Our oldest dog Moe, a black and tan miniature dachshund, is almost thirteen years old. Despite our best efforts to protect him and his long dachshund spine, he insists on jumping up and down on furniture. Doggie ramps have become another place to jump from rather than easily walk down. But age is catching up with him, and I think he knows it. Maybe he’s learned from the few times he tried to jump up on our bed, only to not quite make it and fall. Thankfully, he didn’t hurt himself.

Now if he wants up on the bed, he is starting to make a whiney warble (annoying, but effective) until I come and lift him up. Even then, he tenses his muscles as if springing from the floor under his own power. “I’ve got you, buddy,” I tell him. “You don’t have to jump.” I wonder how long it will take him to understand that even if he does nothing, he’ll make it where he wants to go.

It’s a little different when he wants to sit in the chair with me rather than the bed. He’ll approach my chair and gaze at me with those foggy eyes. I’ll rub his back and turn him so I can lift his backend first into the seat beside me. He isn’t fully relaxed but maybe because he can’t see where he’s going when I lift him into the chair (vs. the bed), he’s willing to let me do most of the work.

Sometimes when we need help, we think we have to give what little strength we have to assist in the effort, like Moe when he wants up on the bed. We think that allowing someone to help us makes us less worthy - of what? Love, respect? In a society that puts value on a person, a life, based on productivity, it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that accepting help makes us less than worthy. When I lift my beloved dachshund up so he can sit beside me, his lack of ability to do it himself is unimportant. His value is intrinsic, perhaps even proven by the care and help I give him. Those who require the most care may be those who are most loved.