Thinking about Postponing Death

I went to the Washington Post this morning to read my Sunday comics.  Usually the rest is crap, the paper has become an embarrassment from its heyday during the Watergate years.  But this article was in there, and I think it is something for us to consider.  If not for ourselves, then for our parents as they age.  My father died in 2002 and I was not in Kentucky for this.  But my mother is now 88 and has sold her house and is going to live with one of my sisters.  I'm sorry that I can't be of more help to her right now.

Also, for you Washington residents there is a Physicians Orders on Life Sustaining Treatment that the Washington Medical Association has put out.  My daughter clued me into it during her visit last week.  It's a two page form.  I urge you to copy it, read it, fill it out and return it to your family care doctor to be kept in your medical records.  It's far better to make these decisions now, rather than in a dire emergency.

Dogs, Love and Death, part 3

                                                            

There are a couple of items that I've written about on my blog that I never quite finished.

The first was the story of the dogs that I have owned and loved.   I wrote parts one and two and never brought it up to date.  I guess it was mainly because to write about my dogs, I have to write about death and even in January of 2009, I found it very difficult to continue discussing them.  These days, it's even harder and I am glad that I wrote about the toughest parts of my dog owning history then rather than now.  But there remains the story of Heidi.

Heidi was the second of the two miniature dachshunds that I adopted in September, 1999.  She was older than Alpha--the vet thought she was 8 or 10.  Heidi was  more of a dowager and she possessed none of Alpha's energy or personality.  She, however, was a great mother.  After Alpha died and we adopted Scooter, she welcomed him to the family and spent a great deal of time grooming him and making Scooter her surrogate puppy.  She had blue eyes with brown flecks, which her owner assured me was typical for a tri-color miniature dachshund.  She was a good sport, uncomplaining, and she loved her food.  She would 'sit' as we ate at the table, to beg for scraps.  And given that she had an ample rear, she could 'sit' very well.  Her reserved bearing meant, however, that she received less attention than the other two.   But that seemed not to affect her, as she was always willing to go for walks without complaint even when it was hard to keep up with the rest of the pack.

In late July of 2006, Seattle had a scorcher of a week.  The dogs were in the back yard, which is quite shady, but this week, the heat seeped into even the shady parts.  I had been busy for two evenings, preparing dinner for the crew that was re-roofing my house and I was not paying close attention to the dogs.  Friday night I had a date to the adult party at the pool where we had been members for 13 years, so I was even more distracted.  I got a call from my boys 2 hours into the dinner party that something was very wrong with Heidi.  Tim, my date and a dear friend, took me home quickly and when I arrived I found that Heidi was having many, many seizures.  She could not walk and was drooling suds. 

We bundled her into the car and the boys and I drove to the emergency veterinarians on Lake City, where they took Heidi in immediately and we paced for an hour.  Finally, they brought us back to the exam room, and although Heidi was calm, she was not focusing at all and was still having petit mal seizures.  The doctor said that as soon as they would stop injecting her with the anti seizure drugs her seizures would start again.  There was nothing we could do.  So I held her and the boys held me as they  put Heidi to sleep via injection.  The boys and I cried long and hard that evening. 

A week later, Heidi's remains were returned to us after cremation, and she rests under the cast stone statue of a dachshund that originally was placed over Alpha's grave in the backyard of our old house.  Heidi  was a good dog.  I'm sorry I don't have a better picture of her to share.   The one above shows her waiting for treats from the table at the old house with Max, having given up on her traditional method of  'sit' to cajole me.  

I grieved for her, much longer than I anticipated.  It's those steady dear friends that you take for granted, whose passing tears a bigger hole in your life than you thought possible.  As a result, Truffle did not join our household until almost three years later, in June, 2009.

Why some things really don't change--a bit of a muse

Richard Nixon on Clinton Street in Defiance, OH 1957

I was looking on FaceBook the other day, checking up on high school friends from Defiance and a name jumped out at me that I had not seen for more than 30 years: Ernie Humbert.  It got me to thinking about my childhood and the kinds of major events that broke apart my world at least for a short period of time. And there were some. What I am talking about are deaths and/or murders.

These days, when a murder is committed that bears some relationship to school children, grief counselors are brought in to help the kids deal with and process the emotions that are generated by the actions. Luckily my kids did not experience any murders or deaths that were sufficient to require professional help. And this despite going to public schools in a large city. And two of them went to the science/math magnet high school in the 'bad' part of Seattle.

Even though I went to high school in small town Ohio, during those halcyon days that preceded the worst of the anti war and civil rights riots, we had two rather lurid murders.

The first involved Ernie. He was a senior in high school in 1965, so he was five years ahead of me. I was a 7th grader at the time. But DefianceJjunior High was next door and physically connected to the high school. The junior high and the high school shared the gym and the stage, and the choir and band rooms and we watched the high schoolers from a distance with the sort of admiration reserved now for heads of state. They were the almost grownups--the kids that knew what was going on. The cool ones. Ernie worked as a soda jerk for Kuntz's drug store, which was a major stop after school for students from both the high school and junior. Ernie waited on me a time or two, but as I was a junior high student, I was beneath notice. Small cokes were a nickel and you could add a flavor for 5 cents more. I started with cherry and moved to chocolate. Ernie had a ready smile and from what I could see, worked very hard.

One day, he took a large fruit knife from Kuntz's drug store and walked over to the Toons' house by St. John's Catholic Chuch.  Seems that he had developed a relationship with the mother of the family--a deep relationship. And for reasons that I still do not know, he took the knife and stabbed the father as he was sitting on the couch watching a game on tv, killing him. You can imagine that in small town Ohio, this was an electrifying event, given the young age of the murderer and his affair with Mrs. Toons . Yet, I remember very little of what happened after that. I know that Ernie went to prison but I have heard that he got a college degree while incarcerated, and was released after a number of years, having paid his debt to society.  No one even thought of prosecuting Mrs. Toons for having sex with an underage male, as would be the case today.

The other tragic deaths in Defiance that I remember occurred when a mother from our parish went crazy and shot her children, killing one or two, before turning the gun on herself, and committing suicide.  One of her kids, Mike,  a guy who was two years older than I was, survived, albeit with bullets in his head. My dad, the pediatrician, treated him, but never mentioned to my recollection, word one about it. I remember hearing from Mike, who hung out with a fast crowd at the time,  that because of the bullet wounds, he could not drink alcohol for a while, the only mention he made of the tragedy to me. Again, I do not remember that anything was done to psychologically help the remaining children of the family, or for those kids who were close to the family, or for their schoolmates. Things were different 45 years ago.

But it makes me realize that living in a small town does not protect you from the depredations of the world. In fact, it can give you a false sense of security. I would not trade my upbringing there for any other, but I enjoy and appreciate all the benefits I derive from living in a large city today. And I wonder if sometimes the dangers of living in a large city are exaggerated when compared to those of a small town. The plural of anecdote is not data, but still I wonder.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

Dogs, Love and Death part 2

Unfortunately, my dog story is not completely told. But I've been mulling over the next part for quite some time because to write about it will open old wounds.

When I was going through my divorce ten years ago, I drove to work, so I could get home quicker and try to deal with the stresses that a spouse newly elected to the state legislature and gone all the time to Olympia creates. I parked in a cheap lot across the freeway from the office, and as I was parking there nearly every day, I became friends of a sort with the lot attendant, John. One cold February day he had a miniature dachshund puppy with him in the attendant's shack and boy was it cute! I exclaimed over the puppy, petted it and learned that his name was Alpha. Nothing more was said or seen until the late summer of '99, probably 6 months later, which, by then the ex had decided he liked the glamour of sleeping around that came with his elected position and elected to abandon the marriage. The divorce would be final in two months' time. I was parking the car and saw John the parking attendant. I remembered that bitterly cold February day and that warm ball of fur and asked him how Alpha was. He responded that he had to find a home for Alpha because he was going through a divorce and his new apartment didn't allow pets. Now just a few days earlier, my youngest son (age 9) had told me as I was putting him to sleep that although he loved Max, our black lab, that sometimes he wanted a little dog just to hold in his lap, like a miniature dachshund. It may have been the catalyst to my remembering to ask about Alpha that morning. But the symmetry and sadness was so close, that I spontaneously said to John, "I'll adopt Alpha!."

And so it was agreed. That evening I loaded the kids up in the old '83 VW bus that I was driving at the time and we drove over to John's apartment complex to pick up Alpha. When we got to the door we were met with two miniature dachshunds--John had cleverly not told me that Alpha came with Heidi, a much older miniature tri-color dachshund. And there I was, on the horns of a dilemma. Of course, I said yes with just a wee bit of hesitation first, so we were off back to home with not one, but two dogs to round out our all too typical family.

Now Alpha was a dog unlike any other dog I had ever met. He really looked like Jimmy Durante, his nose was soo long and so crooked. But just like Durante, it made him look cute. This was a dog who from the instant he woke up in the morning to when he dropped to sleep at night was on the go 100 mph all the time. He was with us for about a week, when he started humping every leg in sight. Male, female, dog, human. Even a ladder. He had not been neutered, which obviously was the source of his incredible horny dog problem, so once that was accomplished, he settled into other interesting but not as alarming behaviors.

Max, my steady, mild mannered black lab was delighted to have two little barkers around stirring things up. They were the yin to Max's yang, and during the days, they all slept on the same mat together, two little brown balls curled tightly next to their big black friend. They taught Max to bark loudly when unknown visitors came to the door. Which meant anyone but the immediate family. When I took the three dogs to the park (it felt like I needed a parade license to walk this many dogs), so I could throw Max's ball for him (because he is/was obsessed with retrieving), Alpha watched intently for a couple of sessions, and then had to do the just the same thing. So he got his own Alpha sized ball and would retrieve same as Max. Alpha the retriever dachshund.We also discovered that Alpha loved to grab on to a rope with a knot on the bottom of it and hold on with 'jawlettes' of death, so that you could swimg him around and around and around. It was all a big game.

Alpha had more eccentricities beyond that. For one, he loved to chew on the bottom of pants legs. I remember having one fellow to dinner when I was starting to date again, and Alpha did a number on his pants cuffs while we were eating our meal. And of course since our legs were under the table, the guy never picked up on it at the time, because Alpha could have the most delicate touch. I'm sure it was rather a shock for the guy to finish dessert, stand up, look down and discover that one pant leg was slightly higher than the other. That guy never came back again.Alpha loved all three of my kids, but he, in particular, bonded with my youngest son, the one who had wanted a little dog who would sit in his lap. They became inseparable friends, Alpha sleeping under the covers with him at night. It was a wonderful 4 years for them.

This is where the story veers off the track and goes bad. In the summer of 2003, the boys left to spend a week on Orcas Island with their dad and his girlfriend. My daughter stayed briefly behind with me for the weekend because she had to work before leaving for Orcas, but the boys were gone.Early on that Saturday morning, I had gone out to run errands, and when I drove back up to the house after being gone for less than an hour, I was surprised to see Heidi out in the the front yard, because the house was fenced in the back and that's where the dogs had been placed before I left. Heidi was agitated and not acting like her usual, calm self. I called for Alpha and got no response. My daughter went downstairs and out the back yard and gave a great cry. Alpha's rabies tag had become tangled on the seat of one of the outdoor chairs in the back yard. It was a wire lattice work chair and somehow the tag had become wedged into the space between the metal wires. So when Alpha went to jump off the chair, his collar had caught, the chair held, and it had strangled him. One of those freak, unpredictable accidents.

And there was nothing that I could have done to prevent it--other than never putting his rabies tag on him, or throwing those damn chairs away, or not running Saturday errands, or any other infinite number of 'should haves' 'could haves' that I cursed myself for. So, after freeing Alpha from the chair and crying copious quantities of tears, I had to call my boys and tell my youngest, via long distance, that his dog, the light of his life, had died. That was without a doubt the very hardest thing I have ever had to do. If I could have donated a limb or an organ and brought Alpha back to life, I would have. It was like Alpha had died twice. No three times, because I waited til the kids got home from their vacation, so we could have a proper burial service and closure, in our back yard. I cannot tell you how very, very sad this time was for me and for my children, especially the youngest.

I still remember and mourn Alpha each and every week. He was a doughty lad who had the heart of a lion. He loved each of us as deeply as his little doggy heart could, without reservation. There was no dog like him before or since in my life. And these words are a pale approximation of the joy and the sorrow that he brought to all of us. I hope wherever he is that he has lots of folks to twirl him around and lots of pants legs to chew on.

Of Dogs and Love and Death

My black labrador retriever, Max, is 11 years old this past month. He had a blood test from the vet and although nothing seemed to be too out of whack, given his breed, it should be only a few years (if that) left for him. It is hard to contemplate his passing. As it has been with all my pets. He was a Christmas puppy, purchased 11 months after our aging cocker spaniel had to be put to sleep, while we held her in our arms and cried hot wet tears for her passing. But she was 16 and her systems had failed her badly and there was nothing we could do to stop the pain. I thought I would never get another dog, but my daughter was brilliant in her line of attack. She waited 9 or 10 months without saying a word and then started a quiet campaign of asking for another dog.

It was effective, because on Christmas day, there was a small black furry beast waiting under the tree for her and her two brothers. It was the happiest Christmas of my life. Unfortunately, for the kids and for Max, the marriage lasted only for a year after that. And then we were on our own. But, Max made the very best of it. He is a patient dog, one not given to emotional excess. Although I can tell when he is exasperated with me when I don't walk him because it's too dark and rainy outside, and I'm just home from work, too tired to even fix a decent supper. But he puts up with me and loves me and I will never have a steadier companion.

My first word as a child was 'doggy.' I apparently said it with a soft 'g' but it was definitely my first word. Not ma-ma. From my earliest days I was drawn to dogs and trailed after the neighbor's dog when we lived in Denver, petting him fiercely whenever I could.

We moved to Defiance when I was 3 1/2 and we got our first dog perhaps a year or two later. Her name was Gypsy and she was a dalmation. My younger sister and brother and I loved her wholly and she returned that love unstintingly. There is a picture with the 3 of us gathered around her as she lazes in a round papasan chair, and we all have party hats on, even Gypsy. She was as big as my little brother at the time, but so gentle with us. Unfortunately, she was, unknown to us, deaf, as many dalmations are or were. We could not figure why she would run away from us all the time and only come back when she wanted to . And we lived on a busy street--North Clinton. One dark gray November afternoon, our parents were away and we had a babysitter. Gypsy got out the front door and ran across the street. A car hit her on the way back. We all saw it. The car did not stop and Gypsy dragged herself to the house and up to the porch. The babysitter would not let us bring her in to the house. We were frantic. I was all of 5 and the other two were 3 and 2. I went to the basement and brought up every rag I could find and packed it around Gypsy who was in shock and shivering to beat the band. Still the babysitter would not let her come in. I have no recollection of how long it took for my parents to get home. All I know is that Gypsy was taken to the vet's and several days later, my mother told me she had died. Given the circumstances, it was, in retrospect, a significant event for me.

I wish I could say it was my only experience like that, but it was not. We had a succession of dogs. Punch, another dalmation, lasted less than 3 months because he bit the baby's ear. Didn't matter that the baby kept bothering him. That was enough to get him booted from the house.


Our third dog was a female boxer we named Duchess. She was a beautiful dog who showed up in the back of our house one spring morning with her mom and another boxer pup. My folks found out who the dogs belonged to, and took them back but returned with Duchess. She was a sweet girl, with a taste to chase fast cars. Our family had moved from North Clinton St. and built a house on Elliott Lane, a quiet cul de sac, that unfortunately was just above Rt 24, the river road that led to the dam. We'd had Duchess for about a year, when one day she went missing. I went looking for her and found her body down the hill on the side of Rt 24, where a police car had stopped. The cop knew to follow me home without saying a word to me, because I was crying so hard. He told my mother.



You would have thought that would be the end of it, but, no. Our next addition was a basset hound named Digby. He was a much savvier dog, who liked to wander (my father refused to get him neutered, or the house fenced), but when he did it, he went north away from the traffic and towards Defiance College, where he was found, brought back to us, but he would take off again and again. Eventually he was adopted by a bunch of students there. When one of them was graduating from college and moving back to Canada, he asked if he could take Digby with him and my folks said yes. So, as far as I know, Digby lived out his dog life. He loved to be bathed in the front yard in an old tin baby tub that we had in the garage. And his ears were so long, he'd step on them constantly.

After Digby left, my mother got a flat coat lab, mix puppy from the owner of the butcher shop north of Defiance. We named her Mandy. Mandy was a great dog, very gregarious and loved to be around us kids. In the summer of 1962, went on vacation and when we came back, Mandy had gone into heat. She was the belle of the ball, so to speak, in our front yard. We had dogs lined up from all over the neighborhood. I was in the 6th grade at the time, and can remember looking out of the kitchen window at the ruckus going on, and being told of the reason for the large scal congregation, turning to my mother in disgust, saying. "I'm sure glad humans don't do that." You would have thought that that would have been a teachable moment for my mother, but no. I ultimately learned the facts of life from two 7th grade girlfriends on the bus a year later, to much embarassment and shame. Mandy was allowed to come to term with her pregnancy (we were Catholic after all) and gave birth to 8 or 9 very variegated puppies. We witnessed some of the birth when we came home for lunch on day and it was ensuite. I have no idea how my folks found homes for all of them and I am afraid to enquire more deeply into the matter.

After the puppies were given away, Mandy was fixed and it seemed that she became very protective of us, her real kids. When I was a sophomore in high school, our house caught fire on Palm Sunday. It was quite the excitement in Defiance, because the smoke could be seen for miles. I remember some guy went into our house and rescued, what he thought was our most valued object--our color tv--and when he opened the door to come out, Mandy followed him out. Fall of junior year, I came home from school one day to discover that my mother had put Mandy to sleep because she had bit the tv repairman. No word to any of the kids. She was just gone. She had jumped up on my bed that morning to wake me up with a lick and she was gone.

I didn't wait very long to mount my own campaign for another dog. I think by then I had figured out how to manipulate the Catholic guilt stuff for profit. I was good enough, that I got my mother to agree to to purchase a wire hair terrier that winter. We had to drive east of Toledo to pick her up. Her name was Maggie. And she was a balm to my heart. Maggie moved with us to Rochester MN after my junior year, when my father decided to do an internship at the Mayo Clinic in anesthesia. And Maggie produced Molly, who produced Muffin. By this time I was in college and family dogs were not quite the part of my life that they had once been. But the pattern had been set. I even had a dog in college for a while, until I realized I was not ready for the responsiblity and found a home for him ("Jocko" a cross between a husky and poodle).

I did not bring a dog into my life for eleven years after that, until 1983, when I adopted Sally, a stray cocker spaniel who I had picked up on the streets of Capitol Hill in Seattle outside the Development office of the Seattle, Art Museum where I was working at the time. Sally stayed with me and my then-spouse until her death of old age in 1997, a record of sorts. But if you fence your yard in, and take walks with your dog on a leash, you really can increase their life span. And don't invite tv repairmen to your house, either.

So Max will live out his normal life span with me, and I will be more than grateful for his constant devotion and companionship. One of my favorite buttons of all time goes something like this: "I got a dog for my husband. It was a fair trade."