were people who helped and encouraged him to find bigger quarters and more homeless boys. Many offered to help financially.
In time he was able to build large quarters for many boys who would learn by example that life has purpose. That what they learned living with him would serve others as well as themselves. “I must tell you,” he explained to Hyman, “that you were an inspiration for me. Your kindness and concern turned me right around from leaving the priesthood to living the priesthood. It benefited every boy. We now have a big sign as you enter our grounds. Our area is called “Boy’s Town” and our slogan is…
Father Flannigan did not call again. He didn’t need to. Those last few words contained all the emotions both men felt.
This story takes us very far back in time. So far back that very few of us can remember, but it’s been a part of our family since the early nineteen hundreds. That was during the period when my grandfather Hyman fled from Russia, came to the United States, settled in Canton, Ohio, opened a saloon and married my grandmother, Anna. It was also the time that he bought a home next to the saloon. It housed his wife and budding family that eventually housed two girls and four boys and an occasional man who was too drunk, when the saloon closed, to be left out on the street.
Hyman had it all figured our. He made the attic stairs sturdy enough to climb. Placed
a mattress with blankets on the floor and supplied everything that could be needed for an overnight stay. The drunken visitors did not please Anna and there were many times that Hyman tried to console her with “It’s just for one night, Anna. Just for one night.” That might have calmed her until he brought a visitor home who would spend three nights.
The visitor was a young man who was obviously addicted to alcohol. He also was soft, caring and very lost. He touched Hyman’s heart so much that when closing time arrived he just couldn’t let the boy wander the streets. He had to take him home knowing that Anna might be angry. How angry? He wasn’t certain until he found out early the third morning.
“You’ve got to stop bringing these people home” she said very loudly that morning “I don’t want anymore of this. The girls are growing up, we don’t need strangers around them and not bad boys like the boy you’ve brought home. I don’t want anymore bad boys in my house.”
Hyman understood her anger but not her remarks. He took her by the shoulders and said firmly, “Anna, that is not a bad boy. There’s no such thing as a bad boy.”
The young man had come down the stairs and was able to hear the last statements. He walked over to Hyman and explained that he would leave and he wanted Hyman to know that he was going home. Back to Omaha. Back to the Priesthood. Back to get help with his addiction so he would be able to live a productive life.
“Thank you, my friend” he said “for all you have done for me” and quietly left the house.
For a long time my grandfather didn’t hear from the young man. Several years passed before the sunny day when he was sitting on the porch and heard the phone ring. Anna called out saying he was wanted on the phone and it was long distance. He hurried inside and picked up the phone. “Hello” he said and the voice on the other line replied “Hello Mr. Bobrof, this is the boy you helped a very long time ago.” “I did?” Hyman questioned and the conversation began. Hyman was reminded about the bed in the attic and the hot cup of coffee in the morning and the things he had done to help the young man.
They spoke for a while with Hyman doing most of the listening. The voice on the line explained that he had returned to the city he had come from. That he spent most of the time helping young, often homeless, boys on the street. He found a house he could use and was able to keep some of the boys there. As time went on there were people who helped and encouraged him to find bigger quarters and more homeless boys. Many offered to help financially.
In time he was able to build large quarters for many boys who would learn by example that life has purpose. That what they learned living with him would serve others as well as themselves. “I must tell you,” he explained to Hyman, “that you were an inspiration for me. Your kindness and concern turned me right around from leaving the priesthood to living the priesthood. It benefited every boy. We now have a big sign as you enter our grounds. Our area is called “Boy’s Town” and our slogan is…
”THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A BAD BOY.’
Father Flannigan did not call again. He didn’t need to. Those last few words contained all the emotions both men felt.
35 - Friendships
Friendships
Where did I find this? (I don’t know.) How long have I had it? (A very long time.) Why have I kept it? (It’s one of my dear treasures.) Perhaps it is time to share it. (I think so.)
So here I sit, in front of my computer, and wonder how to begin. I think it’s fair to say that I found it at least thirty years ago, but how I found it is totally vague.
I can only be certain of one thing and that is that I love the words and completely agree with the concepts. I have used it once as a Christmas greeting and that, perhaps, is when I put it into a large manila envelope and filed it away. It is recently that I found it again, said “Oh My. It’s a long time since I’ve read you, my friend.” And I began reading it.
I salute you. I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got; but there is very much that, while I cannot give it, you can take…. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present instant. Take Peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. There is radiance and glory in the darkness, could we but see, and to see we have only to look. I beseech you to look.
Life is so generous a giver, but we judging its gifts by their covering, cast them away as ugly or heavy or hard. Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendour, woven of love, by wisdom with power. Welcome it, grasp it, and you will touch the angels hand that brings it to you. Everything we call a trial, a sorrow, or a duty, believe me, that angels hand is there; the gift is there, and the wonders of an over-shadowing Presence.
Our joys too: be not content with them as joys. They too, conceal diviner gifts. Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty, beneath its covering, that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven. Courage then to claim it: that is all! But courage you have, and the knowledge that we are pilgrims together, wending through an unknown country, home. And so, at this time I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greeting, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks, and the shadows flee away.
From a letter written by Fra Giovanni 1513 A.D.
Where did I find this? (I don’t know.) How long have I had it? (A very long time.) Why have I kept it? (It’s one of my dear treasures.) Perhaps it is time to share it. (I think so.)
So here I sit, in front of my computer, and wonder how to begin. I think it’s fair to say that I found it at least thirty years ago, but how I found it is totally vague.
I can only be certain of one thing and that is that I love the words and completely agree with the concepts. I have used it once as a Christmas greeting and that, perhaps, is when I put it into a large manila envelope and filed it away. It is recently that I found it again, said “Oh My. It’s a long time since I’ve read you, my friend.” And I began reading it.
GREETING
I salute you. I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got; but there is very much that, while I cannot give it, you can take…. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present instant. Take Peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. There is radiance and glory in the darkness, could we but see, and to see we have only to look. I beseech you to look.
Life is so generous a giver, but we judging its gifts by their covering, cast them away as ugly or heavy or hard. Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendour, woven of love, by wisdom with power. Welcome it, grasp it, and you will touch the angels hand that brings it to you. Everything we call a trial, a sorrow, or a duty, believe me, that angels hand is there; the gift is there, and the wonders of an over-shadowing Presence.
Our joys too: be not content with them as joys. They too, conceal diviner gifts. Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty, beneath its covering, that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven. Courage then to claim it: that is all! But courage you have, and the knowledge that we are pilgrims together, wending through an unknown country, home. And so, at this time I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greeting, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks, and the shadows flee away.
From a letter written by Fra Giovanni 1513 A.D.
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