Cast of Characters

I have to warn you, this one is a little emotional.

I'm one of those people that "forges on" when things get difficult. I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to deal with my losses, I don't want a hug. When I need to talk about some ache that feels too big, I just want to put my arms around my dog and press my face into his fur.

I've lost dogs before. I got a little terrier mix from a shelter when I was 20, and I held her when I was about 30 as they put her to sleep. I lost one to a divorce, and found out later she was dropped at a shelter (rather than given back to me.) I lost the best companion off my childhood, a vicious Dobie-GSD-something-huge mix named Nibbles (not kidding) who passed away when I was in college.

And still, those were Before.

I've always liked dogs. What's not to like? They listen as if you're brilliant, they love everything you feed to them, they think you're a genius, they care when no one else does.

And then I met Drive. And just like that, dogs ascended in my view. I understood "dog people." I became one of them. There can never be another Drive, I know that, but never again in my life will I be without a dog. Actually, just the idea of having only one dog seems a little strange, but that's a matter of finance rather than preference for me. When I think of my future, of the "lifestyle" track I want to be on, there's dogs everywhere in my imagination. When I answer the question of a hypothetical lottery win, I get teary-eyed thinking of all the puppies! With a million dollars I could save so many puppies...

This new worldview has an unexpected bittersweet twist. I didn't just lose a pet a couple of months ago. I lost a person. I lost a living soul who took up a big space in my world and now, all these weeks later and after an emotional few days, it's hitting me how much I miss my Bullie.

I'm not even going to put his picture on this post; I linked to it up there with his good-bye post. Even looking at that makes me remember, I was holding him when he passed. I was looking into his eyes when the lights in them faded.

We go to McDonald's, and buy the $1 box of four chicken nuggets. I hand the extra one to my husband.

"What are you doing?"

"That's the extra one. You can eat it."

And about then, I remember that we only have two dogs. That they can just have two damned nuggets apiece and there's no extra anymore.

And then I think of Drive, who is 11. And Lanie, who is 12. And I take a breath and remind myself that I'm strong enough to love this much and then say goodbye.

Bullie was almost 9 when we (accidentally, I'm serious) adopted him. It was a few years for us, that's all. A couple years with an old stripey dog, followed by months of this heavy, pushing grief and a place for him in my heart forever.

It's worth it, because for Bulldozer, it was the rest of his life. He did not die a lonely and unloved dog in a shelter. He didn't spend his remaining time in a kennel waiting for someone to want an old, shy dog that didn't attach quickly or trust easily. He died held by arms that loved him. Someone wept for him, and still does. He died with toys. He died after a thousand wonderful meals and uncountable treats. The rest of his life was warm, loving, interesting, and full of delicious surprises.

It's worth it.

Happy Saturday, and a Blog Hop

First please let me express my gratitude and awe for the outpouring of love and sympathy we received after Bullie's passing on Wednesday. I could not have gotten through it, nor the terrible day that came after, without my incredible internet family.

Although we knew his time was close, he suffered rapid decline over his last few days, falling nearly every time he tried to stand. He seemed confused and uncomfortable and I made the decision to release him. I was there with him, holding him close and telling him over and over how much we loved him. Thank you so much, friends, for easing my grief even just a little bit.

"The misery of keeping a dog is his dying so soon. But, to be sure, if he lived for fifty years and then died, what would become of me?" 
--Sir Walter Scott

Join us on the Blog Hop after the cut!

Goodnight, Sweetheart

We said good-bye tonight.

My Bullie

Ima Bulldozer

June 1, 1998 - April 20, 2011

Be at peace, my sweetheart. No more hurting. Thank you for the honor of loving you.

You were a very, very good boy.

Goodbye, my love.

Chicken Wings

Maybe because of my sore back, I've been overly concerned with finding a comfortable position lately. Sitting, standing, lying: all I can think about is the alignment of my spine. I'm afraid of angering the Gods of Sciatica.

So when I walked by our geriatric old man Bullie and saw this, I had to resist the urge to rearrange him. That just can't be comfy!

On the other hand, he seemed to be enjoying the sun on his bum.

My Gentleman Bulldozer

This is Bullie.

Did I ever tell you how he came to be in our lives? An accident, really. A misunderstanding. He was rescued from isolation and loneliness after his owner was suddenly tragically unable to care for him, but his age at the time made the rescue hesitant to put him in a kennel. They put out a call for a soft foster bed for him.

I was close and I'm a sucker. Knowing nothing else about him and secure in my belief that I was going to give an old dog a bed for a couple weeks, I went and picked him up.

My understanding was faulty. My ability to somehow not love a dog is compromised. It didn't take long before we signed the papers and made him ours. After all, we reasoned, he's old. He's too old to get bounced around. He's not showy. He's shy. He'd be overlooked, we worried. He was almost 9 at the time. He's 12 and half now.

We tried giving him regular dog beds, but he prefers this grody pile of blankets, which he digs and kicks and arranges just so before throwing himself down. He's too unsteady now to fluff his own bed, so he'll come get one of us to help now.

He walks down the hallway and peeks into the rooms, looking for a person. When he finds me, he just tilts his head and stares. "I need help with something," he says patiently with his wide, placid brown eyes. "I'll wait here until you figure it out."

He doesn't stand up much any more. I rub him all over, every day, looking for sores or pressure points that might turn into sores. He's a giant dog, almost 30 inches at his shoulder, and now he's thin and frail. It's terrifying to watch him move sometimes. He's like an old man on stilts.

The past couple days have been rough ones for him. He doesn't get up to greet people anymore, though he lifts his head and soaks up whatever attention he gets. He can't move his bowels without falling over, so we've had to devise a sling to help him. His pain medications have been slightly increased and I'm confident he's not in pain.

What do we do? I've held beloved companions in my arms before, as they were released from life. The difference in those scenarios was that there was simply no question. The animals let me know in no uncertain terms: This is the time for me to leave. Bullie isn't being so considerate. The end will come down to a judgment call and I don't feel I am worthy to judge. I'm too selfish.

I want to spare my beautiful old man any more pain. I don't want him to fall and break a leg and end that way. I don't want him scared, I don't want him sad.

But I don't want him to go.

Bulldozer

Well of course I kissed that nose. Wouldn't you?

Good job, old man.

I want to take just a minute to thank everyone who had kind things to say as I fretted my way up to Bullie's annual vet appointment. It went very well.

He's lost a little weight in the year, but he settled in the back of the van happily with his human Dad there to hold him or catch him as necessary. Being fragile and unbalanced means lots of hugs!

On the way home we stopped at the "magic food window" and Bullie was thrilled with his life. As soon as we administered a cheeseburger, he forgot about his vaccinations immediately.

There's plenty of sparkle in his eyes still.

Back on the Blog Hop!

I've been busy the past few Saturdays, but I'm happy I remembered to join the bog hop this week. Hi everyone!

The only thing on our agenda this weekend is Bullie's annual trip to the vet. We're honestly surprised to be making this trip, since we didn't expect him to make another year with us. He just turned 12 in June and he's still hanging in there. He can't stand for any length of time and he wobbles when he walks. He's had a few little accidents and he mostly sleeps except to eat a little and go potty outside.



I'm afraid he's going to get hurt. I'm afraid he'll fall and really injure himself and his last moments will be filled with trauma and pain. He's so fragile sometimes, but there's still a little light in his eyes. And today, he gets a cheeseburger and a ride in the van -- and someone sits in back with him, to keep him safe.

Wordless Wednesday Walkies

Good Morning, Bulldozer.

Happy Friday, Bulldozer.

This right here, this sums up my plans for the weekend although if the kids get noisy, I may move.

Also, he eats crayons.

This is Bullie. I'm watching him right now as I type this. He's just getting a drink, not doing anything spectacular. In a moment, he'll finish and wander around until he remembers his bed. As I'm watching him, he's swaying, shifting his find around, losing and regaining his balance, wobbling. And there he goes, down the hall. His bed isn't there; he'll remember that in a minute.

He loves to nest, to kick the stuffing out of the pile of blankets he sleeps on. He prefers to arrange things so that his head is elevated. He can watch us moving without needing to do more than open his eyes.

About three years ago, I saw a post on a greyhound forum about an emergency foster situation nearby. The only information I have is this: Bullie had his own apartment. His owner of six years was first hospitalized and then, after surviving, placed in rehabilitation. It's my understanding a kind landlady spent a couple of weeks walking him once or twice a day and making sure he had food and water. When she could no longer assume that responsibility, she called a rescue.

The idea of a shy old boy of eight years, already lonely and uncertain, having to spend time in an adoption kennel just broke my heart. He's not one of those young playful showy dogs that has a chance at getting homed immediately. No one wanted him to end there, alone. The rescue folks were so compassionate. He was close, so I shrugged and said we'd foster him.

Ha ha ha. Right. Dummy. We decided pretty quickly he was better off staying with us than getting shuffled around again. And he just has not been any trouble.

He's a little senile, we think. He growls anxiously at Lanie and Drive, for no reason we can discern. He stumbles. His hind end sinks like the Lusitania. He's constantly high on Tramadol these days, and we know we're witnessing his sunset. I am so glad he'll see even just a little of the summer. Nothing has ever made him happier than lying in the sunshine. He has that greyhound quirk of lying down wherever the hell he feels like it, regardless of what I am trying to do.

Like walk him, for example.

His affection for us is an honor.

Bullie