Month: December 2009

Boxing Day

I could use a punching bag today, but the pugilistic type of boxing is not what the title refers to. It’s a UK tradition referring to how people box everything up and put it away the day after Christmas. I’m doing a little of that, but I’m also playing referee between my dog Chico and the world. I had taken him back to the kennel for Christmas. I was going to be gone most of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. He seemed happy enough to return to the world of concrete cages and barking dogs of all types. Annie and I settled into happy togetherness. I thought I would pick Chico up tomorrow.

But today, a day when I planned to relax, a woman called about Chico. She was very anxious to meet him and willing to drive an hour and half to the kennel if she could meet him today. Okay. Trying very hard to put it all into God’s hands, I drove up the frosty winding road to the kennel, parking just as she arrived. But oh, Chico. He came out like a speeding bullet, jumped all over me and almost pulled me off the hill. I got him to sit and lie down long enough for her to pet him and decide he was very cute. But they had him on a leash the width of a shoestring and that didn’t work. He needs a big-dog collar and big-dog leash. She tried to walk him and decided he was too much for her. Apologizing, she said no.

Since I was already there, I paid his bill and brought him home. If someone else calls, it will be easier if I have him with me.

When we arrived, he and Annie went into full fight mode, but they calmed down pretty quickly. However, Chico will not play with her, and as soon as I opened the door he flew over the fence. It was quite amazing. Such a graceful arc through air, up and over. If I leave the gate open, he checks in from time to time, but I can’t let Annie out now. Meanwhile, I had just started to type this when I heard my neighbor by the gate trying to call Chico, trying to bribe him into coming home. She doesn’t understand that he’s no longer the docile little puppy he used to be. At dark, I will corral him, but I can’t hold this animal that doesn’t want to stay here, and I can’t keep him if he endangers people and animals in his path. I’m giving it two weeks, then taking him to an animal shelter.

When the setting sun gilds the tops of the trees, I’ll lock him in for the night. He’ll go to sleep, blocky head on his massive paws. Both dogs will sleep in the laundry room with a portable heater going against the intense cold that has set in again. I’ll give them cookies, assure them I love them, and wish them “Boa noite” as I shut the door.

I pray that someone else, someone strong, someone with a fence and no cats, someone willing to give a bully dog a break, will call.

****
While Chico was gone, Christmas happened. This was my first one without any family and without Fred. The best parts happened during the hours I was playing music with the church choir onChristmas Eve and Christmas. I opened my gifts alone, so conscious of Fred’s empty chair. There weren’t many gifts until the last minute, but each one is a special blessing. I am so grateful for my friends and for the family members who remembered me from afar.

Instead of having Christmas dinner, I drove to Albany to visit Fred in the nursing home. It was a pretty ordinary day there. I doubt the residents knew it was Christmas. I read Fred’s Christmas cards to him and helped him open his gifts. Then we adjourned to the living room area for warm peanut butter cookies with sprinkles and a Christmas carol singalong with staff members. I dozed on Fred’s shoulder through part of a Christmas movie.

The same woman is still saying it’s time to go home. Loy is still hollaring “Hey!” Eugene stood up and his pants fell down, exposing his diapers and skinny white legs. And Fred and I parted with tears in our eyes.

Life has its ups and downs. In spite of everything that has happened this year, I’m hopeful for 2010. I hope you are, too.

Christmas is over. Hooray! Happy New Year!

Instinct


A break in the rain. A touch of blue through the clouds. Instead of sleeping by the pellet stove, my dog Annie paces by the door. Something rouses her from her winter hibernation. I feel it, too. Must go out. Though I try to do my indoor chores, the beach across the highway beckons.

Then comes a frustrating phone call. I am still trying to find a home for Annie’s brother Chico. My last resort was the no-kill shelter an hour away from here. I had called to make an appointment to “surrender” him next week. The girl who called me back this morning said they have their quota of “bully” dogs and cannot take him right now. I can call next week to see about getting him on a waiting list. Meanwhile, I may have to bring him home. I took him to a kennel because I could not contain him. Even a six-foot fence wouldn’t hold him. Neighbors were starting to complain.

Annie and I have had a good time together, truly bonding. I have faced the truth that I can only handle one dog, and Chico has made the choice which one by his need to run away. But I love him and don’t want him to be euthanized. Apparently being a little bit pit bull is like being a little bit black in the slavery days. People don’t want you if you’re a “bully dog,” even though they are not necessarily killer dogs. In fact, they’re naturally sweet, loving and eager to please.

So Chico might be coming back to the house next week. Meanwhile, Annie and I must take advantage of our time together. We even tried sleeping together, but she has this need to be very very close and sticks her feet straight out, her nails digging into my face, my arm, my chest. It was nice, but I sent her back to her own bed.

Back to today. Instinct called us outside, led us to the beach. It’s a balmy 50-something degrees, hazy, a little drippy, but tolerable. We went to Ona Beach, a couple miles south, with a long wooded trail to the sand. We skirted big mud puddles and sloshed across soaked grass. Annie darted here and there, sniffing, pouncing, trotting, her tail wagging, her eyes bright.

Across the bridge over Beaver Creek, we reached the sand. So many smells. Seaweed. Poop. Dead murres. Crab shells. Fish slime. We walked and ran south, Annie darting up and down the wet rock cliffs, throwing herself into the sand to rub on something smelly, pulling me to where the waves shot their frilly underskirts toward our feet.

At my age and with so many past foot and ankle injuries, I’m delighted that the dogs have taught me to run again. The little girl in me sent my feet skimming across the sand behind my dog, and all my worries dropped away. When we got tired, we found a sheltered spot under some trees. It was like our private fort. Sitting on pine needles and moss, we snuggled and watched a group of teenagers go by, one girl in a Santa hat.

Rested, we trotted north around the bend, skirting the edge of the creek. Suddenly Annie ran and jumped into the creek. The backwash soaked my shoes and socks, but I was too busy laughing to care. She took a big drink, jumped out and jumped back in. She went deeper, and I saw my dog discover for the first time that she could swim. Instinct. She and Chico are half lab. The dog paddle is like running in the water. Now she wanted more and more of it.

But it was time to go home and dry off. On the short ride home, she stared out the window, smiling, and so did I.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next week. All I know is that when nature calls you out, get away from the computer and go.

Cold

Cold. Cold that bites. Cold that burns. Cold that hurts my teeth, chills my lungs, makes my nose bleed. Cold that flattens autumn’s poppies, cold that kills the farmers’ crops. Cold that swallows the fire-heat from the pellet stove so the house is never really warm. Day after day, so cold I dare not leave my dog outside for fear she will die. At night, Annie sleeps on the big chair by the living room window, waking when the pellet stove comes on, when the temperature has dropped below 55 degrees in the house. I hear her tags jingling as she comes down the hall and places her giant paws on my bed. I pet her soft fur and invite her up, but she can’t quite make the jump and she needs to go out. I indulge her every whim because I have sent her brother away, and the loss is so new to both of us.

In my robe and slippers, I lean against the doorframe as I did so many times for my old dog Sadie. Without my glasses, the lights in the inky sky look like starbursts. As Annie chases something in the dark, I move out into the colder cold. The deck is oddly dry. My feet crunch on the frozen grass and the spongy ground beneath it. Annie squats, then bounds across the lawn and rattles through the leaves piled up against the chain link fence. As I stare at the sky, she comes running toward me, flying across the deck and into the warmth of the house. I slowly follow, locking the doors, wishing my companion good night as I crawl back into bed, grateful for my electric blanket.

The cold, dry spell has lasted five days now. Tomorrow it is expected to turn to freezing rain and snow. I stay up late to watch the weather report, wondering if I can still drive to Albany to see my husband Fred in his nursing home. The reporter urges drivers to pack chains, flashlights, shovels, kitty litter, blankets and food. Snow is a worry, but the real enemy is the ice that may lie beneath it. Nothing is expected to fall until tomorrow night. Do I trust their schedule?

Meanwhile, I envy my father’s high of 54 degrees back in California, even if it is raining there. Our 30 degrees, up from 21 two night ago, is the warmest on the Oregon weather map. Being Oregonians, we are supposed to cheerfully endure the winter weather, but this California native has decided her idea of hell is cold.

Mary’s gone, John showed up

To follow up on last week’s post about the nursing home, Mary did pass away last week. Fred had no idea someone died so close to his room, although he has a vague memory of paramedics coming. When I walked by on Friday, the room was empty except for a portable heater, a decoration on the wall and a tiny cat bed with a stuffed toy cat sitting on the floor. By the next time I visit, the staff will have eradicated the big water stain on the carpet and someone else will be moving in. That’s how it goes at Timberwood.

John the musician, who didn’t come last week, was there on Friday, and I have to say he is wonderful. I need to get his last name and find out if he has any CDs. I will let you know. His voice, his guitar playing and his patter with this somewhat difficult audience are outstanding. We all enjoyed singing along. It’s amazing how people with dementia may not be able to talk or even remember the names of their loved ones, yet they remember all the words of the songs. Music is magic, and I’m glad I can offer some of that magic sometimes.

Doggone It

I had all these funny stories to share about my dogs, about how Chico learned to jump the fence, about how I built a barrier of a broken-down wheelbarrow, ladder and compost bin, and Chico found another spot to jump the fence. Then I dragged two very large and heavy boards to the new place, and he jumped somewhere else. Then I stood out in the yard and played goalie by the gate because he was jumping there. But finally he started jumping/climbing the six-foot chain link enclosure I had built earlier this year at great expense. He no longer wanted to stay in the yard and play with his sister; he just wanted to jump and run.

I learned not to chase him because he just kept going. If I left a gate open, he would sneak in. The trick was to catch him before he jumped over the fence again. But suddenly this weekend, he not only learned to jump anywhere there wasn’t a tree behind the fence, he learned to get over the supposedly dog-proof enclosure. I put in a call to the dog trainer to see if she could come help me work on training him to come when I called and see what could be done to dog-proof the yard. We were still playing phone tag when Chico got out over and over this morning.

My neighbor, who has been most patient, complained that my dog was trying to kill his cat. Furthermore, he had caught him trying to kill another dog on the next street. Sooner or later, dear, sweet Chico was going to get hurt or killed. Many of my gun-toting neighbors would not hesitate to shoot a dog who was attacking their animals. Nor could I spend all of my free time chasing that dog, never able to relax in my own yard.

Chico had to go. As soon as I got him corraled, I put him in the car. For now, he is at the kennel where my old dog used to board. I want to find him a loving home where he has all the room he needs to run. I will keep his sister Annie for now. I know she is more brokenhearted than I am. And yet, we are both relieved to be free of the pressure of trying to keep in a dog who needs to run away.

I feel like a failure. Fred and I did a great job with Sadie, our old dog. We provided a very good life for her and were with her when she died. But then we took in Hallie for only a couple weeks before we decided she was too wild and had to go back to the shelter. And now, after all the noise I’ve made about my two puppies and all the stories I’ve told, I handed Chico over to a stranger.

Riding in the car, he sat on the passenger seat with his head against the cushion, looking like he might be sick. He knew this wasn’t good. I was crying, and we were riding down windy roads he had never seen before. This was not a trip to the beach. Back at home, I see his beautiful self everywhere I look but I also feel the relief, too.

Dr. Hurty, if you’re still reading my blog, I tried my best, but with Fred gone to a nursing home, I was outnumbered and overpowered. I am looking for a good home for Chico. All I ask is that they love him and take good care of him. He’s a beautiful dog with a loving heart. He’s my baby, but it’s time for him to move on.