And then there was one

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Duffy is gone. Freed from the body that had failed her.

She was the only dog I had who lived to 15. She also came from the worst start in life.  Rescued from a dog fighting operation where she was being used as bait, at just a few weeks old, that girl was fearless.

She was the dog who taught me about hardening fences. She lived most of her life with four other dogs, plus a few foster dogs, all of them bigger than her.  She was the only dog who never was let out alone, and who only went out after dark on a leash.

She never asked for much beyond food, water and an occasional reminder that she was loved. And she was. She was my imp. She helped keep me humble. And pay attention.

Which is why I saw it. For the first time in 15 years. When her back end gave out (not for the first time, this had been getting more and more frequent over the past month) and she was having trouble getting her feet under her. Fear. And I knew.

Run free, sweet girl. No pain, no fear. Just love.

Stepping onto the soapbox

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Too much, lately, mortality has crept into my consciousness. It happens as we age, and sometimes that means taking a stark look at the world around us.

When we are young, we feel invulnerable, as well we should. We are surrounded by nurturing families, if we are fortunate enough, and we have the capacity in youth to bounce back quickly from our assorted scrapes and bruises. As we age, those bruises take longer to recover from, and the promises of the future become less all encompassing. These days, children are robbed of some of that invulnerability as they see peers gunned down in the streets and even in school. That theft of their optimism and hope is tragic. When I was young, the Viet Nam war took away optimism and faith in the future, but now the thief has come way too close to every home, much closer than a faceless war machine. It’s hard to know these days how to keep our children and grandchildren safe.

We cannot depend on our democracy to keep us safe. Our beacon for the world has dimmed. We seem to have forgotten that our participatory form of government requires our participation more than once every two years, more than just making marks on a ballot. We have to be engaged, active in the decisions that affect us all.

We can complain all we want about the old white men in Washington, but WE are the ones who put them there, rather than finding and supporting new voices and ideas that match our own.

Of course we’re angry! We have been divided into us and them, and that’s just wrong. How do we make the world better for the generations to come if we don’t look for common ground? How do we help our neighbors, our communities and our country if we are focused solely on protecting our own little piece of the pie? How do we encourage peace and prosperity if we feel like someone else’s basic human rights somehow take away from our own?

This has been a difficult summer and fall. And I’m just as guilty as the next guy of hunkering down and trying not to get too badly bruised by what’s going on around me. We live in interesting times, and it’s scary. But it has always been at least a little scary. Change happens, and it’s unsettling.

But it shouldn’t be stealing the invulnerability of our children and grandchildren. They need to know that we, ALL of us, are working to make this a better, safer, more humane world for them and their children and grandchildren. That’s our job. And it’s time we stepped up and did it.

Vote. Volunteer. Participate. Foster the change for the better that you want. Tell the people you elected (even if you didn’t vote for them, they’re still supposed to represent you) what your concerns are and what ideas you have to make things better.

We have all been coasting for too long, hoping that somehow we can avoid crashing if we close our eyes and pray, but we forget to use the steering wheel.

If we work together, and it will take active, hard work, if we realize that this is not a zero-sum game, we can change our futures. We can give children back their invulnerability. We can even reduce our own bruises. And we can all have a better future.

/off soapbox

Bucket lists

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For some reason, bucket lists have been on my mind recently.

I don’t have one.

I’ve tried to think of what I might put on that list.

There are things I might like to do, but nothing that would leave me feeling my life is incomplete if they never happen.

I would like to have a well-bred Bernese Mountain dog. The two I have had, just like all the dogs in my life, were rescues, and I wouldn’t trade my time with them for anything. So when the time comes to get another dog, though a purposefully well-bred dog would be delightful, the dog that needs me will find me – whether a puppy or senior dog, rescue or champion, perfect or ‘damaged.’

Most of my dogs have been physically damaged. Hagar has a torn ear flap, Minco had a damaged eye, Duffy came to me at fourteen weeks still bearing the scars from being used as bait in a dog fighting operation. Domino was an escape artist – I was his third or fourth home, after he had escaped a couple of times from the shelter in a neighboring county. The home I thought I had found for him didn’t work out, we know of multiple times he was found loose in his new neighborhood, so I drove overnight to pick him up and bring him home. A home from which he never attempted escape.

Travel might be fun, but I’d rather spend my time at home, with my dogs, reading, listening to the birds, feeling the breeze in my hair, watching the clouds drift by.

Am I missing something not to feel like I’m missing something?

I love my life, as it is, as it might be, as it will be. I’m a very lucky woman.

Two dogs

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It has been a relatively quiet year. I’m getting older, my dogs are aging, the world seems to be going to hell in a hand basket.

It isn’t that I don’t have anything to say. I just feel quiet. Being retired is bliss. No more planning things three years ahead. No more trying to appease bosses and co-workers who are sure they’re always right. No more living every week on someone else’s schedule. No more leaving my dogs for hours every day, just long enough to run essential errands to keep us stocked with food. And books. Well, the books are for me, the dogs have differing tastes in literature. Although one of my earlier dogs seemed to love Evanovich’s third book. In hardcover. Though she only ate about a quarter of it. She did seem disappointed that she couldn’t find it the next day.

I need to get back in the habit of writing regularly, though I would much rather read. I have stories to tell, and they need to be told with finesse and skill. After I finish the book I’m reading.

After I play with my dogs.

Quiet, sort of

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This has been an odd six months. My mother’s death has left me more adrift than I had realized. And it is odd to have only two dogs.

There was so much joy at our family Christmas celebrations, it was almost like being in bubbles of love. Watching my granddaughter and her cousins (second cousins, third, whatever) playing and reveling in their big happy family kept all of us laughing. Home is definitely where the heart is, and my family is my heart.

My soul is the dogs. For several years I have been mulling over the best way to tell their stories. I may have found the hook to draw readers in, I need to let it percolate a bit yet. This summer will see hours at the keyboard, recollecting the joy each of them has given me. Even if no one ever reads it, I have to commit these memories to paper for my own well being, as I would not forgive myself if I failed to write each of them a proper memorial. As well as a memorial to all those dogs we could not save, they deserve more than a little recognition.

But for now, the sun is shining, there are chores and errands and two remarkable dogs to feed and brush and play with and laugh with. Just as I cherish time with my human family, so do I refuse to take for granted my time with these dogs. One is 13, the other 8. I’m a very lucky woman.

Seismic shifts

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On June 20, I held the door for my mother one last time as the funeral home personnel wheeled her body out of her assisted living facility.

She was 98 years old. My sisters and I had celebrated with her just two months before. She barely acknowledged our presence, but it mattered to us that we were there to honor her. She had been on Hospice Care and off a couple of times, but we knew that there would not be an amazing rebound this time.

She was born in Chicago, before the Great Depression. Her father held a number of jobs, including with Selig Studios when they were based in Chicago. When the studio was getting ready to move, he was invited to go with them, but his ties to Chicago were too strong. My mother’s best friend was her older sister, who still lives on the North Shore. Mom and Dad married in 1944, and my oldest sister was born while Dad was in the Navy in Hawaii. For about a year, Mom lived with her mother-in-law, which is testament to Mom’s strength and patience. My grandmother was a force of nature.

Eventually, there were four daughters. My parents made sure we had every opportunity: dance lessons, art lessons, voice lessons, tennis lessons. And we couldn’t get our drivers’ licenses until we proved we could change a tire. Mom helped us learn to bake, although cooking for the family was a privilege she held for herself. She survived our teen years, and saw us all off to college and our new adventures. She did it all with a grace and beauty that was incomparable. She served on several charitable Boards, but family always came first.

They moved into a lovely house when I was just a few weeks old, and lived there 57 years. We tried to make sure they could stay there as long as possible, but finally it was time to move them into assisted living. Dad died within a few months, Mom did well for a few years but gradually disappeared farther and farther into herself. She continued to love music and birds and flowers, and pictures of her grandchildren and great grandchildren.

The evening of the day Mom died, I closed my eyes to try to shut out the world and process the day. And I saw them, clear as day, dancing, laughing, Mom in a long gown, Dad in his dress uniform, eyes only for each other.

Together again.

Overcome, good night

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imageAnd then there were two.
This afternoon I said goodbye to my Border Collie/Lab mix, Domino.

At 14, he was in late-stage dementia and was having serious spinal issues. We tried medication for the dementia, and had been using Adaquon to try to help with his orthopedic issues. Neither was able to overcome the effects of old age.
Domino came to me just over twelve years ago. He had wandered away from his previous two homes, and from the animal shelter in a neighboring county twice. The woman who pulled him from the shelter was told that if he showed up again, he was done. That woman talked me into fostering him and getting him vetted. I kept him for a few months while we looked for a good home for him. When we thought we had found that home, and I drove him to the halfway point, I promised him that if he ever needed me, I would be there.
A few months later, my vet’s office called to see whether I had a working number for his new owners. That was when I found out that there had been almost a dozen times my vet had gotten calls – and I couldn’t reach the new owners by phone or email. With the help of the wonderful people who had driven Domino the second half of his trip, we got him to a 24-hour vet, and as soon as I had gotten my dogs settled in for the night, I drove the four hours to get him.
He came home.
He never asked for much beyond food and a yard to play in and his buddies to play with. He got along with all of my dogs and all of the fosters over the years. He suddenly went deaf a couple of years ago, but his joy in the sunshine and green grass never wavered. Until this spring.
He started looking feeble and showing more and more signs of confusion. We tried to fix it, to help him, to let him enjoy his days, his moments. They say dogs live in the moment, the here and now. He just wasn’t enjoying his here and now at all any more.
Even knowing that it is the right thing to do doesn’t make it easier. I miss that sweet boy. He packed a lot into his 14 years, and the twelve we had together. It just wasn’t long enough.
Run free, sweet Domino. Sophia and Faith and Minco are waiting for you.