Unconditional Love

The last few days have been tough for my dog. He's having a bout with some stomach ailment. He's been throwing up a bit, but he's mostly suffering from diarrhea. He's not lethargic, and he's still eating normally, so I haven't taken him to the vet yet. But if this sickness keeps up for a few more days, I'll take him.

I grew up in Hayward, and when I got sick, my grandparents would come over to the house and take care of me while my mom was at work. I don't really remember too much about the physical act of being sick, but I do have vague memory shards.

I remember my grandpa would come in and ask me for a “high-five.” I was usually on the couch, laying on my side, so this act was more like a gentle, instantaneous hand shake than an actual slapping of hands. I remember him saying something to the effect of, “Give me all your sickness. I'll take it. I can handle it.”

I used to think him ridiculously uneducated because if I truly “gave him the sickness,” we would both be laying on the couch in pain--taking my sickness would not make me well. Mom would always chastise him to keep his distance because his “old people” immune system probably wasn't up the challenge.

Retrospectively, it was nice that my grandparents came over. Their house, that my grandma still lives in today, isn't too far from my old house, but I still appreciated the comfort.

But this recent sickness with my pooch has helped me understand my grandpa beyond simple appreciation.

I'm not a very good dog trainer, so imagine my surprise when my dog learned to poop only in the bathtub. Even with his uncontrollable, gastrointestinal struggle, he always runs to the tub. I haven't needed towels to protect my carpet because the mess is contained to the bathroom. Although, sometimes he doesn't quite make it all the way into the tub. In the last few days, I've seen trails of watery excrement in front of the the tub like a trail leading to buried treasure. Except, in my case, the treasure is actually dookie. But my bathroom is tiled, so it cleans easily.

He runs to the bathroom much like a person would in the same situation. He's very human in that way.

What is not human about him, though, is that he always looks very sad after he goes poo in the tub. He seems to understand that it is “not the normal and tolerated” thing to do. I pet him on the head and try to reassure him that everything is fine, but I can sense a certain regret in him. He stands with me while I wipe up the mess and returns to his doggie bed only after I've finished the sanitizing process. Last night, on a dejection-induced walk at 4 AM, I remember saying, “Give me all your sickness.”

I would rather it be me that has the explosive diarrhea; I have the mental faculties to understand that a stomach bug is nothing to regret or be ashamed about. I would have the physical nausea, but at least I wouldn't beat myself up emotionally. My dog is human enough to know right from wrong, but not human enough to understand the gray areas in between. Poop in the tub is just fine if you have diarrhea.

I have no sons. I have no daughters. But I am discovering a kind of bond that can only exist between a parent and child. A relationship when one sacrifices their own well-being for someone else.

Grandpa wasn't actually asking for my sickness in a physical sense. He was actually telling me that he loved me. And that's pretty special considering his reserved Nisei personality. He may not have gone to college, but he was not uneducated. Over 15 years later, none of my fancy collegiate or graduate courses have taught me what my free chihuahua/pug taught me about life and family: unconditional love.