Rescuing Roscoe

"In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn't merely try to train him to be semi human. The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog." ~Edward Hoagland

It was a normal Tuesday, so I was home until mid-afternoon when I went to class. The dogs had already alerted to a dog running loose past the house. In the last two years living on this somewhat busy road in an unincorporated section of a large and mostly rural Louisiana parish, I had become used to seeing dogs running loose past the house on a regular basis, but it still bothered me greatly and I always tried calling the dog to see if it was wearing tags. The first dog was traveling by quickly and had no interest in coming to me, yet when the dogs informed me of another wayward pooch, I went outside again. This time, I was surprised to see two dogs—a scruffy black terrier and a tiny white poodle. They were both dirty and wet and moving at a clip down the road. I whistled anyway, and the terrier came running to me. The poodle, however, turned up his nose indignantly and ran off back in the direction from which they had come.

I had no idea what trials would be brought upon me for calling that little terrier to me. There was a blood-drawing fight over a ball with Iko, the found owner who told me to “just let her go” and wouldn’t return my calls to claim her dog, the threats followed by thanks,  a mysterious and jarring incident in which someone entered our home and released all of the dogs from their crates and left the front door open, a police report, an almost adoption, and then Roscoe. That terrier was Toto and just when she had learned to live with my dogs in peace and harmony, I was asked to take in a different foster dog, one who “needed me more.” Roscoe, it seemed, had already been in a couple of different homes, and he was having behavioral issues. The theory was that he needed to be somewhere where he could run and play and expend the energy that a young Lab mix naturally has while also learning structure and manners. No problem. As an experienced fosterer of Labs, that was what I did.

 

He came home and destroyed dog toys, jumped on the beds, and chased the cats. All totally normal, so far. But, soon, we started to notice things that weren’t normal. There were behaviors we’d never encountered. He was extremely protective of his neck and would grab your hand with his mouth if you attempted to grab his collar. He was rough with his mouth and paws and quick to use both. I spent the first month nursing my scratched and bruised wrists and forearms. He frequently had an “absent” and distant look and didn’t connect with us or the other dogs. He didn’t know how to play and would growl and snap at the other dogs when they did. After a particularly vicious fight that resulted in a deep wound on Iko’s thigh, my dogs started avoiding him.

He seldom seemed to be living in the present moment like most dogs, overly concerned with what he could hear but not see, or with what he could see but not reach. He noticed everything—the moon, the trails of planes in the sky, a siren miles away, the closing of car doors at the neighboring houses, children laughing somewhere in the distance—and much of it upset him. He was highly sensitive to sounds especially. The 4^th of July fireworks turned him into an unresponsive, erratic mess, running from corner to corner of the yard, angrily barking at the sky. He wouldn’t come when called, and, one night, after reacting to something that only he could see, hear or smell, he jumped our fence right in front of me.

We did what we normally do. We soon realized that his collar sensitivity was most likely the result of tenderness of his neck. He had been wearing a tight prong collar when he came to us, and, based on the look of his neck, it had been used on him more than it should have been. Using treats and repetition, I soon got him to accept having his collar touched. We used caution in the yard and put him on a long lead whenever he got that “lost” look in his eyes. We walked him regularly and used treats to reinforce good behaviors. We maintained a calm and confident energy around him and minimized his stress as much as possible.

We saw improvement, but we didn’t see internalized change. As Mitchell put it, he had simply adapted to living with us. He no longer chased the cats, and he had learned that beds were off limits (mostly), but he still seemed distant and disconnected. And, while those at Petsmart, where he attended adoption events weekly, said that they noticed good changes, he never had a full day without some sort of freak out event. For every two steps forward, there was at least one step back. And, then we had a huge leap backward! In just one day at Petsmart, he lunged and snapped at two different dogs—one while coming in and one while leaving. Later that night, he turned quickly and snapped at me, catching the side of my hand with a tooth. It was scary, painful, and very, very sad. I struggled with trusting him again. I was afraid of what I knew he was physically capable of. I didn’t know if I could come back from it.

But then Mitchell, who is notoriously both more relaxed and optimistic than I am, said the simplest thing. “He just had a bad day.” I started viewing each day as a new opportunity. I was no longer obsessed with the overall picture, but instead I focused on making each day the best that that day could be. I realized that if Roscoe wasn’t able to live in the moment, I needed to do it for him. Maybe he could learn from me. Maybe not. But, at least he would no longer be judged by what he had done in the past. I would model for him the freedom that comes with being present in the here and now, worrying only about what is in front of you at any moment.

 

We did our best to address each issue he had with as much understanding as possible. Every intervention was deliberate and directional. When we noticed that he was sucking on his tail at night, we allowed him to sleep outside of the crate and saw improvement. Then he started chewing raw spots on his tail when we left the house. It wasn’t the typical separation anxiety. We tried bitter agents on his tail, an Elizabethan collar (you know, the cone!), a dog pheromone diffuser, a calming collar, and ultimately Xanax. We gave him his favorite toys and a Kong filled with peanut butter and frozen. Still he got to his tail and chewed it up. We even found him putting himself into his crate just to chew on his tail. It was so frustrating, but finally, on a whim, I left music playing one day and came home to find his tail dry.

So, next, we set about creating a new, positive association for the crate. He was doing better at home, but we hoped to have him do well in a crate at adoption events. After a week off, we decided to bring him back to Petsmart and to leave him while we went to lunch, then to return for him. We brought treats along (as always) and asked that the volunteers there approach him every 10 minutes or so, ask him to sit, and give him a treat. We wanted him not only to see the crate as a place where good things happen, but also to see that other people were a source for positive rewards and that Petsmart, while loud and scary, could also be good. Unfortunately, our training attempt didn’t go as planned, and we got a call just minutes after ordering an appetizer and drinks. Roscoe had “bitten” a child, and he needed to be picked up.

 

It turns out that he didn’t actually bite the child and that the child had been beating on the crate before sticking his hand inside, but it was still a devastating blow. Roscoe could no longer return to adoption events at Petsmart. His association with the crate had been made even worse. He had been stressed past a point for which he had coping skills. He probably felt scared, confused, and desperate. Or maybe that was just how I was feeling. At this point, it had become difficult to separate my own emotions from Roscoe’s. I had tried so hard for so long to get inside his head to understand him that I could no longer tell if my thoughts were my own, and I definitely felt that he could read my thoughts. I was worried that if we couldn’t “fix” Roscoe that there would be no options left for him. I was angry that people had failed him. I was sad that he was broken. I was devastated that I couldn’t help.

I struggled for a solution. I don’t like not having answers. In fact, I don’t like not being right. I have to be right. I’m not used to failure, and I don’t tolerate it well. Yet, here I was, failing this dog. My heart and my mind were committed to him, but I lacked any hope of being successful on his behalf, and it crushed me. That’s when I did something crazy. I contacted an animal communicator.

The jury is still out on the reading that I got from the communicator, but I have felt better since contacting her. She advised me to trust my intuition, which gave me the freedom and the confidence to stop taking Roscoe to a group training class that I felt was causing more anxiety than helping. She affirmed my gut feeling that Roscoe was afraid of being abandoned and that he needed to feel love. Mostly, I think that it felt good to talk about how I had been feeling, to feel less alone.

I don’t know where things will go with Roscoe and I, and I still have huge concerns about how he will deal with the change of me returning to a full-time (plus) schedule at the end of August when the fall semester and my practicum begin. I don’t know if he will be ok being crated for so long every day. I don’t know if he will behave for my petsitter. I don’t know if he will ever learn to play with the other dogs.

But what I do know is this…growth and healing are not linear; patience is difficult to practice, but results in great rewards; finding understanding may be more important than finding answers; and love is, well, you know, love is all you need.

Roscoe is available for adoption through the Animal Protection and Welfare Society (APAWS) in Baton Rouge, LA. See his Petfinder profile here.

a dog's dash

"...but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years."

 (from The Dash, by Linda Ellis copyright 1996)

I've been missing Bennie a lot this past week.  Maybe it's the holidays.  Maybe it was my birthday, which is when I usually reflect on the previous year rather than on New Year's Day.  Or maybe it's just that my heart has healed enough to allow my brain to start thinking about her again.

I still can't believe that she's gone.  That little dog was a fighter from the moment she wandered into my life right up until the moment she took her last breath.  I knew she would fight the ending.  I told Mitchell that she would.  I worried so much about it that I considered putting off the appointment for another day.  I wanted her to give up, but she wouldn't.  Her body had given up;  it was her spirit that hadn't.  Her final days consisted of a cycle of her lying down on the bed, sleeping, and going out to the bathroom.  She had stopped eating altogether three days prior.  Her seizures had increased in frequency and in severity.  I witnessed two that I thought would take her life.  Yet, still she fought.

She fought the injection by the vet.  She had to be catheterized.  She jerked her leg back again.  I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, "STOP!!!  JUST STOP!  I'm taking her home!"  But, I didn't.  I knew that it was time to let her go.  I knew that her life had lost all pleasure.  I mean, really.  This dog had lived to eat, and now she couldn't be enticed by any of her favorite treats.  I knew that she must be in pain.  Her liver was not working properly.  She was toxic.  It had affected her brain.  I knew that it was time.  I knew that my duty now was not to take her home and keep trying to keep her alive.  I knew that it was my job, my duty, my responsibility, to help her die.  I knew that I loved her enough to face that task.

I left her side and went to the end of the table--to her head.  I cradled her little face in my hands, and I buried my face into her cheek.  "You can go now," I whispered.  "It's OK to let go.  You don't have to fight anymore."  I felt her relax--not from the sedative, but from the comfort of having me close.  She stopped fighting.  She trusted me, and she let go.  She let one last sigh pass through that perfect, little, black, wet nose, and she left her no-longer-useful body behind.  She left me behind.

I debated about sharing her last moments.  I felt guilty for telling her to go when I so desperately wanted her to stay.  I felt like a fraud for putting her to sleep when I should have been doing more to keep her alive.  I felt like a failure for not being able to fix her. 

But, the truth is that I had already fixed her--at least a couple of times.  I had already saved her life.  She probably wouldn't have lived more than a few years longer if I hadn't found her.  She was so heavily infested with heartworms that her heart would have become unable to beat.  She was nearly bald and would have likely lived in constant pain and discomfort from her irritated skin.  She was not yet spayed and would have probably become pregnant again and again, bringing litters of unwanted puppies into the world and becoming more and more depleted and malnourished with each pregnancy and nursing cycle.  She would continue to wander loose, perhaps being hit by a car, maybe being picked up by someone with less than noble motives, certainly never knowing as much love as I would eventually feel for her. 

She wouldn't have received treatment for her heartworms, or if she had, she may not have survived.  She nearly died on me following her second injection.  She wouldn't have had the x-rays that revealed the pain that she lived with daily, her ribs splayed outward on one side, her left rear femur bone had been out of the hip socket for so long that it had created a pseudo socket from wearing down the pelvic bone, and her left rear kneecap refused to stay in place due to the angle of her hip.  She wouldn't have received the care she needed when one of her molars became infected.  It was during the pre-anesthetic bloodwork for that tooth extraction when her liver issues were first hinted at.  She wouldn't have been on a daily supplement to support her liver from that first early warning. 

She wouldn't have survived the gall bladder issue that emerged in May 2012.  She had only missed one meal.  Most owners wouldn't rush their dogs to the vet over that.  I did.  I knew better.  The stars aligned and she received an ultrasound that day that diagnosed the severity of the problem.  Her vet had just been to a workshop on the same topic.  She knew that surgery was the best solution, but didn't feel that Bennie would survive it.  She prescribed a medication that was compounded especially for Bennie.  I believed that she would heal, and she did, surprising every vet who had seen her.  She wouldn't have been put back on the gall bladder medication when things seemed "off" again later that year.  She wouldn't have had the last sixteen months.

And when she had the first seizure, she might not have gone to the vet immediately.  She may not have been diagnosed as being in the end stages of liver failure.  She may not have gotten the medication that helped her body shed the toxins that were building up within it.  She may not have gotten a choice of chicken salad (from Leblanc's, not Albertson's) or hot dogs or cat food or cooked chicken or whatever-she'll-eat.  She may not have been able to stretch a two-week prognosis into a two-month process of living each day to the fullest--a prolonged kiss goodbye.

She would not have had any of these experiences.  She would have lived and died in Indiana.  She would have never seen the inside of a U-Haul truck on its way to Chattanooga.  She would have never lived on or near a mountain.  She would have never spent a week without power after an early Nor'easter.  She would have never been to the city that housed the famous coffee shop where her namesake "donuts" were made and sold by the millions every year. 

She would have never, ever, ever have been as loved as deeply, madly, truly as she was by me.  And, I never would have known what an amazing little soul she was.  I wouldn't have been saved by her.  I wouldn't have known her constant and faithful companionship.  I wouldn't have experienced her soft moments.  My life would have been much emptier.

I miss you, Bennie.  More than words can ever say...

In memory

Beignet

~4/1/97-9/16/13

the accidental cat

Crossing the road and walking past just one house from my neighbor's house to mine, my sister, Laura, and I encountered a little, furry, grey kitten.  "If that kitty follows us to your house, you need to keep it."

I already had two cats.  I wasn't looking for another.  I responded with one of our usual responses--"whatever" or "I'm sure" and kept walking.  The kitten kept walking, too, following us across the yard and up to my front door.

"If this kitty comes into your house, you have to keep it," she said while she literally nudged the little fuzzball with her shoe towards the open door. He walked in.  My fate had been sealed.

That was over 17 years ago, and that little kitten never left, even though he was the only cat I really ever let outside for any length of time.  He loved to roll around on the concrete, covering his back and sides with dirt and dried leaves.  He would literally go out with the dogs and come back in when they were done.  It seemed that for whatever reason this cat had made a conscious decision to live with me.  Maybe he heard and understood Laura's imperative.  We had made a contract with each other, a commitment formed without words.  We were in this together.

From the beginning, Eli was different than any cat I'd ever met.  He seemed somehow mature and knowing.  I spoke to him like he was human.  On some level, he was.  When there were no words, we communicated telepathically.  I believe that it was our connection that saved his life during that first year.

I was doing laundry, transferring a load of items from the washer to the dryer when he somehow got into the dryer.  I didn't see him in there when I started it.  I walked away and started the shower.  I had just climbed in when I heard something and felt my stomach drop to the ground.  I ran to the dryer, opened the door and called for him.  I felt around with my hand.  I didn't see or hear anything right away.  Maybe he wasn't in there.  But, I somehow knew that he was.  My greatest fear had been realized!  Eli had been killed in the dryer!

Then, I heard a faint meow.  I frantically started pulling things out of the dryer until, finally, a visibly shaken Eli wobbled into my hands.  It was late on a weekend night, so I called my vet and requested a call back through the answering service.  When Dr. Dircksen called, he asked me to describe Eli's condition and told me what to look out for.  He agreed to call me every 15 minutes for a status update.  We spoke throughout the night until we were both satisfied that Eli would be ok.  Before we hung up the last time, he pointed out to me that in my initial description I had said that Eli was "extra fluffy" and we had a laugh over that and joked that he was now "April fresh."  He was no worse for the wear from his ride around the inside of the dryer, but years later, Mitchell joked that maybe we should run all of our cats through the dryer to make them come out as cool as Eli.


Whatever lesson he might have learned from this experience, though, certainly wasn't generalized to the dangers of climbing into other large, metal objects.  About 10 years passed without incident, but early one morning, Eli decided to climb into the open trunk of Mitchell's car while he packed for a business trip.  He went unnoticed and seemed unconcerned until Mitchell was over 30 minutes into his voyage.  Somewhere just outside of Andrews, NC, Mitchell heard the panicked and harried meows emanating from his trunk and pulled over.  I was surprised to see him return home, but I wasn't surprised to hear the reason.  Once again, I was just grateful that Eli's curiosity hadn't gotten the best of him and that he had found an effective way to communicate.

Otis

BoBo

It was in that year that Eli's life really changed.  He had already moved with me from Indiana to Tennessee and then to North Carolina, but he had always had his brothers, BoBo and Otis, to keep him company.  Unfortunately, though, BoBo lost his fight to chronic kidney failure that year at the age of 16.  The younger duo missed their older brother, but then welcomed a new brother into their lives a few months later when Manny came to live with us.  Towards the end of the year, Otis got sick for the first time ever in his 12 years.  In January, he was very sick as we made our next move to Connecticut, and by March he had lost his life to intestinal cancer.

Manny

Eli suddenly went from the "baby" of the feline branch of our family to the patriarch.  And, he took his new role seriously.  When Manny pestered me to go outside on the deck with Eli, Eli gave me a knowing look and assured me that he would take his brother under his wing and would keep him safe.  I watched cautiously from the back door as Manny jumped down from the deck into the yard and headed toward the corner of the house.  Eli immediately fell in line, following him and then circling around in front of him and corralling him back into the backyard once that invisible line at the edge of the house had been breached.  I watched him do this time and time again until Manny had been trained to stay inside the area defined as safe by Eli.  Manny was allowed to hunt and play in the backyard, but he knew not to ever leave and he learned from Eli to come in when called.  Eli and Manny became good buddies, and they spend a lot of time together enjoying the sun from our deck.

Alla

Sadly, only a couple of years later, Manny succumbed to intestinal cancer, just as Otis had.  Eli was the only cat in the house for six months until we adopted Alla, a breathtakingly beautiful Birman cat.  She was just seven months old and brought a new energy and youthfulness into the home, and Eli loved playing with her.  Just seven months later, she withdrew from the family and lost weight.  A simple trip to the vet ended in a terminal sentence of FIP (feline infectious peritonitis).  Alla was gone within two weeks, and Eli was alone again.

Hazel

I was devastated by Alla's loss and didn't want another cat, but Eli made it clear that he wanted company.  I was so afraid of losing another pet, but I knew that I would have to take that risk to make Eli happy.  Only one month later, I found myself agreeing to adopt a cat from the Savannah, GA shelter after receiving her picture from a local rescuer.  I met the transport van the next weekend, and Hazel joined our family in a seamless transition.  Eli was happy once again.

Maybe it was his own rescue that inspired him, but I always felt that Eli was my silent partner in fostering and adopting new animals.  He welcomed every cat that came to stay, whether for a short time or for good.  I never heard him hiss at a cat who was scared or confused and who hissed or swatted at him.  He also allowed every dog to paw him, mouth him, and nudge him with its muzzle.  He never showed fear, and he never reacted.  He showed the most spastic, cat-chasing pup that there was more reward in being calm than in running after a cat.  He showed the paranoid, possessive, and territorial dogs that there was no difference between the cat in your yard and the one walking by your yard and, therefore, no need to freak out.  He was brilliantly effective in a completely unassuming way.  He was steady, confident, and constant.  He was literally the coolest cat I'd ever known.

It's now been seven weeks since Eli let me know that after over 17 years he was ready to leave his little body behind.  He had lived for several years with an intense allergy that caused his intestines to thicken and lose their ability to absorb nutrients from his food.  He had been diagnosed through bloodwork after I took him to the vet saying that there was something wrong with his belly.  "He's meowing weird," I said.  "I think his stomach hurts."  The vet looked at me strangely, but then apologized when his values came back.  "How the hell did you know what was wrong?" he asked, and I explained that I just understood Eli. 

I understood Eli, and he understood me.  He was more than a cat.  He was my friend.  He had been my friend since he walked through my front door that night.  I miss my friend.  I miss him so incredibly much.

Alla & Eli

sweet & sour

 I haven't written much about Bennie, but she has been a constant in my life for almost 14 years.  She's seen many animal faces come and go and has lived in five states.  She's been around for the end of a marriage and for the evolution of another.  She's gone from being the youngster to the matriarch.  And, after all these years, I can still remember the first time I saw her like it was yesterday.

I was on the phone when I noticed a skinny, nearly hairless, little beagle wandering around the homes of my cul-de-sac street.  I grabbed a handful of dog food, filled a bowl with water and went outside to see what I could determine about this dog's condition and where it might have come from. The dog came right to me and was obviously hungry and thirsty, but her priority was to give and receive love.  She was the sweetest thing, not at all scared, and she climbed into my lap as soon as I sat down on the sidewalk next to her.

Up close, she looked even worse than she had through my front window.  Her coat was extremely thin, and her feet were completely bald.  I can remember noticing that I could see bare skin where the nails grew from the toes.  I had never seen that before.  And when I ran my hands over her body, I could feel that her ribs were deformed and turned out where they should turn in.  Her back was humped upward, and she walked with a limp on her back left leg, which turned outward from her body at an awkward angle.  She was absolutely beautiful!

Of course, she wasn't wearing a collar or any form of identification.  I suspected that she might belong to the neighbors directly across the street from me, but I didn't knock on their door.  I had had experience with them and their pets before.  Once, I found a young Golden Retriever with an injured and severely infected tail on their property, and I had called the animal control officer.  On another occasion, I took in what I thought was a stray Basset hound.  Several weeks later, those neighbors came to my door looking for the dog.  When I confirmed that I had her, they asked if I wanted to keep her, so I did.  I thought that they had had two beagles, but I hadn't seen the dogs in months, and their grass was over a foot tall in the backyard.  If this little one "belonged" to them, I certainly wasn't going to be the one to return her to that hell.

When the animal control officer showed up, she confirmed what I had been thinking.  She was sure that this dog belonged to my neighbors, but she told me that she wasn't going to contact them.  If they wanted the dog back, she said, they would have to answer to her, explaining the dog's condition and probably facing charges for animal cruelty.  "They won't call," she said, "and in three days, she's yours if you want her."  So, three days later, when I called the officer, I was informed that the gate would be unlocked and I was free to claim my "new" dog any time.

A trip to the vet confirmed the degree of the neglect that she had seen.  She had heartworms and she had bone deformities on her ribs which were most likely caused by malnutrition and neglect as a puppy.  (It would be several more years before I discovered through an x-ray that her limp was caused by her left rear thigh bone being out of the hip socket, probably since she was a puppy.)  Her hair loss was not the result of mange, but was also most likely caused by a lack of nutrition.  The vet explained that her body had gone into survival mode, so any food that she did eat had gone to simply sustaining her life and other functions, like growing and maintaining her coat, had shut down.  It would be a long road of recovery ahead, but since this little dog had escaped that horrible place, I was committed to doing what I had to do to help her get there.

The first big decision was to pick a name for this sweet, cute, little dog.  Beagles may just be the cutest dogs ever to walk the earth, and this dog was superbly cute, even by beagle standards.  She had big, brown doe-like eyes, floppy hound ears, and freckles up and down her legs.  She loved to be held like a baby and was as quiet as a mouse.  She needed a name that matched her cute face and sweet disposition.  I also wanted something that represented my Louisiana roots.  I soon settled on Beignet and started calling her "Bennie" for short.

It would be several months before the vet would determine that Bennie was healthy enough for the dangerous and painful heartworm treatment.  She had the first injection on a Thursday afternoon and the second injection the following day.  She was released to go home on Saturday morning on a strict order of crate rest with limited activity.  That was no problem since she wasn't a hyper dog anyway and seemed even more content than ever to nap her time away.  I was sitting at the kitchen table, her crate at my feet, when I noticed that she didn't look quite right.  I opened the crate and pulled her towards me.  She was too still, almost listless, and when I pulled back her lip, I noticed that her gums were a pale gray color.  I called my vet, who instructed me to take her to the vet on-call, his father, who ran a small, country vet practice.

I've never driven as fast as I did to rush her there, and I was relieved that she was still breathing when we arrived.  The vet told me that a large clump of dead heartworms had been released from her heart, entering her bloodstream, and becoming lodged in her lung.  He would administer steroids, fluids, and oxygen and would watch her through the night, but he didn't give me much hope for her survival.  When he called me the next morning, he actually sounded surprised when he said that she was ready to go home.

Bennie is now almost sixteen-years old.  She has been relatively healthy until a year ago when she needed to have an infected tooth removed.  A few months later, she suddenly refused to eat, and it was discovered that she had an infection in her gall bladder and gall stones.  Her age didn't make her a good surgical candidate, so she was treated with medications and a change of food and recovered.  Another month later, a lump was tested and removed successfully when it indicated a cancerous growth.  Now, she is experiencing new problems with her liver and is being again treated with medication and a food change.

She has evolved from that sweet, quiet, little dog in need of love and attention into the queen bee of the household.  She found her beagle bay after a few years of silence and now slips easily into it whenever another dog (or person) needs to be given a warning.  And, her warnings sometimes aren't the end of it for the offending party.  Bennie has been known to relentlessly pursue her target, requiring intervention and removal to stop the attack.  At this point, she has completely and totally embodied the "grumpy old lady" moniker, though her face, now white with age, is no less cute than it was in the beginning.  She still has those same puppy dog eyes that hold the power to melt the coldest, hardest heart and, of course, those freckles....those freckles!

Those freckles belie the tough spirit of the dog inside that little, less-than-perfect body.  Bennie's attitude and tenacity have carried her through some hard times, and she has been at death's door more than once only to turn her tail on it and to walk away from it.  She's a survivor, and she's taught me about what it means to face adversity with bravery, faith, and more than a little stubbornness.  And now, as she returns to the vet tomorrow for a recheck of her bloodwork, I pray that I will have more time to learn from her, more time to make up for her rough start in life, and more time to admire those freckles.

stumbling towards the inevitable

It's been a hard week in many ways.  On Saturday, I drove home from a hair appointment through flooded roads, heavy rain, and booming thunder.  Minutes after I got home, a huge crack of lightning lit of the sky just outside my kitchen window.  I later figured out that many of our circuit breakers had been tripped, the air conditioning was off, and several appliances weren't working.  After visits by the cable company, the electric company, and the gas company (did I mention the strong smell of gas in the house?), it was determined that we most likely had a near lightning strike that had traveled into the house through either the phone lines or the plumbing.  Just about every piece of electronic equipment that was plugged in was fried.  The TV's, the cordless phones, an Xbox, phone chargers, the digital display on the refrigerator, the treadmill, every fluorescent light, and the circuit board that runs the air conditioner were all casualties.  I've suffered through the heat of August in south Louisiana, watched water pour out of a light fixture in the ceiling, and probably swallowed countless lovebugs in my sleep.  But, none of that compares to the pain I've felt since 6:00 this morning.

Brandi with her new red boots.

That's when I found Brandi lying crumpled in a heap on the kitchen floor.  Her neck was pulled hard to the left, and her legs were rigid.  She was clearly attempting to get to the backdoor to go to the bathroom, because she had also lost control of her bowels.  I picked her up, and the stiffness of her body was jarring.  I put her outside on the concrete, where she would normally take a minute to get her legs under her and walk off to the grass.  Instead, she collapsed onto the cement in the same posture in which I had found her.  I left her for a minute while I cleaned up the floor, and I went outside to find that she had urinated on herself, leaving a large puddle that was slowly spreading.  I washed her up and brought her back inside, laid her on her bed, and started crying.

Caught red-handed after digging a hole under the deck.

It's not like I haven't been thinking about this moment for a while now.  It's just that no amount of thinking about it can ever really prepare you for the reality of the situation.  Rational thought has no place in a decision of the heart, and at the very moment I felt my heart break.  Yes, I could point to all of the deficits that Brandi has experienced over the last year, I could recall all of the times she has struggled with bowel control, I could remember when she needed to sleep with diapers on, and I could list the measures that I had gone through to get her to eat.  But, none of those things could make me forget the years that I've known her to be a strong, muscular, vibrant dog.  She may not look the same on the outside, but on the inside, she is as strong-willed and stubborn as ever.

My sleeping beauty.

I won't go through the ups and downs of the emotional roller coaster ride that I've been on today.  Suffice to say, the universe has granted me a little more time with Brandi.  Though she is still weak and uncoordinated, she did manage to hold it all day and (with assistance to remain upright) went to the bathroom in the grass when I got home.  She has allowed me the rarest pleasure of holding her without a struggle.  She slept through a toenail trim and helped me finish my dinner.  She even walked on her own during her final trip outside for the night.  She's back on her bed and tucked in for the night.

I've come to terms with the decision, though--as much as you can ever come to terms with something like that.  I don't know exactly when it will happen, but I trust that it will happen when it's supposed to.  Apparently, I still have some lessons to learn from Brandi.

Brandi loves going to the park.

Mmmm....spaghetti.

Update: Brandi made it clear to me the day after posting this entry that she could no longer fight against the ravages of time and the weakness of her body.  At around 4:00pm on Thursday, August 23, 2012, I was at her side when she left her physical vessel.  As a testament to the kind of dog she was and the effect that she had on people, the veterinarian was crying as she administered the injection and hugged me tightly afterward.  I will forever be grateful that Brandi came into my life and was with me for her final years.  I miss her strong personality and her sweet face.  I miss her gentle, sideways kisses and her less-than-subtle begging.  I miss Brandi and everything about her, and I will never forget her.

the image of the beloved

"We become what we love and who we love shapes what we become. If we love things, we become a thing. If we love nothing, we become nothing. Imitation is not a literal mimicking of Christ, rather it means becoming the image of the beloved, an image disclosed through transformation. This means we are to become vessels of... God´s compassionate love for others. " ~ St. Clare of Assisi 

 

I saved this quotation several months ago...maybe even a year or more ago.  I figured at the time that I would use it as inspiration to write about my chosen career, which I view as a true calling, something that comes from a personal passion, and something that somewhat defined me.  Now, for the first time in almost 5 years, I am not working, and this quotation means something completely different to me.

 

Earlier this week, I watched as a blur of humanity packed and loaded nearly all of my Earthly belongings into a moving truck.  I watched as Mitchell signed the papers which somehow were meant to assure us that we would be getting everything back one week and 1,500 miles later.  Had this been my first such experience, I might have been more worried, but I actually felt lighter.  I care very much about the things that I have collected through my lifetime, and many have a story and a heart of their own, yet they were no longer on my mind after that moving truck pulled away from the house.  Two hours down the road, the only things on my mind were the beings inside my car and those inside Mitchell's car.

 

I have fretted for more than a year over the sale of our house and the financial loss that would accompany it.  I have spent time, energy, and money to do anything humanly possible to sell the house, all the while not really sure what I would encounter on the next steps of my journey.  I have cleaned, planned, dreamed, hoped, and (yes) even prayed.  I now realize that I was preoccupied with details, minutiae, items of little import.  None of it really matters in the end, does it?  As it's been said, "You can't take it with you."

 

Our house was officially purchased yesterday, leaving us technically homeless.  Again, I felt lighter and less burdened.  Yes, I will be closing on another house in two days, and I am excited about that, but this time between houses helps me to appreciate what really matters to me.  When all else goes away....the money, the things, the houses, the cars, the job, the professional identity....what really matters is that you still have those that you love.  They are truly the only things that cannot be replaced.  And, love is the only priceless possession you will ever own.

 

The next several weeks (and probably months) will be consumed with the unpacking and arranging of things.  I will be focused on creating a new life in a new place--finding a job, applying to schools, figuring out where and how to get the busywork of life accomplished, with a new bank, grocery store, post office, pet store, veterinarian, gas station, etc.  It will become easy to lose myself in all that needs to be done, easy to forget what really matters, easy to once again succumb to worry.  I hope that in my quite moments I will take the time to remember what matters, to be grateful for the love that surrounds me, and to enjoy the too-little time we are allotted to travel through this existence. 

 

I hope that I will not lose sight of who I am, of what shapes me, and of what feeds my soul.

sparklers & squeaky toys

Another Patriotic holiday has come, which, naturally, means that every proud citizen is required to buy explosives and set them off in their yards. I don't know why or how this tradition began, but I do know that for many years it created stress and worry in my household. D.J., my otherwise well-adjusted, confident hound/shepherd mix, was terrified of fireworks. She would shake, quiver, try to burrow under furniture, and couldn't be left alone. She had to be close to me, preferably touching me. If I happened to be in bed, this meant that I had to hang my hand over the side of the bed so that she would could nuzzle it from her hiding place under the bed. The comical aspect of this disturbing and upsetting scene is that D.J. was not a small dog, so she pretty much had to cram herself into the space under the bed, so when she shook, she actually made the entire bed shake like one of those old vibrating beds. That was often my first warning that a thunderstorm might be coming on in the middle of the night. It could be annoying, because no amount of comforting, conversation, or coercion could convince D.J. that the fireworks (or thunder) were not going to come into our house and harm her. But, really, how can you be mad when your bed is shimmying?

I lived with D.J.'s phobias for so long that they became my own. I adjusted my life in expectation of her reactions. I changed my behaviors to minimize her trauma. I would never dream of leaving her alone during any 4th of July celebrations, Labor Day weekend, Memorial Day weekend, or Halloween, when the possibility of a repeatedly ringing doorbell would send her into fits of barking, panting, and pacing. In fact, it became my regular practice to leave work early on any Halloween that fell on a workday, just in case the neighborhood kids started celebrating early. I did my best to turn every situation that frightened her into something positive. I had no luck with the fireworks or thunderstorms, but was so successful with Halloween that before I knew it, it had become my favorite holiday and one that all of the dogs looked forward to.

I lived with D.J.'s idiosyncrasies for so long that it wasn't until last night, well into the evening's pyrotechnics, that I realized how quiet the dogs were. None of them, it seems, are afraid of fireworks. Though my insides were twisted in stress and worry, Iko, Bennie, Gator, and Brandi slept or laid quietly around the living room, oblivious to the dangerous projectiles soaring through the skies over our house. They had no idea of the impending doom just outside our windows, but I expected them to be in duress. D.J. has been gone since December 26, 2004, and I still anticipate how every bang and boom will affect her. It was clearly she who trained me, and not the other way around. And, with my luck, by the time I unlearn this behavior, I will probably once again be living with a scaredy dog.

Now, lest I leave you with the idea that knowing and loving D.J. left me traumatized and scarred, let me point out that I wrote about her lasting positive influence on my life in another entry a year ago. D.J. truly did save my life in many ways--giving me hope when I was hopeless, teaching me about the power of unconditional love, leading me into a life of service and volunteerism, and proving to me that no matter how dark and scary the storm might be, the sun always rises the next morning. She had a can-do spirit and never let her physical limitations slow her down. Despite her spinal problems that the vets told me had to cause great pain and constant discomfort, she always had a smile on her face and she often managed to span great distances while my head was turned. She left me way too early, but she left me with a lifetime of positive memories.

It's funny how dogs change us. My sister and my mother-in-law both recently decided to welcome a puppy into their households. They are both people who haven't owned a dog for a few years and have said that they didn't really want another dog. In fact, they are two of the last people I would have ever dreamed would be adopting dogs right now, especially puppies! My sister has a full plate with a full-time job and four kids in the house. She's got 2 older cats who she adores, but who are very low maintenance creatures. My mother-in-law is at that point in life where she enjoys her quiet time in the garden and the ability to travel when she wants. She also has a resident cat who makes the rules and does as he pleases. I can only imagine how their lives will be turned upside down by these little furry additions!

I can't wait to hear about the frustrations of housebreaking, the wonders of weird behaviors, and the discoveries of destroyed shoes, paperbacks, pillows, and other seemingly uninteresting household items that somehow prove irresistible to a teething canine. I can't wait to see the pictures that document the changes from puppy-faced cuteness, through their awkward adolescence, into adulthood and the senior years. I can't wait for the way that living with a dog will change them. I hope that they will experience the joy, the fun, and the laughter that accompany life with a dog in it. I hope that they will wonder if their hearts are going to burst from sheer love for this four-legged baby. I know that someday they will feel the pain of loss, but I hope that that day is long and far into the future, and that their happy memories will make it all worthwhile.

So, tonight, as the stillness of the summer evening is disturbed by bottle rockets, M-60's, Black Cats, Roman candles, cherry bombs, repeaters, and various other exploding devices, I will practice no longer being tense or worried. Instead, I will think about how happy D.J. was on all the days of the year not punctuated by fireworks. I will think about how happy my sister's puppy will be in his new life, getting to know his kitty sisters and being loved on by a houseful of kids. I will think about how happy my mother-in-law's puppy will be in her new life, getting to know her kitty brother, chasing squirrels out of the garden, exploring the ruins of Civilian Conservation Corps' campsites, and romping among the ghosts of the Civil War who inhabit the side of Lookout Mountain. And, I will think about how happy D.J. would know that my life has gone on and that two dogs in need have found forever families. Sounds like a good enough reason for fireworks to me!

faith, hope, and brandi

"Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase." --The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Brandi had a seizure last week. It was late afternoon, following a day of record snowfall for the region. I accompanied the dogs on what seemed to be a regular potty trip outside and videotaped as Iko and Brandi wrestled and played in the nearly two feet of snow. I followed Iko as she romped to the deck and then back to Brandi under the tree. It was then that I noticed Brandi on her side in the snow and struggling to get up. I ran immediately to her and found her motionless and face-down in the snow, completely limp and unresponsive. I feared the worst as I scooped her body up into my arms and ran with her to the house. Never before in the more than 12 years I have known Brandi have I ever touched her and not felt her tense her powerful muscles, even while she was sleeping. She was as soft and pliable as a rag doll and felt just as weightless. Save her deep, guttural breathing, she appeared to be lifeless. By the time we reached the deck, though, her head began to move, and she turned to look into my face. She quickly regained her footing as I gently put her down in the breezeway, then gingerly entered the house, laid down and slept deeply and soundly as I watched her like a hawk.

In the days since, I've kept a close watch over Brandi, and I've tried to keep Iko from jumping all over her obviously older and more feeble sister. I worry about her when she goes out into the snow, and I have definitely spoiled her when it comes to treats and the usually forbidden ingestion of "people food." Brandi, meanwhile, goes on being Brandi. She isn't afraid of the snow, and she still greets Iko's enthusiasm with her own form of reciprocated play. She gets excited about trips in the car and equally as excited about trips that merely end at the car. Less than two days after her near-death experience, she even successfully descended the stairs from the bedroom to the living room in the pitch black darkness of the pre-dawn. To appreciate this feat, you must be familiar with her normal state of functioning. With her worsening eyesight and increasingly poor coordination, Brandi frequently falls down the staircase, sometimes even leaping from the fifth or sixth stair up over the shadows cast by the wall and landing in a heap against the front door, flat on her belly with all four limbs jumbled up under her or splayed out in each direction, much like a fawn struggling on an icy pond.

We had left the bedroom door open a crack to allow the cats to leave during the night so that I wouldn't have to wake up at their 2:00 am meows to let them out. This change in procedure must have appeared to Brandi as the perfect opportunity to exercise her independence. I heard her toenails clicking on the wood floor, but I assumed that she would lie back down as she always does. Instead, I then heard the clicking of her nails retreat to the hall and then down the stairs. I braced for the inevitable crash, but heard only the rhythmic and regular cadence of her steps. My surprise at her success prompted me up and out of the bed even more quickly than a fall might have. I ran down after her and found her nonchalantly walking to the basement door to retrieve the other dogs. Business as usual.

Dogs have such an amazing ability to live life in the present. They are blessed with either a very short memory or a very forgiving attitude--or maybe a wonderful combination of the two. Brandi didn't know that she was "supposed to be" weak or unsteady. She didn't comprehend that having a seizure on Wednesday would make walking down the stairs alone and in the dark on Friday morning a risky maneuver. She doesn't realize that she's old, possibly unhealthy, or definitely compromised. All that she knows is that when she wants to go out, she wants to go out. She enjoys a good scratch on the rump any time, and her favorite treats are the marrow bone-type that we get in bulk at the pet store. She likes to be close to people, even if she doesn't like to be hugged or handled. She tolerates having her toenails clipped and insists on visible proof of the need for ear cleaning (I actually have to show her the wax on the Q-tip!). Brandi isn't afraid of anything or anyone. She doesn't carry a grudge, and she doesn't discriminate. She approaches life just as she does a flight of stairs. She simply puts one foot in front of the other and hopes for the best.

So, it is to Brandi that I now look for inspiration as my life's path is changing direction. I stand at the top of the staircase, where I can see only the two steps in front of me, knowing that turning back is not an option. I must walk on in confidence and with faith that the next step will be there, even when I can't see it. If I look over my shoulder, I may lose my balance and fall. If the steps are obscured by the shadows of uncertainty, I can decide to leap into the dark unknown. In any case, I will end up at the bottom of the stairs, whether on my two feet or on my knees, I will arrive there--exactly where I am supposed to be.

the year in review

The first snow-related school delays were announced Monday morning, I've had to turn on the heat in the house, and the Charlie Brown Christmas special came on tonight. The end of the year is quickly approaching, with the promise of new beginnings just around the corner, and I can't help but to reflect upon all that's happened this year. It's been a year of highs and lows, loss and gain, trying new things and returning to some old activities--overall, a year of some really hard lessons learned. I've made friends, lost friends, and found out a whole lot about myself along the way.

I entered the year as a college graduate, having finally graduated over 21 years since I entered college for the first time. It seems ridiculous now that it took me that long to do it, but I know all of the reasons why, even if no one else does, and I refuse to judge myself harshly for what I've been through or for the choices I have made. I'm right where I want to be right now, and I have a drive and a passion going forward, and that's all that matters.

If my finishing my degree didn't seem unlikely or impossible enough, this year saw a truly incredible event when the New Orleans Saints not only made it into the Super Bowl for the first time, but also won the game. I was lucky enough to be in New Orleans for the weekend, where I got to go to Mardi Gras parades for the first time since my family moved away from the city when I was 12. I also got to see a childhood friend whom I hadn't seen in as long. I realized that no matter how much time has passed, New Orleans still feels like home.

I have family members who decided not to speak with me this year. I also had a friend decide that she no longer wanted me in her life. On the surface, it sounds like I must be a horrible person, but I don't feel bad at all about their decisions. I have chosen, quite consciously, to live an honest life and to strive toward sincere relationships with others. My choice has made some others uncomfortable. I'm sorry for their discomfort, because I know how that feels, but I will not change who I am or what I will allow into my life to make them feel better.

My animal family experienced a lot of changes this year. The New Year started with a newly adopted Alla reminding us all what it was like to have a kitten in the house, and in May, we welcomed a full-size puppy into the mix when Iko came to live with us. I saw her shelter picture on Facebook on an early Wednesday morning, and a week later I was in North Carolina picking her up from her foster mom. It was love at first sight for me, but my happiness was short-lived when just a month later a fatal illness was showing itself in Alla, and my once playful kitty was on a quick downward decline. I said goodbye to her in August, before she ever had a chance to grow to adulthood. My heart was broken, but still open, and I soon found another young cat in need of rescue. Hazel traveled from a shelter in Georgia and landed firmly on my lap. Brandi, Eli, and Bennie are all elderly now and are experiencing their own infirmities and limitations, but I am grateful for each and every day I have with them, and I am committed to doing all I can to keep them happy and healthy for as long as possible.

I haven't had a chance to travel as much as I would have liked to this year. A trip to Indiana was scrapped in May, and a trip to Tennessee was canceled in November. I did, however, get to spend some time in Florida in April for what I hope will be my annual skydiving trip. I got much closer to a few friends and found out that another relationship had changed. I floated in the Gulf of Mexico, dug my toes into the sand, ate too much, drank a little, got a tattoo, played video games, and jumped out of a plane. It was a great trip!

Staying home more meant doing some travel around New England and crossing off the last remaining things on my "To See & Do List" for the region. I finally got to Salem, Massachusetts, one of the few places in the area that I had wanted to see even before moving here. We managed to create the perfect mix of history and haunting, and I learned about American chop suey. October was dedicated to pumpkins, and we went to Maine, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island to see them. We saw giant pumpkins, painted pumpkins, carved pumpkins, and lit pumpkins. We watched pumpkinboat races, pumpkin pie eating contests, and pumpkin chunking done by catapult and by air cannon. And the pumpkin whoopie pie I had was amazing!

I turned 40 in November, which seems really weird to me. I really wanted to do something fun for my birthday, but we found out a week prior that we were being relocated to Louisiana in a few months, so I decided to be practical and to spend the week painting, packing, and staging our house in preparation for its sale. The week has grown into three now, since we obviously underestimated the sheer volume of "stuff" that we own and the time needed to prep and paint walls, trim, cabinets, doors, and fixtures, but if the hard work pays off with a quick sale it will be worth it. Our Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations have also fallen victim to practical needs, but I am looking forward to many years and many celebrations in our new home.

As this year ends, I am happy about what lies ahead in the next. I am looking forward to living in Louisiana again and to being closer to family and friends. I am excited about exploring a new area and about having new adventures. I have personal and professional goals that I am anxious to start working towards. More than anything, I am pleased with an opportunity to lay down roots, to establish myself in an area, and to create a sense of home. I have felt like a gypsy for a while now, moving every few years, and never quite feeling settled. I am grateful for the perspective that I have gained from living in the Midwest, the Northeast, the Tennessee Valley, the Blue Ridge mountains, and New England. I am proud that I've been able to adapt to a variety of settings and that I've been able to work with people from different backgrounds. I know that the future will bring great things, but mostly I feel that the future will bring me full circle into myself.

This blog was born from the ending of another blog, and it has been an affirming experience for me. My first entry was inspired by a trail of footprints in the snow, and I can now see more clearly where those footprints lead. I know that the path will not always be smooth or clear, but I trust that it is heading always in the right direction. I know, too, who I want with me as a travel the path, and I know that together we can face whatever lies ahead. I hope that I will remember to enjoy the view along the path, realizing that it's often not about what lies ahead (or even behind), but more about what surrounds us, what is unseen, and what waits down this fork or that. I hope that those whom I have met and will meet along the way will be better for the experience, even when our interaction is less than positive. I even hope that the owner of the dead blog will someday learn the lessons that she needs to in order to live an authentically happy life, because that really is what it's all about....really.