This is a story about an old man with dementia and a scruffy black dog named Oreo. Before I begin, however, let me introduce the characters.

My father died at the age of 93. He suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, aphasia (inability to speak), and dysphasia (inability to swallow). He had hearing and sight problems, suffered from incontinence, and was confined to a wheelchair because severe spinal arthritis destroyed his back. He loved it when I called him a tough old buzzard—because he was.

I adopted my dog Oreo two years before my dad's death when his dementia was at its most severe. As I grew to know Oreo and her world, I started to notice striking similarities between Oreo and my dad. 

Sidewalk grates and other irregularities

The first similarity I noticed was how my dad—people with dementia—and dogs react to sidewalks and floors. Oreo feared sidewalk grates; she didn’t know what to do about them, so she avoided them by jumping over them or making me walk around them. 

People with dementia do the same thing; if there is a pattern on a carpet, they may not be able to understand if the floor is level and may attempt to jump or step over patterns or borders. Just like Oreo.

Every day was a new day

Even though we followed the same route for our morning “ pee-poop” for years, Oreo always acted as if it was the first time she'd experienced it. She was always excited and always exploring.

The same is true for people with dementia. Even though I pushed my dad in his wheelchair along the same neighborhood streets and past the same houses for the last three years of his life, he was always seeing everything for the first time, and never failed to make the same interesting observations —that house needed a paint job, another had the most beautiful garden, yet another was poorly designed and looked uncomfortable. 

A huge capacity to forgive

I adored Oreo but occasionally I stepped on her feet, caught her in a door, and took out my caregiving frustrations on her verbally. Okay, I yelled at her. But she always forgave me when I apologized, with a kiss on my nose or a leap into my arms. 

My dad was equally forgiving when I messed up. When I first started to assist him with eating, I would occasionally become distracted and put too much food on the spoon, causing him to choke. He never chastised me. If I bounced him around in his wheelchair on the uneven streets, he never grumbled. And if I hurt him while turning or transferring him, he grimaced but never struck out at me. The more his disease progressed, the more grateful and forgiving he became.

They both lived in the moment

One of the most important similarities I noticed between my dad and my dog was this one—they both lived in the moment. 

If Oreo misbehaved, I had to correct her immediately; otherwise, she could make no connection between the mistake and the correction. She lived for the now - the walk, the treat, the hug.

People with dementia also live in the moment; for them, there is no yesterday or tomorrow but only today, which we caregivers can—and must—make safe, secure, and loving through our presence, understanding and acceptance. There is no one else to do it.

A special kind of love

After my mother’s death, my father was filled with anger and frustration. He treated me badly, abusing my love and my time. Neither of us understood what was happening in his brain.

But as my father’s condition worsened, he started to change in small ways. He began to say thank you. As his dementia progressed, he smiled more, he cried more. He softened. When I walked into his room, his face absolutely lit up and it lit up only for me. I had reconnected with my father in an unspoken way. He became once again a father who loved his daughter unconditionally. 

And I realized that Oreo loved me the same way; as Josh Billings said: A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself. 

No matter where I went or what I did, Oreo wanted to be there with me, be a part of it. All I had to do was walk through the door and her whole body wiggled with joy.

A special state of grace

This last similarity is a bit more difficult to put into words, but it means the most to me. I believe that old people who are near the end of their lives have a special aura about them; they have survived many years and countless hardships. Many like my dad could no longer do, they could only be. And in that being, they came into a special state of grace, earned from decades of living, loving, and suffering.

The year after my dad died, I was sitting on the couch listening to some beautiful music and feeling low, with Oreo’s head in my lap. At one point I looked down at her as she gazed so steadily up at me, and in her wondrous amber eyes, I saw such utter love, trust, and innocence that I felt like I was looking into the face of God. I was literally speechless. 

To me, Oreo possessed that same state of grace. As Will Rogers said: If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.

My life changed completely when I adopted Oreo; she was a gift. My life changed again as a result of my 14-year caregiving journey with my father; I was given another huge gift.

My goal now in life is to be as good a person as my dog already thought I was.

For more information on Alzheimer’s disease and related dementias, please sign up for my course at https://cpdformula.com/course/alzheimer-s-disease