Blind not blinded by

Woof! Woof!

“Betty, darling, take care. There’s oil spilled on the pavement, it’s slippery.”

“Thanks, Romeo. Your timely warning barks are exactly what this blind, bonny lass needs to reach eighty! Good dog, Romeo!”

It’s appreciation and pats like these that keep me going. The pain is excruciating, but Betty and I have been through a lot, and this feels like just another needle in the haystack. We’ve broken our limbs together, seen the insides of operating theatres, been confined to our room in neatly wrapped bandaged bundles, and suffered many other atrocities together. But being blind Betty’s helper dog is what brings me to my paws every single day.

Dark times don’t necessarily end with light. They just turn a little less dark. Oh, forgive my fur! Like me, it sheds philosophy these days. Old age, you see.

“You see”, such an overused phrase! The ones who can actually see can’t see the harm it inflicts on those deprived of sight.

Now, you see, I’m a philosophical, old-school follower dog, fond of long, winding sentences. So do try to put up with my mess.

Let’s begin from the beginning. Not from Betty’s, but mine. I wasn’t there when she was born, but I was presented to her when she turned blind. I’m being modestly superfluous about my grand entry into Betty’s life. At first, she was reluctant to have me around.

“What if I lose him in the park? What if I step on his furry little tail? What if I fill his bowl with detergent instead of dog food?” she stormed at her son.

Her son, busy with his city life but confident in my puppy promise, left me at her feet, but certainly not at her mercy. I was a smart pup. In fact, I’m a smart septuagenarian to this day. By human standards, I’m seventy; by canine standards, I’m twelve, old enough to tell you my story. Oops! Sorry, our story: Betty’s and mine.

My day would begin only after Betty ambled into the kitchen. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans would tell me she was ready for her morning walk. She would call out to me in her quivering voice,

“Romeoooo…”

The o’s breaking at places before reaching my ears. I would rush to her, tumbling several times, forgetting my own situation in my haste!

Once beside Betty, tugging gently at her skirt, I would escort her to the nearby park. Betty couldn’t walk much. After a few minutes, she would settle on a bench and begin questioning the state of her life.

“Romeo, why did God take away the beauty of seeing this beautiful world? Why did He paralyze my sight when I was about to see my grandson? What good does blinking my eyes amidst this ever-expanding darkness do? The colour black is dark. It sucks you in. It gets darker with each passing day. Oh, silly me! With each passing night. There are no days in my life anymore, only nights… always-present nights.”

While she spoke, I would get busy sniffing out rabbits disappearing into burrows. Missed buck. Hard luck! The chirping robins calmed my overactive brain. The cool wind lulled me to sleep. By the time Betty reached the last chapter of her autobiography, I would have snored a thousand times.

“Romeo, lazy dog! Let’s go home.”

Her hard kicks on my snoozing belly could scare even the rabbits in their holes! We would then wobble our way back to the cottage. It was a tastefully done home, or so I had imagined it to be. The fragrant lilies in the backyard gave me hope for a better tomorrow. The woody smell of pine assured a steady life. The pitter-patter of rain spoke of the corrugated roof. The doorway from the main gate was tiled, and as soon as we entered, Betty’s heels would tick-tock on them.

Once inside, Betty would attend to the pots and pans, while I would attend to scaring pigeons. Rabbits, pigeons, and postmen, my true enemies! Why? I’ll tell you soon.

Though blind, Betty cooked fabulous, paw-licking meals. Years of dedication in the kitchen had honed her sixth sense to perfection.

SHAK! SHAK! Her nimble, wrinkled fingers, while fumbling for the rosemary tin, would stop right next to it.

Her lanky legs would stretch just enough to fetch the rice container from the upper shelf.

CHICK! The soles, stuck to her sweaty slippers, would lift themselves.

TANK! TANK! The ladle would stir the curry before the knob was turned off.

CLACK! Lunch was ready.

She always made sure to cook something that suited my palate, mild, but not sweet.

Evenings were long and cumbersome, both of us too afraid to step out into the dark. The darkness outside bit into her personal darkness. Many times, I wondered what difference it would have made, but Betty preferred sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine and the television blaring in the background.

Most nights, she would fall asleep there, her loud, boisterous snores keeping me awake till dawn.

In the morning, realizing her folly, she would laugh out loud, “Oh, I’ve turned blind in love with you, you mad dog!” Her warm, spongy fingers would dive deep into my fur, scratching until we both felt pleasantly content with our existence.

Betty had learned to cope with her dim situation. She had begun to see the brighter side of life with me around.

One day, the postman rang the bell loud and hard. What I still fail to understand is does being blind make one deaf? Yet most people visiting Betty behaved as if she were losing all her senses at once.

The postman handed her a letter. Silence fell, and then Betty’s gentle sobs filled the air, a foghorn of grief. The postman had the nerve to read the letter aloud. Betty’s son had been murdered under suspicious circumstances. She called the police station, wrote to her lawyer. Her inability to travel, typed and signed, was mailed back. There were a series of encounters with postmen after that each one bringing louder rings and meaner letters.

That’s why I said earlier: I hate postmen.

My life has been far more adventurous than any other Labrador in my family. I was the black sheep born in a litter of six. Before I could even lose the scent of my mother’s saliva, I was sold to Betty’s son. I still remember the thumping fists of joy when he thought he’d found a cheap deal in me, and the way the word scoundrel was spelled on his face when he realized my true worth. But by then, it was too late.

Time rolled on. Betty’s son got married, divorced, arrested, released, and ultimately died a mysterious death. All within thirteen human years. Betty stood strong. She had me, her faithful friend, her careful caretaker. I confer those degrees upon myself. Life has taught me to be my own cheerleader.

But life can be cruel at times. How? By injecting a tumour into an otherwise healthy Lab. The tumour doesn’t disturb me much. Tumour or not, I would have died either way. But what will happen to Betty after me?

Like spouses married for an eternity, we count our days. We bet on who will go first. We curse each other for the darkness of loneliness that lies ahead. We love each other for the light and heavy moments spent together. We simply can’t do without each other.

In the twilight of our lives, we laugh at how doubtful we once were about our companionship. We cry knowing one of us will soon be left alone in this darkness. If I go first, and I’m certain I will. I’ll be her guiding angel, with a halo of light.

What else can a blind dog wish for?

Luckily, we are blind, but not blinded by the prejudice that two blind souls can never see the light.

This blog is a part of 'Currents of Kindness Blog Hop' hosted by Manali Desai  https://arusticmind88.wordpress.com/ and Sukaina Majeed  https://thenightreader28.wordpress.com/)