{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. -- Inspired by SouleMama

Told the Vulcan not to send me flowers for Valentine's Day as they jack the price up for the occasion (meaning I didn't expect him to get me anything).  Instead he sent something Foghorn is really happy about -- an iced cookie arrangement from Cookies by Design. 

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*  A FURRY KIND OF LOVE

*  HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

A FURRY KIND OF LOVE

Anyone who has met me or has read more than three of my posts knows I'm wild about animals, particularly the domesticated ones.  To misquote Will Rogers:  "I never met a dog I didn't like."  And dogs almost always like me.  I have no doubt animals pick up on a person's vibe and can sense if a kindred spirit is before them.  Given how many times I've been French-kissed by strange dogs, they obviously tag me as their kind of gal.

There is one dog in this world, though, who inhabits a unique place in my life and my heart.  His name is Tristan.  I met him only once, almost exactly a year ago, and I doubt I'll ever see him in person again.  He has, however, affected me in a way that few others have in my lifetime.

My mother's pal, Jumpin' Jack

On occasion I help out the rescue group Recycled Doggies, transporting dogs from "death row" at the high-kill shelters.  It was on my first such mission that I met Tristan.  He was one of about a dozen dogs being rescued that day from the rural Clinton County shelter in Ohio.  I had dragged my mother along and it was while she was in the van wrestling with a furry, overly enthusiastic (but incredibly lovable) pooch named Jumpin' Jack that Tristan was literally dragged out of the shelter.  I was standing outside in the cold, a light snow coming down, and the poor, breathless rescue worker asked if I'd hold his leash while they retrieved more dogs.  Tristan was flattened to the ground, his ears back, shaking and obviously terrified.  As I said, dogs tend to love me, so I crouched down and talked to him and stroked his head and...got no reaction at all.  It wasn't that he was afraid of me or just nervous about where he was headed.  This dog was frozen in fear and there was a blankness in his eyes that was like nothing I've ever seen.  I've often described it as post-traumatic stress disorder.  He looked like he was in shock and not quite mentally there.  He had been so afraid of being removed from his concrete cell in the shelter that he had fallen into the trough where animal waste accumulated in an effort to get away from the people approaching.

My interaction with Tristan literally lasted about five minutes or so and yet that dog haunted me.  I knew he was on his way to safety, he had a foster home to live in until he was adopted, but I couldn't get that face out of my mind.  What in the world had someone done to him to make him that scared?  And what would become of him?

Thoughts of that shell-shocked dog might have continued to overwhelm my thoughts if not for a tragedy that ocurred just a week later.  I received an e-mail on the morning of March 1 from my mother.  I knew there was trouble when it started "I feel like I can hardly breathe."  There had been a fire the night before at the home of Shannon DeBra, the founder of Recycled Doggies.  In all about a dozen dogs and one cat were killed, including Jumpin' Jack.  (Two dogs who survived later had to be put down due to the severity of their injuries.)  My sister wrote a lovely tribute, with all the details, on her blog here.

St. Jimmi, settling into her new home

Between Tristan and the fire, I was in no clear mental state when I went to a big adoption event of Recycled Doggies' at Red Dog Pet Resort in Cincinnati on March 5.  It was my birthday weekend and we had gone out to lunch before heading over to the event.  The hardest part may have been trying to steer my kids from the signs and the slide show showing the deceased dogs.  I had told them about the fire, but said that all had survived, they were merely injured.  Foghorn never seemed to notice, but The Professor caught sight of the slide show and briefly said to me, "I thought you said they all survived."  I assured him they did and tried to distract his attention.  He never said a word about it, but I have no doubt he knew.  It was in that charged emotional atmosphere that we adopted St. Jimmi and brought her home.  I didn't save Tristan, couldn't save Jumpin' Jack or the others, but at least we could free up a spot in a foster home by adopting this dog.

In the months to come I would see periodic updates about Tristan on the Recycled Doggies Facebook page, enough that I was reassured he was being loved and cared for.  His foster mom, the divine Lori, officially adopted him last fall.  Only someone with her kind of patience could have helped him make the progress he has.  She has dealt with his night terrors, his fear of leashes and strangers and going outside.  Lori has a website chronicling her weight loss efforts, through which she is raising money for Recycled Doggies.  Please check out the page she has dedicated to Tristan here.  There is a special place in hell for any person who would abuse a dog so badly.

Tristan with his Christmas present
from "Aunt Shannon".

When I found out about Lori's Dog-Lbs. project I immediately made my per-pound pledge and left a comment about having met Tristan briefly.  That began an online correspondence which has evolved into a treasured friendship.  I sent Tristan a Christmas box of goodies, including a knitted dog bone (pattern found here).  "He" sent me a gorgeous flower arrangement.  (Foghorn said, "It's really from his mom, isn't it.  He didn't really order flowers, right?")

Christmas flowers from Tristan.

He and his schnauzer brother love to play tug-o-war, so for Valentine's Day I knit a critter with nice long arms and legs, perfect for doggies to get their mouths around.  (Free pattern found here.)  Lori posted numerous pictures, including the dogs eagerly anticipating the box-opening.  She later e-mailed me that Tristan took it to bed with him that night.










This dog was labeled "unadoptable" and was literally hours away from death when Lori stepped in to save him.  He's been abused and traumatized.  And a year after his rescue he is one of the most-loved dogs on the planet, by those who connect with him in person and by those of us who adore him from afar.  Happy Valentine's Day!

Tristan and siblings playing with
his Valentine gift.

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HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

On this windy and gray Valentine's Day, I thought it appropriate to spend a few moments talking about my guy, the one who makes it seem sunny even in weather like this.  I'm blessed that I share my life with someone who hates to see me walk out the door, can't wait for my return, and wants nothing more than to spend every waking hour in my presence.  And unlike most of the male species, he looks right into my eyes as I talk and listens attentively.  He is a comfort to me when I'm depressed, sharing my sorrow and my Ben and Jerry's ice cream.  He's with me in good times, sharing my joy and my Ben & Jerry's ice cream.  (See if you can guess what I eat when I'm excited, exhausted, or overwhelmed.)  He truly thinks I'm the smartest, most beautiful, most talented creature ever to walk the Earth.

My Valentine

Don't you wish you had a husband like that?  Me too, but while I'm waiting I'll settle for my beloved dog, Frank.  Unlike the machinations and effort that went into finding a husband, acquiring Frank was literally as easy as walking out my back door.  He turned up in the neighborhood one day, already neutered and wearing a choke chain around his neck without tags.  He was initially taken in by neighbors on the next street over whose kids had fallen in love with him.  He was scanned for a microchip and calls were placed to police stations and animal shelters and the SPCA and an ad placed in the paper but nobody came to claim him.  After a week it was obvious he'd been dumped.  I already had a beagle who was more trouble than six other dogs put together and a cat that had turned up at my door the previous Halloween.  I was eight months pregnant with child #2 and the last thing I needed was a dog, particularly one who followed me around and barked if left outside alone.  Somehow, as with the cat, he made his way in the front door and, like the cat, never managed to find his way back out.

Bailey with a pilferred loaf of bread

In the intervening years we lost the beagle to cancer but gained another cat who turned up in the driveway.  I also run a taxi service for Buddy, the golden lab who lives on the south end of the subdivision a mile away and comes to my house after roaming backyard mud puddles.  He gets a treat and a bowl of water and runs the yard with Frank before I pile him in the van and drive him home.

Baby Foghorn & Frank

I've never known what it's like to not have a dog in my face.  There are literally home movies of me as a newborn, lounging on a blanket on the living room floor with our dog, Penny, hanging over me and probably slobbering into my mouth.  I think dog slobber is the cure for any ailment and the gallons I've ingested over the decades probably contributes to my relative good health today (and perhaps my overwhelming desire to hang my head out the window when riding in a car).  Naturally I know of no other way to raise children, so Josh spent many of his early days on a blanket with a beagle nearby, periodically licking formula off his face and/or trying to run off with his baby bottle.  Sydney came into the world with two dogs staring down at her, as well as one cat.  My children know no fear of animals and, like their mother, want to take in any creature with four legs who looks in need of a meal.

Baby Professor & Bailey

The Professor

For Valentine's Day I decided to combine The Inmates' love of animals with my desire to cut back on the gifts they receive, especially after my son's Christmas declaration that his $250 iPod was going to be a "snoozefest."  Although he soon changed his mind on the merits of the iPod, I kept seeing my children as miniature Paris Hiltons -- overindulged, ungrateful, and self-centered.  I informed them last month that this Valentine's Day they'd receive only candy.  I took the amount of money I would have spent on  red and pink gifts and instead drove them to PetSmart where they picked out items to take to The League for Animal Welfare in Amelia.  The Professor was very thoughtful and took care to pick out just the right cans of dog food and cat food and kitty litter.  Foghorn found a stuffed dog squeaky toy which she wanted for herself and only grudgingly agreed to give to the shelter.  After picking out two bags of soft dog treats, she disappeared into the store with her grandmother.  I filled in the gaps on the League's wish list with a 6' nylon leash, a box of dog biscuits, and a large Nylabone.

The Inmates love going to the League's no-kill shelter.  It's like the Buckingham Palace of animal shelters.  It's clean and bright.  Each dog has his or her own kennel with a flap door that leads to an outside fenced area.  The cats are housed 6 to 8 to a room, with plenty of climbing apparatuses and beds and toys.  Each cat room also has a flap door that leads to a fenced-in area outside with a bird feeder in the grass, giving the cats plenty of visual stimulation.  For liability reasons we aren't allowed to handle the dogs unless one happens by on a leash, so we content ourselves with waving through the glass and reading their stories.  The cat rooms, though, are open to visitors and The Inmates get to pet, cuddle, and play with as many cats as they can possibly stand.

The Professor always feels slightly sad when we leave, wishing each dog and cat had a home.  He's comforted to know that the worst that could happen is that they'll spend their lives at the shelter and the conditions are so nice there are worse fates.  I know pets who have families who don't live in conditions nearly as nice.  I know some kids who don't either.

The Vulcan doesn't come on our shelter outings.  The Vulcan also didn't authorize me to bring in any of the pets we now have.  If I remember correctly each time I brought a new critter into the house he said something along the lines of, "Don't get used to that dog/cat.  We're not keeping it."  The fact is after nearly 17 years together he knows there's no point in trying to get rid of an animal I decide to take in.  He might as well try to get rid of one of my children.  (Depending on the day and their behavior I might let him.)  So, The Vulcan grumbles  about the cost of the vet  and laments the cat hair on his black sweat pants and complains about the dog sleeping on the sofa.   He whines about the muddy foot prints on the van seats and the nose prints on the front window and the fact that I let the dog ride with me when picking up creamy whip.  (The occasional hair in a chocolate shake never killed anyone.)  The Vulcan also pays for the vet bills, pays for the food, pays for the charitable donations, and still funds his wife's Dooney and Bourke addiction.  He ain't no Frank, but as men go I guess he's a keeper.

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