PUPPY SITTING

Our dog Toby died just over 8 years ago.  Our cat Cooper too a month later. So we have been without animal companions for a good long time.  Before that we had cats and/or dogs (usually both) non-stop in our married life.  We decided after losing our two long-time "roomies" to the scourges of cancer and old age, we wanted to see how it might feel to live in a home where every surface wasn't covered in animal hair, where Hub didn't have to sneeze uncontrollably whenever the cat jumped on his lap, where we did not have to make homemade dog food to deal with our pup's food allergies, and to have a yard that didn't have worn dirt paths from the dog's daily run/route around the property -- not to mention poop pick up, dog walks in all weather, ruined hardwood floors from wet paws and scratchy claws, stinky litter boxes, furniture as scratching posts, vet bills, boarding kennel guilt.  

I sound like a curmudgeon.  And I admit to a bit of that sensibility.  We were, we realized, finished with the responsibility and "hassle" of pets.  

I know I'm offending some of you.  And causing you to think less of me.  Causing you, perhaps, to wonder if I have a caring bone in my body; if I even have a heart!  I get it.  In my defense, I think a family pet is a lovely thing.  

We ensured our sons grew up with the love and companionship of always having a dog and at least two cats in the house (and innumerable fish, a couple of parakeets, a pet rat for God's sake!)  And they weren't just for the kids -- we loved them all too and grieved mightily with their passing.  (I mean the dogs and cats...not so much the fish, birds, and definitely not the rat.  But I made Hub take the rat to the vet to be euthanized when after two years he developed an ugly tumor -- which was about 18 months after my then 8 yr old son had lost interest in him.  The vet was shocked -- said it was first to have a rat brought in for the final injection. LOL  He charged Hub a nominal off-the-top-of-his-head ten bucks to do the deed.  See?  I have a heart!!!)   

But as an empty nest retired couple who wanted more freedom to be away from home for more than 5-6 hours at a time, we knew we didn't want to have another dog and Hub's allergies put the kibosh on another cat, at his request; a request which I very reluctantly agreed to, but now see the wisdom of.

Today we are nearly at the end of a walk down memory lane.  We are pup-sitting a one-year-old Australian Cattle Dog (AKA Blue Heeler) for 8 days for Son One's family.  Rocko arrived mid-last week with crate, bed, bowls, food, treats, leash, collar, poop bags/poop scoop, a bag of toys, emergency contact info for the vet and a long goodbye from his humans.   

He has been here before, but in the yard and on the back deck during our outdoor Covid-protocol picnics.  By nature the breed is cautious around new people and places and with so little socialization available to him this past year, perhaps more so.  At any rate it took most of the first day for him to leave the kitchen.  He found his spot on the rug by the back door, no doubt hoping his people would soon return.

Eventually we coaxed him further in and he realized no bad thing was going to happen. He seemed to trust us and, so as long as we were nearby, he was relatively happy, both indoors and out.  Until we took him for a walk at the Marina.  He was afraid of everything.  Noises, people, railings, shadows, and particularly the solid metal grates in the sidewalk that rattled and clanged when we walked over them.  He took to coming to a dead stop or taking a wide berth around them.  We were sad for him, so cut the walk a bit short, but did notice he was becoming slightly more comfortable toward the end.

The next couple of days we walked around the neighborhood instead and that went much better.  He was more familiar with a normal sidewalk and grass to sniff.  OK.  Got it.  Actually, I started to empathize.  I have anxiety disorder too.  Mine is better controlled, but those grates....I totally get it!  It's not that Rocko and I think that a bad thing will happen once and be scary, then we get over it.  NO!  We are convinced some bad thing MIGHT happen EVERY TIME!!!  Best to avoid whatever is scary and not take a chance, right?  I like walking a familiar path too.

Anyway, now, 7 days in, he's fully part of the household.  We have a routine and he is totally comfortable here and no longer needs us in his sights constantly.  He runs all around the yard, exploring and sniffing and chasing the tennis ball with limitless endurance and enthusiasm.  He has completely destroyed all of his "indestructible" toys, (including a couple I'd kept here for his "canine cousin", Oliver), the detritus strewn everywhere.  He convinced us to give up one chair for him to claim, but even with that restriction, there is dog hair on all of our furniture, carpet, floors, and our clothing all of the time.   He tracks in pine needles, grass, and dead leaves, and leaves wet, slightly muddy paw prints in his wake.  He barks out the front window at every passer-by, (with a rather high-pitched shrillness that hurts my ears) protecting his domain.  

And he's sweet.  His wagging tail when he sees us makes me happy, especially in the mornings when I first greet him for the day -- his whole body wags.  I love how he rolls over to get his belly scratched. He brings us toys to play with and runs to us (most of the time) with a call to him.  It's cute how he prances, proudly bringing his ball for us to throw again and again or gifts us a stick he's found in the garden.  It's cute how he likes to closely follow us around the house, gently "herding" as is his instinct.  I love seeing him curled up asleep on his chair, relaxed and cozy and at peace for his naps.  At bedtime, he goes into his crate on his own -- his familiar den -- and sleeps through the night.  

It's been fun and a fine bonding experience for us all.  We've grown very fond of him and him us.  I'm glad we did this.  I'm also glad he will go home to his family tomorrow; he will be a wiggly happy dog when he greets them again.  And we will spend Friday vacuuming.  😁

At least, that's the view from here...©

HAPPY HUMMING

I'm feeling antsy.  It's a spring fever thing even though our wet, gray, windy "spring" is not very conducive to outdoor frolicking.  I drive by my blooming daffodils and hyacinths along the driveway and note the azalea buds growing more plump each day, but I'm not out there tending them, or anything else.  It has been established that I am a totally fair weather gardener.

So, anyway, I am antsy for something to tend.  Our sweet Toby-dog died a year ago February and my Cooper-cat followed month later.  I miss those members of the family, of course, but not their respective species' sharing space with me.  No dog "doo" in the yard or mounds of shedded retriever hair on the carpet; no litter pans to clean or embedded cat fur on all the furniture.  No pet food to buy and/or make (we cooked for allergy-prone Toby for years), no vet bills, no worrying about getting home to walk or feed, no sitters or boarding fees while we are away for vacation.  It's been freeing, for the first time in over 35 years, to not have an animal companion in our home.

Hub reminded me of all of this the other day when I mused that I was sort of thinking of getting a dog or a cat again.  He turned a bit pale and spoke to me very slowly, trying to gently recall my addled brain back to some contact with reality with the reminder of all the ways in which we have had a worry-free existence in the past year.  It didn't take me long to agree with him…but still….

I tried a bird feeder on the front porch late last summer, and enjoyed all the sweet little birdies, but boy, it was a mess.  Seed hulls everywhere and more wildlife than I knew we had started to hang out right outside the door -- squirrels, chipmunks, mice -- too many rodents for my taste.  Also the neighbor's cats seemed happy that I'd baited the birds for them.  So down came the feeder.

In the frigid days of this past winter I noticed a hummingbird under the neighbor's eaves.  I love hummingbirds, but have not been too successful at attracting them.  I figured this one was desperate enough, so I hung a feeder on that front porch hook and sure enough, the little guy found his way to my house and brought some friends.  I've been keeping them well stocked with nectar ever since.  But I can't really see them from inside the house, so it's not a very satisfying relationship.  Feeder full, feeder empty.  I feel mostly like a waitress.

So today, I made a trip to Wild Birds Unlimited to see if I could find a hummer-feeder that would attach to my deck rail off the kitchen sitting area, where we spend most of our time.  A bank of windows there looks out on a green ravine behind our house -- bird heaven!  Wild Birds Unlimited is like a toy store for bird and nature lovers.  I just like going in there -- dozens of bird and squirrel feeders of all types,  huge bags of specialty seeds, suets, wind chimes, door decals, gardener's hats and gloves and clothing, books, books, books!  Kids toys and games.  Photos and wind socks and the big 'old mellow store cat who lives to be petted.  Love it!  The big drawback is the price.  But I guess you pay for the ambiance?

I looked everything over, priced the various items I thought would work for my deck, and ended up going the simple economy route:  A suction-cupped window feeder with four feeding "stations" and a raised mount.  Very sweet.  I came home and assembled it, cooked up a batch of nectar, and mounted the feeder on my back window.  I assume it will take awhile for the hummers to find their new food source, so I am being patient, but hopeful.  (I was assured they won't smack themselves against our window to get to it.)

I realize hummers are a pretty low level "pet" to have, but it seems to be satisfying my desire to attract and care for a living being without too much fuss and muss.  Plus, I estimate the feeder was made with about 50-cents worth of plastic and only cost me $24.99!  Cheaper than a lifetime of vet bills and Purina Pet Chow!  Win-Win!

At least, that's the view from here… ©

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE....

Here is grief again.  I could sit and count how many times I've cried over death, human and animal, but this is one thing that doesn't seem to get easier with experience.

Our cat, Cooper, is gone.

Yes, this is the exact opening to my February 5, 2013 post when we'd lost our dog, Toby.  Just 6 weeks later, our 16-year-old Cooper-Cat has now joined Toby in the mysterious "out there" where formerly sentient beings frolic about in the great cosmos.  Or something like that.  I'm not really sure.

What I am sure of is that sadness lives in my heart again/still.  I'm actually a little numb with sadness.  I must be.  Because as a "cat person" I thought I'd be devastated, but I feel remarkably at peace, while also deeply feeling this loss.  Maybe my reaction is because I am absolutely sure it was his time.

I think that's the difference between losing Coop and losing The Tobe.  Toby's diagnosis was such a shock.  The moment of decision to let him go was the result of an acute crisis in suddenly losing his ability to breathe easily; within a couple of hours it was over.

Cooper, well, I've watched the slow progression of his decline in kidney function for the past 6 months..  Old cat disease.  It's the #1 cause of cat mortality, for those who live into old age.  I said my goodbyes dozens of times over -- every time I fed him, petted him, sought him out in his "nest" in the dark downstairs TV room, his preferred place to sleep the day away of late, having abandoned his sunny spot on the back of the sofa near the window.

Every time I sat down for more than 5 minutes to watch TV or read or crochet -- even in the last days of his life -- he had a 6th sense about me settling in and he would come from wherever he'd been to jump into my lap and settle in with me.  And for both of us, I think, great waves of peace and contentment would wash over us for however long that respite lasted.  There is nothing in my life than can calm me and bring quiet peaceful presence to my heart as quickly and easily as a purring cat on my lap.

We got him on a late spring day in 1997 at the Co-op Supply store where we'd stopped for dog food.  He was among a litter of kittens in a cage bearing a sign reading "FREE".  Oh dear!  Son-Two and I took one look, then another, then looked again, and were totally enthralled by this sweet baby polydactyl kitty.  Yep, extra toes.  He looked like he was wearing big white mittens on his front paws.  He was ours.

He was young -- no more than 5-6 weeks old.  So, I think I became his momma.  He was literally "on me" for weeks, seeking me out for warmth, food, and companionship.  We bonded.  And it remained so.  Hub could come around, but occasionally if Cooper felt his "territory" invaded, he lay his ears back and gave Hub a low growl that said, "Back off, buddy.  She's mine!"  He never did anything about it; he was not that aggressive.  He just voiced his displeasure with sharing me.  But he wasn't above snuggling into Hub's lap occasionally too.

So, he was a special one, among the many cats we've had in the past 37 years.  I could tell stories about each of them, about the joy and pleasure they brought to me and to our home.  And to each we've had to say goodbye in various ways and in their time.

On Wednesday it was Cooper's time.  He had stopped eating.  The fluids we'd begun giving him last week weren't keeping up his hydration needs. He wasn't urinating much.  He had trouble walking.  There was no more purring -- even though he still preferred my lap to other places to sleep if I cooperated by sitting still.

Tearfully, I made the appointment.  Hub was working, so Son-Two and I took Cooper in, which was fitting since it was we two who had claimed him from that cage of free kittens all those years ago, when Son-Two was only 9 years old.  We both petted Cooper, me holding his sweet face in my hands as the injection was given.  He looked at me until he was gone; quickly and peacefully.  No struggle, no fear, no pain, no striving, no regrets.

I feel I have done the hard thing, the responsible thing, the loving thing.  I am at peace with all of it.  And I am sad.©

My Sweet Cooper

Sometime in the Spring 1997 -- March 20, 2013

GOODBYE

Here is grief again.  I could sit and count how many times I've cried over death, human and animal, but this is one thing that doesn't seem to get easier with experience.

Our dog, Toby, is gone.  I wrote about him last September, when we got his diagnosis of larynx cancer.  Since then we have showered him with affection as we kept close watch.  We faced each set-back in his ability to swallow with ease with more and more creative ways to prepare his homemade food so he could get it down.  Still, we noticed the gradual loss of weight.

And yet, there he would be -- greeting us with wagging tail, eager for outdoor adventures in our big yard, making the rounds to his favorite spots, lying for long periods on the front porch, keeping tabs on the neighborhood, fetching the newspaper each morning as was his habit, then running to the kitchen cabinet for his treat.

Yesterday was no exception.  But late last night, he started to gasp for breath.  It seemed to come out of nowhere, this interruption of breathing.  Perhaps the tumor had migrated a fraction of an inch, encroaching on the trachea.  What we had dreaded was happening.

For two hours we tried to comfort him, tried to get him to drink thinking there might just be a bit of food lodged in his throat.  But we saw he was agitated, confused, tired and uncomfortable.  We knew. We called the Emergency Vet and made the short drive at 11:00 p.m.  Hub and Son-Two stayed with Toby for the overdose of anesthesia.  This time I just couldn't do it.  I've stood by for all our other pets' end times, but this time I gave myself permission to wait outside the door.  When he was at peace I went in to say one final goodbye as a family, bound in grief, in this most difficult of life transitions.

This morning, in the early dawn, I walked down the long flight of our front stairs to bend and pick up the morning paper, barely able to see through my tears.  The first of the "life goes on" activities that will remind me of him with a stab of pain, until that passes and fondness and joy can return with such a simple act of remembrance.

The house is so quiet today; feels empty.  Empty not just of a physical presence, but a presence of spirit.  I hope he is floating free, his essence moving on, reincarnating to a higher self.  How could it be any other way?  He was a special being.  We loved him.

At least, that's the view from here....©

Our Toby

7/10/02 -- 2/4/13

LIFE AND DEATH

Well.  Damn.

You know it is inevitable when you have aging pets.  You see the slower pace, the stamina waning, the  resting time increasing.  And still our Toby, at 10 years old, has retained his tail-wagging, ball-chasing, paper-fetching, food-scarfing, biscuit-begging, human-loving enthusiasm for life -- melting our hearts as only a Golden Retriever can.

In late-May we noticed he was sort of coughing; sort of panting a lot for no reason; sort of hacking as if something was caught in his throat.  A vet visit in early June didn't reveal anything much on exam or x-ray.  We tried some "what not?" antibiotics and something for respiratory issues.  We thought we saw some improvement, at first.   We were sure that if it was the heat and maybe an allergy, the changing season would make it all go away.  But no, in fact, lately it was getting a bit worse again.

Last week we saw our regular vet, who recommended a specialist who could do an endoscopy (tube looking down the trachea and esophagus) and see what might be going on down there.  Couldn't see or feel a thing from the outside.  So on Wednesday we took him in for an early morning procedure, sure that a quick and easy test would reveal a fixable problem.

Ninety minutes later Hub, our two sons (who had rushed from their jobs) and I huddled around the cage where Toby lay as he slowly came out of anesthesia.  We were struggling with the news and what to do.  A tumorous mass on Toby's trachea was the "throat problem".  It was inoperable and likely fast-growing.  One option was to pre-empt what would likely be eventual suffering and choose to let him go then and there, before the anesthesia had fully worn off.

We were all in shock.  Hadn't he been perfectly fine (so far as we knew) just a couple of hours earlier?  Hadn't our lives, and his, been typical for a Wednesday morning?  What were we doing there, holding each other's shock and grief, listening to a stranger tell us our precious Toby was not going to get better?

But we are a pragmatic and compassionate family.  We will not prolong the suffering of an animal companion just to avoid our own grief.  We have been here before, with two other dogs and cats.  It is always heart-wrenching and incredibly sad.  We have always known when it was time and that it was right.

But this time....the longer Hub talked to the vet the more I could read shades of doubt on Hub's face.  One advantage of Hub's profession in medicine is his ability to discern the many layers of truth that can accompany a diagnosis.  I could read concern/skepticsm/doubt on his face as the vet talked about what he saw, what he guessed, what he was unsure of.  There were just too many unanswered questions to risk losing our Toby without another shot at saving him.

We are not inclined toward heroics.  We won't spend untold thousands of dollars on cancer treatment.  But we decided we would bring him home and try to reduce the inflammation, run another course of heavy-duty antibiotics, and pray to some canine diety that this could possibly be something else.

Are we in denial?  Sure, maybe.  But it's not time yet and it's not right yet.  Toby is still Toby, with a cough (which has actually calmed a bit in the two days since his procedure).  He ran down the stairs this morning and straight to the front door to trot out and retrieve our morning paper, as he does every morning.  He ran to the treat cabinet waiting for his reward.  He wiggled and wagged when we bent to pet him.  He lay in his doggie bed in the kitchen, his perch from which he keeps tabs on us all day.

If that thing in his throat really is a tumor, it will grow.  When it reaches a size that even just a little bit starts to interfere with his breathing, it will be time.  We will not watch him struggle or suffer.  We will know and we will do what has to be done.  For now he is loving the TLC we are showering upon him, blissfully unaware of the reason for our newly dedicated devotion to him.  We are holding our grief at bay.  We are grateful for his Golden spirit and how it has shone upon us, and will for as long as he lives.

At least, that's the view from here...©