Sophie’s home—and I am grappling with deep thoughts

 

Sophie was comfortably asleep, so no picture of her at home tonight.
This is my so-so corned beef supper. Horseradish sauce was good. Is that a travesty?

Sophie’s home! Dr. Burney called early this morning to say he was pleased with her lab results and behavior this weekend (I think that means among other things that she ate, peed, and pooped) and she could come home today. Therein ensued confusion. Jordan and Christian had been out late last night—shoot! They were out all day! So I thought they would sleep late. About nine, Christian let Crickett out, so I knew he would follow to let her back in, and I captured him for a talk. It was confusing at best. Jacob was supposed to get a ride to school, so we could have his car—he didn’t do that, although he did put my transport chair out of his van (oh, oops! I’m not supposed to call it a van). Christian had a morning appointment but said there was no way he could put himself, Jordan, me, my chair, and Sophie in his car. So he and Jordan went without me in the early afternoon, which was fine.

Once again, I spent the morning in suspended animation, not knowing how the day would work out. I didn’t change into street clothes because I had a feeling I wouldn’t be going with them to get Soph. About noon I decided I’d proceed with my day—had lunch, did the dishes, prepped the dinner—more about that later—and took a nap. Sophie came home in the middle of my nap, so we had a good visit/loving session. But then I let her wander about and re-orient herself, which is what she’s done the rest of the day. She fell into old habits quickly—watching me cook from the doorway between kitchen and bedroom, sleeping under the coffee table by the couch, lounging on the patio, though she didn’t do much of that because it’s chilly tonight and predicted to be in the thirties.

When I was waiting to see how the day would work out, I read emails, answered a few, did some work on the monthly newsletter but didn’t really put my full weight down. I am reminded of the ninety-year-old woman who went on her first airplane ride. Asked about it afterward, she said, “It was okay, but I never dd put my full weight down.” An aside: I think putting our full weight down is a problem for many women today. But back to my morning, I didn’t do much productive. Then I read an article for women about the third stage of life and how we should put society’s norms, those “should” and “should nots” behind us and do what felt comfortable to us. The gist of it was you don’t have to feel productive every day. Do what you want, what makes you happy. (I can hear my father, with his strong work ethic, rolling in his grave). I think I’ve got that one, I realize that I work because I want to, not because society demands it and, fortunately, not because I have to.

But Sophie presents another dilemma. Her care this time and a year ago when she had her first diabetic crisis was horribly, astronomically expensive. I know many people would frown on the folly of spending that much to keep a dog alive (I joked the first episode was the trip to Europe that I never took, so this week was the second European trip, an extended stay). And that’s society’s norm, the standard from which my guilt springs. But the other side is that she has been my companion for thirteen years. She is a living, breathing soul who trusts me implicitly to take care of her. I could never look at her and say, “Sorry. You’re too expensive.” And condemn her to euthanasia. Oh, if I lived on the edge I would probably surrender her to a rescue society in hopes they would find a sugar daddy to underwrite her treatment. But the blessed truth is I have the money. It’s my choice to spend it on her. Yes, there are starving children through the world, and yes, there are a lot of progressive candidates I would like to support with more, but the other truth is that Soph looks at me with those liquid eyes and as long as she is pain-free and happy, I will keep her alive. It’s a bigger dilemma than the productivity one.

At my age, I would hope to be beyond worrying about what society thinks. And I almost am—but not quite.

As for the dinner I prepped—it was to be our belated St. Patrick’s day dinner. I got a fairly expensive corned beef because it was uncured (no artificial preservatives), and I roasted it because I’d read a lot online that said roasting was the only way to go. I served champ with it (mashed potatoes with lots of butter and green onion) and Christian fixed shredded Brussel sprouts, which may have been the best part of the dinner. The corned beef was tough though the flavor was great, and the champ was just okay, nothing remarkable. Not my finest dinner. Sorry, Paddy!

It’s never too late for a good Irish blessing:

May the road rise to meet you
May the wind be at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face

May the rain fall softly on your fields
And until we meet again
May you keep safe
In the gentle loving arms of God