Words, Words, Words (and Pictures) from Jon Katz

Jon Katz, of Bedlam Farm blog, has written another book about animals called Going Home: Finding Peace When Pets Die. It will be released later this month, and in preparation for that, he started a FaceBook page where his readers could post pictures and memories of their own beloved pets who had gone ahead. (Search the book title on FB if you're interested.)

Of course, I posted a picture of Hoover on the FB page, a picture my sister took that captures his golden glow and alert expression so well.

Katz decided to make a video of some of the FB pictures, and that video is now on YouTube. I'm honored that Hoover's picture is part of the video (at 1:33). I particularly like how the narrative ends with encouragement to bring another pet into your life, when you are ready. Hoover sent us Daisy. I just know it.

Katz's words are today's words, words, words.

Going Home Video

A Sad Anniversary

Today is the one-year anniversary of Hoover's passing. It would have been his 14th birthday if the osteosarcoma hadn't won. We will always miss you, our first Furry Golden Sunshine.

Things on Thursday: Vintage Collar and Leash

Well, not exactly vintage. Thirteen years old. Another puppy. Another time and another place.


See the impish expression? The slightly crazy gleam in the eye? That was our Hoover, on a blisteringly hot day in Boise, Idaho, in 1997.

Last week, when we knew Daisy would be joining our family, George said, "We need to buy her a collar and leash." I thought, "Hey, no, we don't!" I descended into the scary bowels of our basement, straight to the oldest rubbermaid storage bin, nestled in a taken-apart airline crate and underneath a giant Cone of Shame.

That storage bin joined our family way back in 1989 when we got our first pup, Shemya. It's been in continuous use ever since as a repository for puppy and dog paraphernalia that doesn't get daily use, such as an old obedience clicker, a car harness we used with Shemya, four tiny puppy teeth, and dead spiders.

Don't worry. I threw out the dead spiders and kept the puppy teeth.

And there I found a small red collar and thin leash, perfect for a puppy. The first puppy who used it didn't like it much at first. See?


But then, the first puppy to use the red collar and leash was an unsensible imp. Daisy, the breeder assured us, would not be unsensible. She used that word when I asked about temperament and told her our first golden retriever had been hyper. "Oh, she won't be unsensible!" Unsensible. It was one of Hoover's most endearing traits.

And if I'd taken my camera on our walk last night, I'd have taken a picture that looks just like this one, only with a lighter-colored pup with sensible eyes.

I'll post more Daisy pictures tomorrow. Today, we're heading to the park for a meet-and-greet with our friends. And just so you know, Daisy was an angel last night. She didn't make her crazy chicken/hyena/wolf noises, went out only three times, and seemed to be perfectly at home in her new crate set-up.

Very sensible of her, don't you think?

Picking a Daisy

As soon as Hoover was diagnosed with cancer, the three boys in my life started talking about getting a puppy. My heart and head screamed "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" to this suggestion, both because my heart was breaking and because it's been 13 years since I had a puppy but I remember how much work it was and ohmygosh give me a break.

Then, when George took my Furry Golden Sunshine to the vet for the last time, my heart well and truly broke, and all I could do for days on end was cry. In the nadir of my own grief, I noticed how mopey George was, how he kept surfing the Internet for Burnese Mountain Dog and Great Pyrenees breeders in our area.

Huh?

George has always wanted a huge dog. I believe this is a direct result of testosterone and I have vigorously fought his big-dog yearnings for years. I do not want a dog that weighs more than I do. I do not want to clean up horse-size piles of poo from my yard (or carpet). I do not want to buy the mega-size bags of Iams, or pay more expensive kennel and vet rates, either. But most of all, I don't want to have a dog whose life expectancy is shorter than the average dog.

Dogs don't live long enough as it is.

Fortunately, George pulled out all the golden-retriever-themed books we own and reread them in the week after Hoover left us, and having him in this vulnerable state, I decided to compromise. We could get a golden puppy after Ironman in September. Yeah, that would work.

But George kept moping. The boys kept talking about puppies. And George's training for Ironman, which had already taken on a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for root canals and April 15, started petering out. His heart just isn't in the race this year.

Then it dawned on George that if we didn't go to Madison this year, we could get a puppy NOW. His enthusiasm for the race became more or less nonexistent at that point. His enthusiasm for making a list of contacts for golden breeders, however, blossomed like the giant hybiscus in our neighbor's yard. It was beyond human power to contain.

To exercise some damage control, I said okay, we can get a puppy under two conditions. First it's got to be a girl. I wanted to rub a dog belly again (males have that furry penile sheath thingie that gets in the way of a good belly rub...ewwww). Plus, because females are in greater demand than males, I figured it would take a while to find a female at the right age to leave her mother, so I'd have a little time.

My second condition was that we name her Daisy. At that point, George's puppy lust was such that he would have agreed to naming her Doo-Doo Face if it got him what he wanted. George agreed to Daisy and sprang into action.

This is when Hoover exercised his influence with the angels, who, I am sure, would agree to anything the Furry Golden Sunshine wanted if he would just stop jumping up and licking their noses and knocking their halos askew.

The very first breeder George called, from a town 30 minutes north of ours, had one puppy left in a litter she co-owns in Michigan. A girl. Nine weeks old. Bred from a Westminster champion named Stormy. The breeder, who is married to a veterinarian, only breeds when she wants a new dog for conformation or agility shows. All the other pups are sold as pets with spay/neuter contracts to families with fenced yards who want a dog to live in the house with them as a member of the family.

Um. HELLO!?! Does that sound like a family you know?

I couldn't believe it. Three weeks and a day after Hoover left us, we're picking a Daisy.

The Michigan breeder sent us a picture of our Daisy yesterday. One look at her sweet puppy face and I was lost.

A goner.

Fallen.

Hopelessly yearning to smell frito paws and puppy breath.

And crying anew over the loss of my Hoover.



It's all very complicated and sad and joyous at the same time. We're picking Daisy up tonight, and the madness of puppydom begins. But one thing is certain. We are a very lucky family to have the Furry Golden Sunshine watching out for us.

Thank You

This is today's second post. Please scroll down to the first post.

Many, many thanks for all the kind comments on the In Memoriam post and in emails. Really, you have no idea what your kindness means to me.

A friend emailed me today, admitting that she had grieved for her childhood cat more than for her grandparents, whom she loved very much. When I read that, I remembered an article I read years ago, long before we even brought Hoover into our lives. The article stated that often the grief is more intense when we lose pets because our relationships with them are MUCH less complicated than our relationships with people. It's not really that we love our animals more than we love the people we lose. It's the simplicity of our relationship with animals that makes the loss more traumatic.

That makes sense to me.

My Aunt Sylvia also sent a lovely email, which she closed with the following:

"And finally, from Carly Simon, 'Don't mind if I fall apart - there's more room in a broken heart.' And from me....even after it heals...that extra room remains to love more fully again."

Thank you all for not minding that I fall apart. I toyed with the idea of a Things for Thursday post with a photo of Hoover's collar but decided that was just too maudlin and felt that the old boy wouldn't have approved. I have pulled it together enough to write a post about our recent vacation to Minnesota. Most of it was simply transcribed from notes I wrote during the trip. It's a good thing life is so rich and wonderful, even in the midst of sadness.

In Memoriam: Hoover

In her book Bliss to You, Trixie Koontz, a golden retriever who is waiting for her human parents at the Rainbow Bridge, shares her secrets for achieving bliss. She quotes Josh Billings, who said, "A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself." Then, Trixie writes,

"Dogs give unconditional love so you will be teensy bit prepared for God's love when you die and meet Him. Otherwise, God's love would knock you flat."

Trixie is a wise soul, as are all golden retrievers. Hoover, our furry golden sunshine, went ahead to wait for us today. Our sadness is in direct proportion to the love he gave us. He knocked us flat.

I have more pictures than words.

His puppy picture, taken the day we picked him out at the breeders. They called him Waggy because his tail was always moving.

George with his puppy that same sunny summer day in 1997.


At his first play date at a friend's house. His friend was a black lab puppy named Boise.


George with a sacked-out Hoover. Play dates are hard work!


Hoover was the quintessential annoying little brother to his big sister, Shemya.



See what I mean? When he got a bit older and bigger, he would jump on top of her head. Shemya had a perfect response...she would whip her head around and unerringly catch his lip in her teeth and nip. Hoover never learned.

Family portrait before children.


Off on a hike in the foothills around Boise, Idaho.


Hoover, a.k.a Crazy Whisker Boy. His whiskers totally reflected his goofy, wacky, happy personality.


We humiliated him in our house in Ohio. His claws scratched the hardwood floors, so we made him wear dog booties inside. We eventually gave up, though. The floor has that "a big hyper dog lived here" look. I can live with that. George calls it "distressed."

Eating an orange creamcicle. Hoover loved human food, and got a lot of it in the last four months of his life.

Wriggling with unrestrained dog joy. He wriggled every day. There's a lesson in that, don't you think?

Hiking at a nearby state park. Like all goldens, he loved being outside with his peeps.


Giving us Hoover kisses. He felt we needed our daily dose of dog spit and was conscientious in administering it.

Me with Hoover last Thursday. One of the last pictures George took of him. Also the day of his last walk.


A theme of Trixie's book is to keep from mourning excessively. Trixie's human parents, Dean and Gerda Koontz, were doing just that when Trixie sent them a sign, in the form of an unusual golden butterfly, that she was okay and they needed to let her go. We informed Hoover he needed to do the same for us, just so we'd know he was okay, too.

I'll keep you posted.

Trixie makes another observation I am sure Hoover would agree with, so I'll leave you with it.

"Fame means nothing. Time erases fame. Great power doesn't last. Time erases the powerful. Your anger dies with you. What love you give lives on. Cynic will sneer at this truth. Time erases cynics."

Time won't erase our memories of our Furry Golden Sunshine.

Gratitude Journal #47

Today, I am grateful for our neighbors' kindness. They brought over a peace offering of a lovely bottle of Merlot and frozen dog treats because they planned to set off fireworks last night and know how the loud noises scare Hoover. We had already decided that George would be taking Hoover to the vet today as the cancer has drained the joy from his life. He didn't even move or bark when our neighbor rang the bell, or come to greet her as he normally would. He did perk up for a frozen dog treat right after she left, though.

Our neighbors allowed us to crash their fireworks party as a wonderful distraction from our very sad Fourth of July. They had popcorn, juice boxes, blankets, and some really fun pyrotechnics. Nick and Jack thoroughly enjoyed the diversion, and George and I took turns staying with Hoover. It was a wonderful way for the boys to end a very sad day.

I am also grateful for the neighbor's loan of Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief...something fun to distract the boys after George takes Hoover away.

We have the best neighbors EVER.

Today, I am grateful for our time with Hoover. Thirteen years ago today, God sent him to this world just for our family, a puppy the breeder named Waggy because his tail never stopped moving. He has been an amazing dog, a free spirit with springs in his legs and joy in his heart. When the cancer was diagnosed in early March, we never expected him to see his thirteenth birthday, but our Miracle Dog did it.

I'll post a memorial with photos of him later today.

Today, I am grateful for all your kind comments and for your sharing your own pet stories in the comments over the past few months. They have meant a lot to me and George. Thank you.

"Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really."
Agnes Sligh Turnbull

Gratitude Journal #44

Today, I am grateful for another week of living with a furry miracle dog. Hoover had a great week last week, which is not bad for a dog who was supposed to be waiting for us at the Rainbow Bridge over a month ago. He jumped so all four paws left the ground, a major accomplishment given how fat he's become. I dare you to say no to a begging golden retriever when you know he's dying of cancer. It's not possible.

Given his show of friskiness, we have started wondering if he's sneaking out for implants to simulate a tumor.

He went for a walk and out for ice cream last week. This time, we went to Coldstone Creamery rather than Graeter's because George is convinced Coldstone's ice cream is creamier. I think Graeter's is better. The boys don't care...ice cream is ice cream.

Photos by George Raihala.

We're not letting Jack get a cone again for while. Savoring a cone leads to massive stickiness. You're looking at bath night.


Shark-boy, on the other hand, eats like his daddy.

So does Miracle Dog, who bolted his ice cream so fast he threw it back up...along with his dinner of Iam's. I had to clean the mess up with tiny little napkins. Ewwww.


"Who, me?"


Yes, you.

I'm also grateful for George's successful and safe completion of the Deer Creek Olympic-distance Triathlon Sunday morning. He came in second in his age group!

What are you grateful for today?

Gratitude Journal #42

This is today's second post; to read my initial reaction to the Lost finale, please scroll down!



Today, I am grateful for bacon.



The bucket list is complete. As you can see, for a dog who was supposed to be dead three weeks ago, Hoover is remarkably alive and happy. And fat.

Today, I am grateful that Lost is over. It was a good story well told, and now it is time to move on. Oh, the layers of meaning in that phrase move on! I think my favorite line from last night was Miles saying, "I may not believe in much, but I believe in duct tape." But my favorite moment was at the very end, when Vincent the yellow lab lay down next to Jack. So glad they didn't forget about Vincent.

Today, I am grateful for benadryl. Again. Nuff said.

What are you grateful for today?

Gratitude Journal #41

Today, I am grateful for soft rain and sunshine.

Today, I am grateful for this odd little video.

Today, I am grateful Hoover is still begging for ice cream, popcorn, and cookies. If we'd known he would still be with us in the second half of May, however, we would not have given him quite as much ice cream or popcorn and or as many cookies in March and April.

Today, I am grateful for time.

Today, I am grateful for you.



What are you grateful for today?

Bucket List Update

All items on Hoover's bucket list are checked off, with the exception of eating bacon.

If you've watched someone die of a slow-moving disease or if you've read Tuesdays with Morrie, you know how illness gradually erodes activity. Restrictions creep into life, narrowing or limiting activity and movement. It's inexorable and so very sad to watch. But it can be handled with grace and dignity, too.

Two months ago, Hoover went swimming in a lake for the last time. He was delighted.


A month ago, he went on his last walk around the neighborhood, which he enjoyed enormously. But it took about 36 hours and lots of tramadol for him to recover from it. Now, he gets walks around our cul-de-sac. At first he protested the shortness of the walks. Now he seems to understand.

One item on his bucket list failed amusingly. We've never given Hoover a bone to chew, and he's never been interested in chew toys. He's a retriever with a very soft mouth (meaning he doesn't mangle dead birds he retrieves). When we gave him this big bone, he just carried it around and drooled. He knew it was a cool treat but had no idea what to do with it.


The vet gave Hoover between two weeks to two months to live. That was two months ago. As long as he doesn't exert himself, he is fine and doesn't even need pain medicine most days. In a real sense, this makes it hard to believe he's dying, especially when he's on full puppy alert begging for popcorn or barking at the UPS man, who as all good dogs know has come to kill us all. But the tumor is now bigger than my hand, spreading out over his whole left shoulder blade.


I'm off to buy some bacon.

Jack and Hoover

Jack loves Hoover. He loves Hoover's ears and how soft they are. When we first told Jack that Hoover was dying, Jack knew what that meant because he's asked us repeatedly about Shemya, our first dog. My mother painted a beautiful portrait of Shemya and we have pictures of Shemya scattered all over the house, so even though she died before Jack was born, he knows of her. He knows that she died of a heart attack when she was old, that she's not with us anymore, and that she is in heaven. He also knows that Great-Grandma Ann died when she was old and is in heaven, too.

When we told him that Hoover was old and dying, he went into denial. "We are NOT saying good-bye to Hoover!"

A few days after we broke the news, Jack played his guitar and sang, very matter-of-factly:

"I don’t want you to die. Please don’t do it. Please don’t diiiiiieeeee!"

One morning last week, Jack saw Hoover lying on the ottoman and asked, "Is Hoover dead yet?" When I said no, he said, "Okay." He then went to Hoover and rubbed his ear. I wonder if he's afraid of touching Hoover once he's dead, but because of his autism, Jack can't answer questions like that. It's extremely unusual to get a good answer to any question that isn't completely concrete and specific. "What do you want to eat?" "Do you want to ride your bike?" These are questions Jack can answer.

"What are you thinking about Hoover's dying?" That's hard for us to know beause if Jack answers at all, he'll usually say, "I love you, Mommy" or "I don't want to talk about that now." How much beyond the literal does he understand? That's been harder to discern.

Saturday night, as we went upstairs to go to bed, Jack paused at my mom's portrait of Shemya. He kissed two of his fingers and placed them on the glass over Shemya's mouth and said, "Don't worry, Shemya. He'll be with you soon."

It seems to me now that Jack understands enough, probably more than the rest of us do. I just wish the understanding made it easier to say good-bye to our furry friend.

Gratitude Journal #39

I love having botanical gardens close. Our own yard will not be featured in Better Homes and Gardens anytime soon, and so we visit botanical gardens to see and photograph flowers. At our area arboretum Saturday, we walked among blooming trees and bushes and a field of tulips dancing in a crisp breeze and bright sunlight. Of course, there were no daisies yet, but there were pansies...one of my favorite flowers.

Today, I am grateful for time spent in the flowers.







Today, I am grateful for another weekend with Hoover at a nearby park, where he was loved on by lots of kids. One girl even gave him enthusiastic butt scratches and earned herself a kiss!



What are you grateful for today?

Gratitude Journal #39

Today, I am grateful for so much, and have pictures to prove it!

*I am grateful for Friday's trip to the ice cream parlor with Hoover. He got a cup of vanilla and ate it in record time. Can dogs get brain freeze?


*I am grateful for this picture, taken at the ice cream parlor, of Jack being silly, with a fun candid of George in the background. Doesn't George remind you of Steve Carell in the poster for The 40 Year Old Virgin? Sorry, George. I couldn't resist.


*I am grateful for the beautiful weather that allowed us to check another item off Hoover's Bucket List. Nick was so happy to take his dog to the water and see him do what he was born to do.

Hoover retrieved the bumper like a pro for about five retrieves, but he got out of the water slowly on the last retrieve so we decided he was done. He, on the other hand, wanted to keep going. The heart is young, the body not so much.




The tumor is noticeably bigger, but otherwise he doesn't seem too different. I'm so grateful that he can still have this much fun, and I'm also grateful we stopped him when we did because he had a little trouble getting up the stairs last night.


*I am grateful for a glorious Easter Day filled with worship and music and celebration of the Resurrection. "Up from the grave he arose!" What a great hymn!

What are you grateful for today?

Gratitude Journal #37

Today, I am grateful for this owl who got to fly free once again.



For this man who loves our children, takes amazing pictures, cooks amazing meals, and made it possible for the owl to fly free once again.



For this old dog who still retrieves sticks at the park.


What are you grateful for today?

Knowledge of Good and Evil

Yesterday, I took Hoover to the vet because he has a swelling on his left shoulder blade. The x-ray showed a mass consistent with either osteosarcoma or chondrosarcoma.

Damn.

He's the same dog he was two weeks ago when he wrote this essay, before I saw that x-ray and heard those big ugly Latin words. He is still happy, loves to go for walks in the spring sunshine, and clearly has a lot of life in him.

But every time I look at him now, I want to cry. And feed him bacon. And ice cream.

And scratch his butt until he collapses in ecstasy.

From all we know right now, we have two options. Option #1 We could have his left leg and shoulder blade amputated and treat him with chemo. This might give him another year. Option #2 We could give supportive care as the cancer metastasizes. The average life expectancy would be about four months in this case. Given that his cancer does not appear to have metastasized yet, he might have longer. The vet emphasized that there are lots of medicines and supportive care to keep him comfortable and happy.

Unless the orthopedic surgeon has another more hopeful option, we're leaning toward Option #2. Neither George nor I want to make Hoover's last months of life miserable, and while young dogs handle amputation very well, old dogs have a much tougher time.

Death is inevitable for all of us. We don't want to think about it until we have to because the illusion that we are immortal is precious. We can't imagine what comes next, in that last undiscovered country. We sweep it under the rug, deny the possibility, work hard to ignore it, try to cheat it however we can.

I don't think this is smart. Our last dog, Shemya, didn't give us a chance to fight her death because her heart gave out suddenly, in the span of hours. She died at home, with me by her side. She made it easier for us because we didn't have to watch her suffer and we didn't have any decisions to make or long-term care to provide. But the shock was so very hard.

George and I are working on a Bucket List for Hoover. What are the things that he loves, and how can we make them happen for him in the time he has left? We know and accept that he can't be with us forever, so we're determined that when his time comes he has as much dignity and love as we can give him.

Having knowledge of the evil mass on Hoover's scapula sucks. It changes how we look at him, and I hate that. How can we turn that to good? How can we make the right decisions for him? It's tough, but we'll do our best.

Because he's a very good dog. Our furry golden sunshine.

This Week's Guest Blogger: Hoover

Hello. My name is Hoover, and I am a good dog. I am also a handsome dog, don't you think? The Woman asked me to fill in for her this week because she has writer’s block. She told me to tell you that she loves you and will write for you again next week. She promises.

Between you and me, the Woman has been hormonal lately (I can smell the chemicals coursing through her body), and she suffers from Seasonal Affective Disorder because it’s always gray in winter in Ohio. Needless to say, she’s a bit grouchy, but not to me. She didn’t even yell when I pooped in the basement yesterday. Hey, I had to go, and she was not home. What’s a dog to do? Do the doo and look innocent. Works every time.

Golden retrievers never suffer from SAD because we are furry and golden and carry sunshine in our hearts. Our whole existence is about spreading warmth and happiness to the world. Except to the UPS man or mail man. Or the schnauzers down the street. Or the vets who smell funny and do horrible things to us. We want to fry them with our warmth. Watch them run away from us! Ha, ha, ha!

We goldens don’t suffer any sort of depression, except when we don’t get treats or have to wear the cone of shame or our peeps leave us. Usually, when my peeps go have fun without me, they take me to a place they call “Dog Lady’s Pet Camp.” Huh. It’s not a camp. It’s a puppy prison. Except for the play yard. That place rocks, Dudes. One day, I was having so much fun in the play yard that I didn’t come in when the Dog Lady called. Ha, ha! I got down in a play stance and wagged my tail and said, “You can’t catch me!” That’s when I found out the Dog Lady is also the Rodeo Lady. She lassoed me with a rope and dragged my adorable furry butt back into the prison. Totally not fair.

The Dog Lady is nice enough when she doesn’t have a rope, I suppose, but she’s not the Woman. The Woman is my favorite human, and not just because she didn’t yell about the poop yesterday. She also gives awesome, totally radical butt scratches upon request. All I have to do is present her with my butt. She automatically reaches down with both hands and scratches the base of my tail vigorously until I just can’t take the joy anymore.

She also gives me peanut butter on a spoon. I love her.

But the Woman was not always my favorite. The Man was my favorite for years. I put up with the Woman because she gave treats and stayed up all night with me when I had kennel cough. But back when I was a young and frisky and furry imp, she was definitely not my alpha. She yelled at me when I peed in the house and when I ate a pillow and carpet and the Man's wedding ring.

When she called me, I would go the other way, unless she had food. When she told me to sit, I would think about it and only cooperate if I felt like it. Unless she had food. And sometimes not even then. She felt the weight of my disapproval, I tell you.

It was all because she loved the White Dog more than she loved me. The White Dog was my big sister who bit my lip when I jumped on her head. I ask you, was that called for? I didn’t think so, either. Anyway, the Woman laughed when the White Dog bit me, so neither she nor the White Dog was my favorite.

But I was still sad when the White Dog died. It was worth getting bitten for the fun of jumping on her head.

Back then, I loved the Man most. He took me running in open fields and swimming in lakes and ponds; the woman said I stank afterward and made me take a bath. Pond water is perfect; bath water is evil, evil, evil. I had lots of fun with the Man. Twice, in fact, I had so much fun that the Man and the Woman had to take me to the doggie hospital to have my paw pad sewn up by the Evil Vet Person who smelled funny and took my testicles away. That was bad. I had to wear the cone of shame and was so, so sad. But running on sharp rocks is fun, and pond water and open fields smell good. So good.

One January, after weeks of strange goings-on that I didn’t understand, the Man left home in the middle of the night with a bunch of canvas bags. He’d often left for a few days or sometimes a week, but he always came back, and I could jump and whimper with golden joy when I saw him again. This time, I knew something was bad because the Woman closed the door on the garage when he left and started crying.

Thus began the First Long Sadness. The Woman watched news channels all day and late into every night that didn’t show golden retrievers. Why are there not more golden retrievers on news channels? Instead, the new channels showed tracer bullets and bombs and other unpleasant, unfurry, loud things. The Woman cried a lot. I licked her tears and looked cute, but she was so worried and that made me worry, too. I started to wonder if the Man would ever come back.

Happily, he did, and the First Long Sadness ended. He smelled of dry, dry desert sand and jet fuel. I forgave him for abandoning me because I am a good dog.

Everything was normal for a few years. The Man took me on walks and loved me and petted me and let me get on the bed at his feet every night. But then, the unthinkable happened. He packed a bunch of bags and left AGAIN! What the hell was that all about? Golden retrievers can cuss. Did you know that? When the Man left me for almost five months, I had every reason to cuss. The Second Long Sadness began.

During that five months, the Woman did not cry or watch unfurry news programs. She missed the Man but wasn’t worried, so eventually, I quit worrying about the Man, too. The Woman fed me, walked me, picked up my poop, and let me sleep on the bed all night with her. She gave me butt scratches and tossed biscuits for me to catch. I gave her lots of happy kisses and shed my beautiful fur all over her dark clothes. People really do need more fur. I missed the Man, of course, but the Second Long Sadness wasn’t nearly as bad as the first, and by the end of it, I’d almost forgotten to be sad about the Man.

Then, the Man returned, smelling of salt water and beach sand. That was the final insult. He went to the big, giant, fun-filled, endless water I can only dream about, and he DIDN’T TAKE ME! Can you believe that? Neither could I. Oh, the betrayal!

Now, the Woman is my favorite human. When the Man calls me, I go the other way, unless he has food. When he tells me to sit, I think about it and only cooperate if I feel like it. Unless he has food. And sometimes not even then. Now it is his turn to feel the weight of my disapproval.

Since the betrayal, the Woman is my go-to person. When I need to get up in the middle of the night or wee hours of the morning (get it, “wee” hours! I crack myself up!), I go to her. She doesn’t yell at me when I flap my ears and woof quietly in her ear. She pulls on her robe because, sadly, she’s not naturally furry, and she walks down the stairs and opens the door. Sometimes, I need to be outside for a while, but she just waits for me patiently and opens the door as soon as I’m done.

After dinner, when the peeps are eating dessert, I go to her first because she will always leave a little ice cream on the popsicle stick for me to lick off. She also understands that I can’t jump on the bed anymore, and she gives me pills that make my bones feel better so I can sleep, sleep, sleep all day long, except when the Woman has food because if I look alert and cute, she shares. She loves me.

But really, it was the butt scratches that totally won me over.

Gratitude Journal #33

Today, I am grateful for

*This goofy old dog who likes to wriggle on his back and then sneeze loudly:

*The Valentine lasagne my husband made, which was better than two dozen roses and a box of chocolate (although I still do love a good box of chocolate!)

*Prayer

*Friends far and near

*Snow shovels...still

What are you grateful for today?

And the Oscar Goes to...

Hoover!

This morning at 5:46, I was awakened by a low moan that sounded very much like a dying breath. It is not fun being awakened by a low moan that sounds like a dying breath. It's freaky and panic-inducing. I moved to the end of the bed and reached down to nudge Hoover.

He did not move. At all.

I said his name.

He did not move. At all.

I shoved my hand under his front leg and over his heart. I waited.

Thump, thump.

Pause.

Thump, thump.

"You twerp!"

He looked up and said, "What? Me?"

He said it with his eyes.

I swear.

He deserves an Oscar.

Or at least a Furry Freak Award.