old baby Sal

Sal wakes up and I cuddle him for as long as he’ll allow before he gets anxious for breakfast. Here he is enjoying my pillow and a warm spot I left specifically for him. I transferred him from his bedside basket and he immediately curled into position for me to be big spoon. Some people complain about always being big spoon, but with Sal I don’t mind. He is my little spoon forever.

An old photo from 2016 of my old man and I. Our time together was so much simpler, though I even mourned him back then knowing that his life wouldn’t be near as long as he deserves. I look at this picture and so many memories pop into my mind - from his first photos in the gold chair when I thought I’d have to relinquish him back to his literal captors/castrators and wanted memories of him, to him crawling onto the freshly made bed and tunneling back and forth under the comforter for 2 hours at a time. I’ve never loved anyone or anything as much as I love Sal. I’m not sure that I’ve truly accepted the fact that he’s really dying yet.

I’ve been making smoothies for the past few days, and of course Sal smells the fruit once I take it out of the fridge. He is definitely my child - a natural born food hobo, panhandling in the kitchen whenever he knows I’ve got something going. One of our favorite past times is sharing food, so I make sure to distribute the wealth. I even cap his portion off with a strawberry top so he can feel fancy.

Here he is, a proper foode, showcasing the epitome of his mealtime etiquette.

Here is Sal slubbing on a freeze dried (stillborn) calf in my office.

My interpretation of an unofficial definition: slub·bing (verb, specific to opossums) - the act of utilizing massive amounts of saliva produced by the submandibular glands to either 1. groom another affectionately, 2. generously slop slobber onto extremities when overheating, or 3. slobber on an object before rubbing oneself on said slobber in order to a.) transfer the scent of the object onto oneself, or b.) the scent of oneself onto the object.

I have had this taxidermy calf for almost 2 years, Sal has encountered it on a daily basis, and I have never witnessed him slubbing it. It’s kind of gross, but at this stage in his life, who am I to take away anything that he finds joy in - even if that joy is the smell of a dead cow?

There are many negatives to his circumstances, but one thing I am so grateful for is the obnoxious amount of time we spend together lately. Now I know and have witnessed that he often slubs this cow in passing. It’s like he entrusted a very unsettling secret upon me. 

Really though - We have always been best buds and I have shouted our love from the rooftops, but I am astonished by how much closer we are growing with the constant time spent together lately.

Sal's shirt says “lil’ dude, BIG TUDE.” While he has had this tee for a while, its use is more applicable now than ever before.

Surprisingly, his attitude in old age isn’t nasty. Sal isn’t becoming a bitter old man, even despite the pains he may be having. His attitude is just more forceful and headstrong. It has to be, really. Otherwise he would wither away sooner than later. It’s amazing to see his instincts forcing his determination to continue doing what he wants to do. They don’t have the ability to feel sorry for themselves, so his mood is still carefree as long as he gets his way. Really living up to the t-shirt.

I know things can get better before they get worse, but Sal is on an uptick for now. 

Obviously there’s no way for his aging liver to magically repair itself out of a failing state, but his overall health is returning to whatever is “normal” for his age and condition. He is putting around - almost unstoppable at times, he is regaining some rosy coloring in his nose, gums, and tiny baby toes, and he is still as stubborn as ever. 

The above is a photo of him after I had to chase him away from a moldy orange that dropped from a tree in our backyard. He may not be able to see, but he still knows how to face me and stare directly into my soul with his sad (or possibly indifferent) eyes. I later gave him a small, fresh orange to “play” with. I figured it would keep him occupied for a half hour or so, since he’s blind and the orange kept rolling away from him. I came back not even 5 minutes later and he had eaten the entire thing, peel and all, gone as if it never even existed - like a small, cute black hole. Like mother like son.

Above is a photo taken with my laptop, after Sal waited at my feet to be picked up and held for a nap. I was trying to be productive, but didn’t want to wake him so I ended up taking a nap with him on the couch instead. I haven’t had much time to decompress with all that’s happening and the amount of care Sal needs. I can’t leave him unattended for long, so everything I do typically involves or is timed around him. Aside from this blog, which I only keep so I can document final daily memories, I don’t really have the opportunity to truly marinate in my emotions (and overall despair) about the situation.

If I choose to leave the room he is in to eat alone, or if people are over who distract me from him for even a few minutes at a time, or if I go to derby practice a few nights a week and leave him to be babysat - I feel guilty. I know I probably need the time away, for my own sanity, but I don’t want it. At first I thought I may need a distraction here and there, but that is the last thing I want. I don’t want to be inattentive or absentminded for even one minute. I don’t want to escape or take a break or loosen up or whatever. If anything, I wish I could do MORE. I can think of nothing more rewarding than seeing this through and being with Sal for every waking (and sleeping) moment of the rest of his life.

I know every inch of Sal, right down to each whisker on his face (and sometimes his feet). I even have a favorite whisker - one that he has had on his left cheek for over a year. It curls into itself several times, like a corkscrew, and is significantly thicker and more sturdy than any of his other whiskers. It is pictured in both photos above and below, during one of his first post-surgery meals. It looks silly in person so I laugh in his face about it a lot (in a loving way), and I’m ritualistically used to unfurling it while I’m petting him.

So imagine my surprise when I randomly found it on my shirt, as the thickened broken end poked my hand. I knew the whisker. I identified it instantly, no immediate context necessary. Is nothing sacred anymore? Take his sight, take his tail tip, but don’t take his whisker! Just kidding, obviously this whisker doesn’t hold any weight in comparison, but it’s still significant. Sal is falling apart, right down to my favorite whisker.

I figure that I happened upon it for a reason, so I kept it. I am insane and will probably have and be able to locate this small, semi-transparent whisker in my collection of things for the rest of my life. Sal may leave soon, but he won’t -really- be gone. I have him memorized down to individual whiskers, for fuck’s sake. He will live on at least until I die.

A photo of Sal and I from 2016.

Since the day he came home this month, Sal has been with me almost always. Partly because I am too obsessed and paranoid to leave him alone, but mostly because he now requires a lot more supervision and assistance.

He is either in a sling at my hip, napping in my lap, patrolling my office or the backyard under my watchful eye, or sleeping in a basket right next to my pillow. If I must leave him, I proof his room, attempt to lay him down for a nap, try to make it back quickly, and have anxiety the entire time I’m away. It’s definitely taxing, but knowing where he is and that he isn’t in need of anything is comforting, and the extra time spent together is rewarding. 

Like today - I changed one of Sal’s diapers, post-shit. I can always tell when he is going #2, as he has a particular poop stance. A hair was stuck in his butt and I had the pleasure of pulling it out. It was my own hair. From my head. My head is so far up Sal’s ass lately that my hair was literally stuck in his butthole. I’m laughing as I type this, but I am also very serious.

Sal started experiencing difficulties in walking before his surgery and liver diagnosis. He has always been obnoxiously active, so there is no doubt in my mind that his joints and bones have been giving him problems for a while. At the start of the year, I noticed that he would sometimes have a walking “hiccup” in his back right leg, where it would stall or give out, causing him to either inadvertently circle or completely fall down.

More recently, he drags his feet - all of them, but mostly his front paws. The tops of his paws move beneath him and scrape against the ground with most steps he takes. It doesn’t matter what type of flooring “terrain” he’s on - from linoleum and carpet to patio wood and grass - the pressure and friction has caused the tops of select nails to grind down as far as his nail bed. Now he walks around with a bandaged tail, a “bandaged” butt (diaper), and multiple bandaged fingers.

Despite all of this, he has picked up a bit more since surgery. He walks around like he’s got someplace to be, and I’m surprised he’s got any energy left at all. He’s still dragging his feet, fighting to stick around a bit longer. I’m selfishly grateful for it because I’m dragging my feet, too. I’m not ready for him to go.

As if his old man bladder didn’t give him enough grief, Sal’s post-surgery antibiotics cause him to have abnormal shits. When he isn’t traversing the backyard, he has been in diapers. Though he doesn’t seem to care either way, seeing him busily saunter around in a diaper is painful - it’s almost a universal symbol of helplessness. While he is still mentally independent and seemingly physically oblivious, the sound of his diaper shifting with each step is like a stifled scream reminding me that his body is betraying him.

I never thought I’d end up changing a single diaper in my entire life. Now look at me - changing the massacred diapers and wiping the swamp ass of an opossum. And I look forward to it. It’s intimate. It’s motherly. I’m pretty sure he actually enjoys having his butt wiped. Most importantly though, I happily take on shit duty because it means Sal is still here and functioning.

Lately, Sal hovers around my feet if I’m sitting down. Initially, I was spooked - any association with feet in his entire life thus far has equated to ONLY biting them. For him to be so patient was surprising, so I took a chance (at the potential expense of my toes), remained still, and realized that this is now his way of telling me he would like to be picked up. I oblige, and soon he is dozing off in my lap.

This is a very new behavior. I’ve known Sal for years and can count on one hand the amount of times he has actively sought me out for anything other than food - and until now, he has never come to me to be willingly picked up. It’s upsetting that he’s so vulnerable health-wise that he has to drop the majority of his stubborn indifference, but I am thankful to know that he trusts me. I am even more thankful knowing that he realizes he can find comfort in me, and that I am here for him. 

Sal and I stayed up later than everyone else watching television. We don’t even like tv that much, but the couch was too comfortable to leave. Aka: I didn’t want to wake Sal so I stayed up until 4am watching some shitty movie because the remote was far enough away to require me to shift my weight and just the thought of disturbing his sleep right now makes me extremely sad.

He is still so weak from his surgery, and getting acclimated to the haze that is pain medicine. It’s heartbreaking to see him this way, and even more so because he’s blind. He is pale and feeble and just wants to be held all the time, so I pick up his tiny body with the huge fear that I will somehow break him further.

I like to think back on the initial months of living with Sal, 3 years ago. They were extremely difficult - and not in any kind of “new puppy” sort of way. I have had puppies. None of this captivity process had any semblance to domestic rearing. I was consistently bitten (have you seen an opossum’s canines? did you know that they have FIFTY teeth?), aggressively challenged simply for sharing the same space as him, and overall rejected by Sal.

He wasn’t so young that he could fit into my hand and be directly coddled. He was a bit older and previously held captive and neglected, which made him scared and untrusting. He was wary of me for a long time, and I can’t count on both hands how many times he bit into my hands, stomach, and even my armpits. 

I spent so much time trying to just gain his trust, and that was before even attempting to cultivate a shared plane of communication and understanding - which took even longer. It was the most fulfilling thing I have ever pursued in my life. Saving wildlife through fostering and clinical rehabilitation is rewarding in itself, but building a deep connection and friendship with a wild animal is so elusive and unexpected and beautiful. Our relationship is one of the best things that has ever happened in my life. 

An old photo of Sal being a baby.

Sal's energy level isn’t the same anymore, so he now requires a few naps throughout the day. However, if I am not around for those naps, he won’t take them at all. When I see him sitting, slowing down, or looking weak, I place him in his basket bed. I stay and pat him, tuck him into his blankets, and talk to him until he goes to sleep. Lately though, he will intermittently poke his nose out from under the blankets to smell test and ensure I’m still sitting alongside him. If I walk a few feet away, even half an hour after getting him to sleep, it’s as if he instantly wakes up, then clambers out of the basket to find me. Sometimes this is because he wants to know what I’m doing (as he has always been very nosey), but sometimes he just doesn’t want to sleep without me (and I know I'm the main variable here, as my own husband can’t console him).

Lately, he wants to be held and rocked to sleep instead. I completely understand, and really, that is my favorite thing to do. Sal isn’t the only needy one. I have my own tendencies now, too. He has his own room, with his own comfy couch and blankets and bed - but I no longer spend an hour or two coaxing him to sleep there before tip-toeing into my bedroom. Sal sleeps at my direct bedside. We don’t even have a bedframe anymore, so the mattress is almost exactly flush with his basket. I wake up and check on him multiple times a night, I roll over and sleep with my hand cupping his head, I listen for his snoring, I make sure he's still breathing.

If I ever wake to find that Sal passed in his sleep, I need to know that he left with the real comfort that he wasn’t alone. If Sal dies in his sleep, I want him to process the final scents around him with his last few breaths and know, even if just subconsciously, that I was right beside him the whole time.

Very rarely in Sal’s life has he really stopped to relax on his own. If he is awake, he is patrolling, pacing, on the move searching for food. Otherwise, he is cuddling with me, or asleep. There is typically never any in-between. Clearly in the state he’s in, he doesn’t have the same steam as before. He still trucks along, hard-headed and reckless, but now he requires intermittent naps and fluid injections to keep the cogs turning at the same rate as before.

Today he had to take a break during a trip outside and opted to intentionally find a sunny spot to bask in (his cataracts are severe, but he can still perceive light). He dutifully bathed himself lying down, with a few calm pauses in between. He even looked up towards the sky while leisurely sniffing the air for new smells - and also to check and make sure I was still around. I interjected in these moments with a few high-pitched greetings to reassure him that I was right there, and then he would bow his head again and simply relax.

A lot of people have mentioned euthanasia to me, like that will solve anything right now. Yes, Sal’s liver is failing. Dying is his only option either way. But a day like this reassures me that I made the right decision for now. He could have more days like this one, and I would never forgive myself if I failed to help him enjoy as many as he can.

I shared a taco with Sal for Cinco De Mayo. It may be the last holiday we celebrate together, and we both love tacos (or, just food) so I had to make it count. Watching him eat made me think of the first few months I had him and how he would walk all over my feet in our small apartment kitchen as I prepared food. I would dance around in avoidance, as he had a penchant for biting feet back then. We had not gotten to the point in our relationship where he would safely take food from the palm of my hand, so I’d drop scraps for him on the floor and giddily sink to my knees, like a child, to watch him eat. I was freshly smitten with the way he chewed his food. It is otherworldly. He still eats well and voraciously these days, but soon he will stop eating altogether, and that is when the reality of him dying will be in its final stage. The simple act of sharing food with Sal is something that I have always cherished. Now that appreciation is deepened in a way I never expected, and I anxiously obsess over watching him eat, to live.