GOOD-BYE

"Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear."

-- Rudyard Kipling

I knew this day would come, sooner rather than later, but I still wasn't prepared to have my sweet dog, Frank, put to sleep.  He's been battling Lymphoma since last August and generally has been doing very well.  Unfortunately, time has a way of tearing apart the body just as much as illness.  He was about 13 years old, past the life expectancy for a dog his size.  He'd gradually lost his hearing and a lot of his eyesight and often seemed a little out of it, like he wasn't sure where he was.  Still, he enjoyed his walks and was enthusiastic about going to "Grandma's house" on Sundays for lunch and loved nothing more than hanging his head out of the window as we cruised down the road.

Back in January I thought I was going to lose him.  He wasn't eating and he was panting heavy and he wouldn't stop pacing the floor.  His back legs seemed to sag under his weight and he refused to lower himself to the ground.  He spent a couple days at MedVet and after numerous tests they diagnosed him with pancreatitis.  It broke me to see this poor dog looking so ill.  I think part of his problem was they had him very doped up on painkillers, but he was obviously agitated, probably not sure why he was being left at the vet's and why things hurt and why he didn't want to eat.  Even after he came home, it was several weeks before he was back to what passed for normal those days.  I swore to myself that I wouldn't put him through that again.  From the beginning my big concern was that he not suffer, that the quality of his days was more important than the quantity.

Last evening he didn't seem himself.  I took him for a walk and he was very draggy and barely sniffed and moved at a snail's pace.  Later I could see that he wasn't eating and I couldn't get his medications in him, even wrapped in a piece of lunch meat.  He vomited and was trembling mildly and couldn't seem to get comfortable.  This morning when I got up early to get my high schooler out the door, Frank was pacing the house, shaking and panting heavily and refusing to lie down or eat.  This was too familiar.  I warned the kids before they left that I was worried about him and it wasn't impossible I might have to have him put to sleep, that they should say their good-byes just in case.  By the time the youngest got on the bus, Frank was obviously in bad shape.  I went to my mother for advice since she loves dogs every bit as much as I.  She thought it was time to let him go.  My husband agreed.

The folks at Village Animal Hospital squeezed him in at 10:30 and couldn't have been kinder.  My husband and I stroked Frank's head as the vet shaved his leg and then injected him.  I had been crying all morning, but even my husband, who is not nicknamed "The Vulcan" for nothing, shed a few tears as Frank slipped peacefully away.

Young Frank with Baby Foghorn

When Frank turned up in the neighborhood back in 2001, neighbors tried unsuccessfully to find his owners.  When that didn't work and none of them were able to keep him, I took Frank, hoping to find a no kill shelter that would accept him.  I was 8 months pregnant and had a four year old son besides.  We already had a spoiled beagle and a cat and my husband kept saying, "Don't get attached to him.  We're not keeping him."  I really did try to place him elsewhere.  One no-kill worker told me they'd take it to their "dog committee," but it was unlikely they'd take him in.  "Unfortunately black dogs of his size are a dime a dozen," she said.  "We don't like to take them because they're hard to adopt out."

Patiently tolerating the pearl bracelet
Foghorn put on him

So, Frank stayed with us and was the best dog anyone could ask for.  He was sweet and cuddly, gentle with the kids and never protective of his food or toys.  He tolerated being bossed around by the beagle and the cat and later another cat and another hound dog.  He put up with the numerous weddings Foghorn staged in the living room, more often than not with him as the groom and dutifully wore a paper ring on one of his toenails.  I poured out my troubles to him, since he (unlike some people I know) looked me right in the eye as I talked and was always sympathetic.  I cried into his fur over everything from death and illness to baseball losses.  My father loved him so much he insisted that the dog's picture be put in his coffin when he died.  I obliged.  Frank was doted on by my mother and sister.  And he adored them in return.  In short, he was the ideal family dog.

Often over the years I've thought of the shelter worker who called dogs like him "a dime a dozen."  Was she crazy?  This dog was one in a million.

Rest in peace, my sweet boy.
You'll never be forgotten.

The Times Are A-Changin'

My mother hates January.  To her it's a gloomy month after the festiveness of December.  There's often the threat of snow, which makes her mood even darker.  She's normally a very staid and stable person emotionally, but a weatherman's prediction of freezing precipitation is the one thing certain to change that.  (Well, that and the appearance of a mouse.  Housewives in 1950s Tom & Jerry cartoons have nothing on my mother in terms of hysterical reactions to rodents.)  I, on the other hand, love January.  I always have this huge list of resolutions and I always go into the new year confident that this is the year I get it together.  The house will be constantly clean and organized, I will slip into those size 8 pants I haven't worn since my daughter was born, I will deal with my children with Carol Brady's calm and cheerfulness.  I'm always so damn optimistic on New Year's Eve and it carries into January.  Yes, by the end of the month my resolutions are pretty much shot, but on December 31 and most of the following month I'm certain this will be my year.

On this December 31 I do indeed have a list of goals for the year, but unlike past ones it's much smaller, much more reasonable, and (dare I say) doable.  Many of them focus on process, rather than result.  Let's get control of the overly unenthusiastic eating and if those pants fit by the end of the year, bonus time!  Let's work methodically on decluttering this house, a small chunk at a time, and if it all gets done by the end of the year, bonus time!  You get the idea.  This also applies to my goals for writing and organizing and exercising.

I'm not sure why I made the shift this year.  I think it's partly due to that damn shoulder injury from February.  It will be 11 months tomorrow since I took the fall heard round the world.  Thanks to the cursed frozen shoulder that developed, I'm still trying to get full range of motion back.  The ring and pinky fingers on my left hand still tingle or hurt or are numb (they rotate through the symptoms in the course of a week or so and start from the beginning).  The pinky also doesn't work too well, so forgive any typos I miss involving keys like a, q, or z.  Or if I SUDDENLY BREAK INTO ALL CAPS, you can blame the fact that I hit the caps lock instead of shift...again.  Don't get me wrong, I'm seriously grateful to have this much function back.  When that arm was just dangling and completely useless and I couldn't even wiggle my fingers, I would have been thrilled to be in the position I am now.  If it doesn't get any better than this I'll be fine.  (And I really do wonder if I did permanent nerve damage that will leave my fingers feeling funky for the rest of my life.)  It's just that the injury, coming so early in the year and screwing up so much of my functionality as a human being, totally consumed my year.  Way too many hours were spent in physical therapy and doing home exercises and stretching with that dreaded pulley and taking magnesium baths.  All my goals went bye-bye and by December I was just happy the arm worked well enough for me to put up the Christmas decorations.

The other blow this year was dealt to my beloved dog, Frank.  Just after school started in August he was diagnosed with lymphoma.  Now, Frank is an old dog.  He showed up in the neighborhood 10-1/2 years ago and at that time the vet thought he was around two years old.  For his size and breed(s), he's past his life expectancy.  He's had a very happy, healthy life.  And I'm so, so, SO not ready to lose him.  He could be 20 and I'd still be lamenting the fact that he's sick.  After a couple thousand dollars worth of tests, they decided the best course of action was an oral chemo med and Prednisone.  He's been taking that for about three months now and he's doing very well.  He has no side effects, other than increased thirst and appetite.  The former results in a few too many doggy accidents in the house, but he's an old man and you can't be mad at him for a little incontinence.  The latter makes him, for the first time in his life, a tad food aggressive.  Our other dog, Jimmi, is typical hound dog, i.e. always prowling for edibles.  She's used to bossing him around and stealing munchies out from under his nose and pushing him out of the way to be the first in line for treats.  Frank is no longer accepting of that.  I had to whack them both in the head with a bag of garbage when they got into it right at my feet over a few stray pieces of kibble near his bowl.  All I heard was growling and all I saw were flashing teeth and since I already had that Glad bag in my hand...

Frank also can't see worth a darn and his hearing is almost entirely gone.  On a daily basis I approach him as he's staring out the window, talking loudly the whole time, only to have him jump out of his skin when he feels my touch, so startled is he that there was anyone behind him.  On an afternoon walk a couple weeks ago he got in his greeting stance when he spotted a couple dogs in the yard we were passing.  He looked genuinely perplexed at their lack of friendliness.  Hard to make him understand they were Christmas lawn decorations.  He frequently stares out the window barking at nothing.  Last week he was barking nonstop and I found him sitting on the steps barking into the air.  I mentioned it to my husband who said, "Oh, yeah.  I've seen him do that when he gets tired.  He sits on the step and can look out the window by the door and bark."

Frank in his youth.

It's inevitable I'll lose Frank this year.  If you find me writing a post about him 365 days from  now, no one will be more shocked than his mommy.  He's old, he's got a terminal disease.  We might have lost him in 2014 with or without cancer.  That doesn't make it less painful.  That dog adores me in a way no other dog ever has.  I've always felt that he knew I was the one who saved him and he's always been slobberingly grateful.  He's loyal and sweet and good with the kids and kind to the cats.  And when he goes it'll break my heart.  And I know it's coming.

So, I have my list of things I hope to accomplish in 2014.  A year from now I'd like to see them all checked off as done.  On the other hand, if the house is still a little messy, my pants are a couple sizes bigger than I'd like, and the only writing I've done is the occasional blog post, but many hours were spent on dog walks, van rides, McDonald's hamburgers, and cuddle time, I'll call it a successful year.

Hoping 2014 brings you all your heart's desires.

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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CHRISTMAS CHARITY CRAFTING

Today my mother, sister, and I took some of our handiwork to one of my favorite charities -- The League for Animal Welfare in Batavia, Ohio.  (Recycled Doggies has to get the #1 spot in my heart, for giving us St. Jimmi, but they both do tremendous work.)  For years now we've been donating craft items for the sale table at the annual Christmas party.  I must confess that I dropped the ball this year.  Usually I have at least a dozen little cross-stitch items that they can sell cheaply as stocking stuffers.  Because of my new-found knitting addiction, I only managed five items.  Luckily my mother and sister picked up the slack.

My mother made three of her small organizing totes in cat or dog fabric.  (I received one for Sweetest Day in a pattern of Airstream trailers.  Heaven...)  I use mine by my bedside to hold my iPod, lip balm, tissues, etc., all in handy little interior pockets.

My sister (The Inmates' Uncle Chester) provided handcrafted wire spiral bracelets with dog or cat charms.

She also donated handmade lever back earrings with beads and animal charms.  Other homemade-y goodness from Chester can be found in her Etsy shop here.

And then my donation, rather paltry this year.  I always do cross-stitch items and managed two holiday cards with needlework inserts, two cat-themed bookmarks, and a Scottie dog Christmas hand towel.  I swear in 2012 I'm gonna do one item a month so that I'm sure to have a nice group of items come November.

The Inmates always enjoy going to the League and seeing the animals.  We can only say "hi" to the dogs through glass, but we are free to wander in and play with kitties in the cat rooms.

Ack!  Not the Dooney!  That cat was loving
Grandma's purse strap.

 

I made the mistake of telling Foghorn that I've had my eye on a blue-tick coon hound mix named "Confetti" who looks a lot like our St. Jimmi and I want to adopt her so I'll have a set of bookends.  That led to Foghorn promising me everything under the sun if I'd take Confetti home today.  She doesn't realize that, despite my stern voice and practical arguments, I'm always dying to bring a new addition home and it was all I could do not to start filling out paperwork.  We have two cats and two dogs as it is.  One more critter, on top of the Inmates, would push The Vulcan over the edge.  (It might actually be fun to watch his breakdown.  Yet another reason to consider that dog...)


You might also be interested in:

*  HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

*  SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH DOGS