Coming Along Nicely

Adore me!

Monsoon is a special, special boy.

Of course I want to update you on his progress as he learns how to be a member of our family. Of course I do! So let me update: he's whining.

He's whining under his breath, watching me to make sure I know he's sad. I'm on the couch and he's in the hallway, crying quietly to himself. Between us, there is a living room and a coffee table and, worst of all, the four-year-old. The four-year-old, I add, is playing quietly with stuffed animals. I've checked to make sure that Monsoon can get to his open crate and to the water dish without having to traverse anything too frightening, and he's been thoroughly walked.

He just needs to be brave and go for it.

This coming Saturday will mark four weeks since Monsoon came home. Our family has experienced some life turbulence issues over the past couple of weeks but things are settling and I think our new little man is coming out of his shell. He's still skittish, but not fearful. I haven't heard a growl or nervous bark from him in weeks. He plays with his toys and he sleeps happily through the night.

Our smart little pup, who is already referred to in our house as "the baby," has the basics down. He walks well on the leash without pulling, for the most part. I'm relieved that didn't take him long. He pulled so strongly for the first week he strained my left shoulder. He's very responsive to quiet vocal reminders when something catches his attention.

Most of the time.

See, everything catches his attention. This morning he saw a squirrel. He heard angels singing; I heard my trapezius muscle scream as he lunged. Because he notices everything, I have to notice everything too. If possible, I have to notice it first so that I can shorten the leash, tighten my grip, brace myself, approach "it" cautiously-- whatever the situation requires.

Sorry, I'm probably not going to get any good at spotting the squirrels lurking in the trees before he does, not at six in the damn morning. And honestly how was I supposed to know our green trash bag out by the side of the road for pickup is a terrible dangerous monster?

Anyway, Monsoon is also house-trained already, with little effort from me other than watching his signals and making a billion trips outside at terrible, inconvenient hours. He has had precisely three accidents in the house. Once, I left the room for a while and my husband missed Monsoon's signals. Fittingly, it was his jacket draped over a chair that the baby decided to christen.

Nice photobomb, Lanie.

The other two accidents are hilarious stories involving liquid diarrhea. I have this sort of poop-humor aversion, so I don't know if I'll ever work up to telling my funny story of how Monsoon squirted the foulest substance ever imagined into the least, LEAST convenient place ever. Just... trust me. I actually cried.

It's a game of patience now. He has a bed in the back of the house where he can run and hide whenever he feels stressed, but he already loves being with people. As long as the people are calm and quiet and nobody makes any sudden moves. While I have been reminding people not to shout unduly, for the most part we're living our lives as normal (or as close as we can get, lately) and letting him adjust. Monsoon can hide, or he can choose his crate in the living room. He's happy in his crate with the preschooler playing on the floor nearby, but now the door can be wide open. (Oh, stop. I know. I'm closer to the crate than the child is and the child knows he'll get corrected if he gets too close to the dog.)

So all in all, I think he's doing spectacular, given how freaked out and sore the poor baby was when he arrived. Our next big project is training him to have free range of the house when no one is home. We've also realized that this is the year we need to fence in some of our property because this guy needs a yard to play in. Now. He and Lanie decided to have a full-on jumping-spinning-bowing-smacking play session -- while I was holding a leash in each hand. I'm just going to let you imagine the balletic poses and rapid spins I had to perform myself to keep an eye on them and keep everything from getting tangled. I didn't want to stop them.

So let me know if you want to buy us a fence. ;)

(Also: Don't forget, I made a page on FaceBook and added the widget over there ---->  for the one-sentence updates and the not-perfect-but-still-cute pictures I post slightly more frequently.)

Life on Mars

It's a warm place, and there's a schedule. You know what's going to happen and when it's going to happen. There's comfort in the routine. Sometimes you get to run. Mostly you get to sleep. There's good eating and rubdowns, all on your terms.

Then it stops. No more running. A change in the schedule. Different people. They pull you from your crate, your little apartment, and put you in a truck. The truck goes forever and when they pull you out again it's a different planet. It's cold and there are more new people. The people give you pills and shots and a bath, and then it's a different crate. That's alright, because soon there is a new routine. At least it's still a kennel, even if the turnout is bizarre, all cold and icy and this snow stuff is garbage.

But you haven't been there long, only three weeks, when they pull you again. More shots and pills and suddenly you're waking up and something is gone. Something you liked, a part of you. Your belly is upset too, gurgly and unsettled and you know something is wrong even if you don't understand worms. It's all sore and weird and not even a whole day later they drag you out of the kennel, through the snow, and there's this woman.

She's okay. Words happen between you, even if not out loud. She touches gently. She asks, you answer. She's okay. She touches the good places, finds the itchy places that always need stritching.

You lean. You lean hard. When she gets down on your level and slides an arm around you, you push into it and sigh. You lean. You nudge. There's eye contact, and you nudge her again and sigh, a long one this time. Thanks, lady, for a moment of comfort and connection.

Then that lady puts you in a "van" and there's more driving and then there's a "car," which is worse than the van, and there's more driving.

House. She says that word when she leads you in. House. How much more will there be? There's a dog here, and she likes you well enough. That's good. And that Woman is here, the nice one hasn't left you. That's good. But so much else is wrong. So much else is terrifying.

This is the wrong crate, and the wrong food, and the wrong bed, and one of these people is freakishly small and loud. How much more are you supposed to just take? There's a noise. Bark! That shiny surface keeps showing you a dog like you but he looks scared and he has no scent. Bark! A new person came in the House. Bark! People are outside on the streets. Are they going to take you? Are they going to make you sore? Are they going to change something? Bark! 

There's a limit. Small Person hasn't touched you or yelled at you or anything, but the sight of him is too much so when he walks by your bed you tell him. You warn him, and Woman removes him for you. But then later he makes a noise down the hall and even though you can't even see him you are fed up. You scramble up and snarl and Bark! Enough!

Woman has you on a leash, because she always does when you aren't in a crate, so nothing comes of it. But the leash comes off and with soft words she makes you go into the crate. "It'll be okay, Monsoon."

Whatever "Monsoon" means. Now it's crate all the time, but when you get out there's walkies and sniffing. And after the smaller people are asleep at night, you can come out and play with toys. Toys! You want to tell everyone about toys! Toys are the best!

Now it doesn't matter as much if the Small Person is around. He can't get you. You can even sleep through his noises, except the loud ones. The Woman stays. You can see her. That's good, you like it when you can see her. Sometimes she leaves the room, but she comes back. Sometimes she leaves the house, but she comes back. That doesn't stop you from yelling for a while, but you settle. There's a soft bed in your new crate, and there's a stuffie to put your head on.

Maybe the sudden awful changes will slow down or stop. Maybe you can relax, in a while. Maybe you can settle, and learn this place and these people. There's toys, after all, and cookies. And glorious toys that SQUEAK.

It'll be okay. As long as everyone goes really, really, really slow.

Good-bye, 2011...

... I hated you.

I've been trying to motivate myself to write a blog post for almost six weeks. I wanted to give some sign that all was well, that I'm alive and fine and engaged. Probably the biggest problem is that hasn't been true. I've been depressed and over-extended, distracted by the holidays and disconnected from how I really feel.

Lanie is amazing. She'll be 13 in May and for the most part she's still energetic and insane. We've noticed lately she's getting quite a bit grayer on her chest and forelegs, the whole front end of her elegantly fading as befits a lady of her esteemed age. She has also, without doubt, become much more cuddly.

Just this morning she woke up early, peed on the living room rug, and then came and curled up between us in bed.

We agree that a new brother will be a good thing for her. Sure, she'll spend a while pooping in furious protest at the loss of attention and competition for resources. That's reasonable. She's entitled to let us know how she feels. Anyway, she only goes in one spot on the rug, so we keep that covered with plastic under a towel for easy clean-up.

A lot of my "dog friends" spoke to me, in the early days after I lost my Drive, about how the need for a new dog was intense and immediate. It doesn't happen with people, does it? I certainly don't want a new mother or new grandparents. But when I had to say good-bye to my Drive, the only thing I could think of to make any sense out of the world again was to put my arms around another dog.

What was best for me wasn't best for us as a family. That was harder than I can say, and I know that contributed to the depression I've been wrapped in for weeks. This was the first time in years that I've been in that terrible dark place and not had my Drive to whisper to. It spiraled quickly.

I want to stop this spiral. I want off. I want a new dog. I want to meet the friend that's waiting. I'm so very ready.

And I'm here to let you know that I'm alive. This year has to be better. And coming sometime in January I hope to be able to introduce you to the newest member of our family. Soon, soon!

I hope 2012 bring amazing things for you, my friends. I wish you all the best.

 

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.

Adventures in Dentistry

I admit it, I was in love with Drive's little snaggle tooth. It was another bullet point on the lengthy list of "What Makes Drive Adorable." But in my heart, I knew it was in peril.

His teeth were in bad shape, and he was due to have a dental cleaning before we left for Gettysburg. On the original date of his appointment, however, abnormalities appeared on the pre-operative ECG. The vet suggested an ultrasound of his heart, which presented a serious problem: if we opted for the ultrasound, our limited funds would no longer allow the dental. But what if there were something wrong with his heart, and he suffered a catastrophic crash under anesthesia?

We chose the ultrasound. I spent the day pacing and anxious, and Lanie was much the same. This was, after all, the very day after we had lost our beautiful old Bullie.

The ultrasound showed no abnormalities, nothing in his heart flapping or leaking that shouldn't be, nothing to thick or too weak.

His rescheduled dental took place on this past Tuesday. I expected he would lose three or four teeth, and that a couple of the extractions might even be difficult. I feared for his buckteeth.

I was not expecting to hear, "We took seventeen teeth."

His front teeth were among the casualties. Twelve of those seventeen were so loose they barely registered on the receipt; they practically fell out. Two of them were difficult but required due to bone loss and exposed root.

Here's a shot of his new, less toothy snoot. After a rough first night, he's back to himself, eating and drinking and smiling at me when I come home. And his remaining several teeth are a brilliant pearly white.

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.

Wellness Wednesday

Well, things are looking good. Drive is a healthy 74 pounds and only screamed twice while we were in the office for his (and Lanie's) annual check-up. He peed copiously all over the lobby, shed enough nervous hair to stuff a pillow, and is up-to-date on his vaccinations. We had a wellness blood screen done as he is going in two weeks to have a thorough dental cleaning; I expect he'll lose a tooth or three. I am looking forward to better breath.

Sadly, we did not stop at any of the magic food windows on our way home. Lanie, my darling little trash disposal, needs to lose about five pounds. Ah, well. Longer walks for all of us!

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.

Pillows

My last post may have inadvertently given the impression that Drive is outdoorsy and athletic. Here is the truth. That boy loves his pillows as much as he loves his kibble.

Most times, my husband and I sleep in the bed by ourselves, although once in a while exceptions are made. I'm too light a sleeper to tolerate the constant sleep-racing and vocal dreams all of our dogs seem to indulge in.

So the dogs sleep in the living room, perhaps 15 feet from the bedroom. (Small house, I've told you.) And in the morning when the baby gate is released after everyone has had a morning pee, Drive and Lanie streak for the bed. Most mornings, Drive gets there before I'm ready to make it.

As his reward, I don't move him.

In spite of my good intentions to post more frequently, it was a busy, fretful weekend at our house. Lanie was in fine shape Friday morning, and by Friday evening it was apparent she was quite ill. I will spare you the details, but we're still cleaning the living room rug. We watched her all weekend and thought frantically about what she could have gotten into. She's quite the counter surfer and trash picker. In the end, she's now pooping normally and hasn't projectile vomited in a day so we're calling her "all better!" and assuming the culprit was an apple core -- the only thing I can imagine she got into.

Words on Wednesday

On Patrol

I've mentioned before that Drive is my unofficial therapy dog and he's been working overtime for a couple of weeks now. I hope you'll forgive our minor unplanned hiatus. I've been spending a lot of time with my head pressed close to his and my arms around his neck. His velvet ears have soaked up so much of my misery and pain and his sweet brown eyes have calmed my nerves more times than I can count now.

Sometimes this happens, and I am grateful for the love and understanding that beams at me like sunlight determined to burn through closed curtains.

I have a different blog for the self-absorbed prattling about my brain and its various misfires, so I don't like to go into detail here. This one here though, while giving every appearance of being just cute pictures of my dogs, is a secret tribute to my heroes.


See, I was down in that well again.

And again, knowing what dogs are meant to do and knowing that Dog and Man are meant to live together this way, Drive and Lanie helped pull me out.

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.

Good Morning, Bulldozer.

Please help. You can make a difference.

Fundraising Auction

Five years post-retirement, this is what Drive's muscles look like. He does pretty well, for a spoiled boy who loves food and remains horizontal as much as possible. That's a greyhound "secret," that ability to sleep for 30 hours a day.

A friend once remarked to me, "I never knew dogs could have buttocks."

I need you to think about something else this morning, something aside from the glorious lump that is Drive. Drive is safe and loved, as are so many retirees and rescues all over the country. But there are some dogs that aren't safe, aren't loved. There are some greyhounds that were recently saved from unthinkable circumstances in Texas, and I need you to help them.

I am squeamish. I don't advertise that fact, being tough and whatnot, but I do not have the ability to look at graphic photographs of abused animals, so I will post none here. I will not link to any, either, in case you are the same. These dogs were starving, terribly ill, and infested with thousands of parasites, inside and out. One dog received an emergency transfusion while over 1,500 ticks were removed from his body.

“Fort Worth Animal Control Cruelty Investigation Officers took 28 dogs into custody Thursday night, July 8, 2010. GALT was contacted as greyhounds were included in the seize. At GALT’s request, Greyhounds Unlimited (GU) joined in this effort, as GALT and GU are the only adoption groups in the DFW/north Texas area to help stray and shelter greyhounds. Friday morning, representatives from GALT and GU met with Diane Whiteley, the Executive Director of the Texas Greyhound Association, to assess the dogs. Eight were taken by each group. Wednesday, July 14, GALT took one more female and with that now all 28 dogs are with adoption groups."

Additionally, a 29th dog was recovered later as a stray. He was two years old, and the best thing that I can tell you is that he was let go from a terrible, brief life while cradled in kind and loving arms. Kiowa Braden is at peace now and his suffering is ended.

So will you help the survivors? There's a link under the picture to a fund-raising auction for these dogs, and here are links for more information. I promise that as of this writing none of these links contain graphic images to upset us sensitive types, but the pictures I have seen of the "lesser" cases are heart-wrenching and nauseating.

Life With Dogs: Going Flat Out

GALT (Greyhound Adoption League of Texas)

Greyhounds Unlimited

And once again, the link to the fund-raising auction is here.

Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.

In Service

This post is semi-serious, so please know I won't be offended if you look at the pretty picture and leave. I understand.

When I tell you that Drive is my best friend, it isn't hyperbole or cliche. Plainly stated, there are days I would not get through if I could not bury my fingers in his fur or wrap my arms around his neck. This blog is not about me, but I live with mental illness and that is relevant to Drive. Before him, I didn't truly understand the miracle that is Dog. (That's a secular, science-type miracle, for what it's worth.)

Drive does not, I must tell you, have the necessary temperament to be an "official" service dog. The training would stress him deeply. I did have a trainer tell me recently he might "settle down with age."

"He's ten."

"... Oh."

So maybe not.

Are you aware that while most people see service dogs as large breed animals who hear and see, there is a whole separate category into which Drive could fall? I mean, if he could learn the commands and since it took me almost a year to teach him to go up some steps, I have my doubts and I won't force it on our relationship. If you're interested, here's a little information on "Emotional Support Animals."

When I say that Drive is my very best friend, I mean that deeply and truly. Over the past five years, through some of the hardest and darkest hours in my life, Drive has helped me live. He's helped me want to.

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.