Who Goes First?

“Oh, Barb, what are you going to do when Sophie dies?”

My sister Mary’s rhetorical question came out of nowhere.  True, Sophie, my dog, was coughing almost non-stop but her raspy hacking had been interrupting conversations for a year or two. None of the vet meds we tried addressed the symptoms. “It’s probably a collapsed trachea,” the veterinarian said, unconvincingly.

Mary and her husband were visiting me in Connecticut, en route to a beach vacation in Rhode Island. With them was Henry, their 75-pound two-year-old Golden Retriever. At the off-leash dog park near my home, Henry romped merrily with other large dogs while Sophie headed to the car, making it clear she just wanted to go home.

My sister has always owned a dog. In Brooklyn, where we grew up, she used to bring strays home, each with a different excuse. As an adult, she has had a long string of them; Henry replaced Magoo who died just two years ago.

Sophie is 14 ½ years old, in human terms even older than I. I lucked into her six years ago, ten months after my husband Saul died. Living alone for the first time since my early twenties, I longed for a companion, a four-legged one for lack of another option, that I could care for, talk to, and cuddle with. And who would force me to take walks.

But not a puppy. I wanted a dog whose better days were behind her: mature and satisfied with a walk no longer than a couple of miles. A friend directed me to Sophie, a Maltese mix, whose owner was seeking to bequeath her to a responsible adult.

Sophie adjusted immediately to her new home. She went to bed early, jumping onto Saul’s side of the bed, careful to stay on top of the covers. If I didn’t join her there by midnight, she appeared at my office door with a message, just as Saul used to. “It’s bedtime,” Saul would say with a lilt in his voice, sounding like Ed McMahon’s “Here’s Johnny” when he introduced Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. Sophie just emitted a woof.

We went everywhere together. The workers at the local CVS knew her name. Only Costco and Trader Joe’s ejected us. At Stop n Shop, nobody even noticed her peeking out of a canvas bag in a shopping cart. On our walks, I told her my troubles and sang songs with her name prominent, like “My Sophie lies over the ocean.” On my nights out, soft jazz kept her company in the kitchen. “Play Sophie’s songbook,” I instructed Alexa.

I didn’t realize her hearing was failing until it was suddenly gone. I should have known; we’re on the same path and I’ve been wearing hearing aids for two years. I wonder if she thinks sound has disappeared for everyone. I still talk to her but no longer play her music or sing her songs. Now I use hand signals, pointing “up” to the stairs where I’m headed. Sophie ignores me, preferring to stay put. When she’s not coughing, she sleeps the day away and most of the night. At four a.m. she wakes me with a gentle cough. I lift her off the bed and we both head to the bathroom.

I didn’t answer my sister’s question. Whether Sophie dies first or I do is a crapshoot.
If I die first, she’ll find a new home. People still stop to admire her adorableness.
If Sophie goes first, I’ll be okay. I had practice, after all. It might be time to take a long trip.