Two Dogs

My faithful thirteen year old golden retriever/ husky/ border collie mix who was diagnosed in April with terminal liver failure is still very much alive and enjoying life immensely at this time. She is thriving on a prescription diet of canned venison and potatoes along with commercially available cans of lamb with gravy and pacific seafood. It turns out that my Blondie adores fish. This is something that I never knew about her until late this summer when she began refusing all things made with chicken, including boiled chicken that I was making for her myself in our kitchen.


As her illness progressed, Blondie also began refusing carrots, potatoes, cottage cheese, yogurt, and rice. We found that she would accept the canned deer food but not the wet chicken or duck from the same company. As her system calmed down with a med adjustment, she accepted low fat dog biscuits, plain bran cereal, and a rare lick of soft vanilla ice cream.


Blondie is now in hospice stages but doing well. She is sleeping more but still active. She loves her daily hikes in the woods and swimming in the local ponds and creeks. She will give chase to chipmunks and squirrels, play with local dogs, tangle with backyard skunks, and bounce along with richochet rabbit. [She and her best friend did both in one week in August].


Blondie's best doggie buddy-- an eight year old Australian Cattle Dog Hound Dog mix-- has recently come to live with us of her own volition. Both dogs have settled in happily together. Blondie and Hermione together make a fantastic duo in the woods. Together they have spent a happy summer and fall exploring the tantalizing smells in the nearby woods and swamps. They also participate in obedience together, car rides, trips to the pet shop, and visiting friends and family.


I regret that there are no photos today. My computer is not co-operating with the uploading of such. Perhaps next post.


sapphoq on life says: If you are not able to commit to walking a dog, spending time with a dog, and training a dog then please do not get a dog. Dog ownership is not for everyone. There is no shame in admitting that it may not be for you. Thanks!

The Dog is Brilliant-- Not So Much

     My dog is almost thirteen years old. She gets daily exercise, discipline, and affection. [Love ya', Cesar Millan!]. She is an excellent canine citizen. She does not bark excessively or run loose in the neighborhood. I pick up after her. [I don't leave stinky presents on other peoples' properties]. She is obedience trained. 

If for some reason, you want to save this picture to your computer or to reupload it to social media, you are free to do so although I don't know why you would want to.
If you are a copyright troll, you are not welcome here. I took the photo with my cell phone and altered it with my legally obtained copy of digital software. So go away.

     
     Her age has been catching up with her. She does have some age-related changes in motility and vision. So far she is holding her own.

     She got sick and has been to the vet twice in three days. As it turns out, Blondie has two bacterial infections. One of them is caused by the ingestion of rabbit feces. I figure she must have thought of them as doggie snacks that appeared magically just for her to eat.

     We've had "the talk" about what to eat and what not to eat. I suspect that she tuned me out.

     She wisely stopped eating [on her own] for a day. Today she is taking in small amounts of boiled chicken and rice. She has antibiotics and also an under the skin "camel pack" to prevent any further dehydration.

     Tomorrow, I get to inspect our back yard for those pesky rabbit pellets. The other possibility is that she has been sneaking them when we go walking in the woods.

sapphoq on life says: Owning a dog is a huge responsibility and investment of time and money. Constant watchfulness helps in keeping them safe from things like eating rabbit poop. 
     The vet said, "Most dogs like [boiled] hamburger better than [boiled] chicken." I didn't really know which Blondie prefers. She doesn't get people food. Well, now she will until she is cleared up.
     An acquaintance has suggested killing the [wild] rabbits and feeding them to the dog. I'd rather eat them myself. Rabbit is good eating!

Dad's Home

     It is very difficult to consider taking away someone's right to self-determination.  I have found that it is necessary in order to keep my dad safe and the community safe from him.  If it was up to Dad, he would get a job and a car and his own apartment.  [Amazingly, he still has a valid driver's license from his home state despite my best efforts otherwise.  I reported him as an impaired driver but they gave him back his license anyway.  He went on to have five car accidents in five months and they allowed him to keep his driver's license...].  Dad is not able to navigate around his neighborhood these days on foot, stay away for anything like four hours at a time, or keep himself safe.  If it was up to my dad, he would not take any medication for anything.  He would go to a dentist but not to any doctors unless he was developing a flu or something like that.  And he would also be treating his growing baldness with an expensive chemical treatment from a bottle.

     To those who were and are able to keep their loved ones at home, all I can say is "Bully for you."  We endeavored to do the same.  But it didn't work out so well.  My housemate was upset because having Dad in residence was like living with two of me.  Dad's politics and obsession with a certain news station were grating to the housemate.  From morning when Dad's pacing woke me up until he went to bed at night, I was his entertainment.  Even in his dementia, he wanted to go, go, go.  He refused any outside help-- he didn't even want a friend "housekeeper" coming in to our home so I could get an hour or two off for errands-- and also refused to even consider any form of day program or respite.  Having to watch that he was taking his pills was also wearing.  Dad did not want to go to his medical appointments either.  I wasn't able to leave for twenty minutes in order to walk the dog without worrying that Dad would let in anyone who knocked on the door.  So no, this wasn't working.  In spite of my best efforts, I could not make it work.  Dad was not and is not tractable.  I have the greatest respect for those who take care of their loved ones in their homes.  Please don't judge me because I wasn't able to.

     The assisted living facility takes Dad to all of his local med appointments, administer his meds, ensure that he is as safe as he possibly can be, shop for his personal needs, provide entertainment and socialization daily, and observe him for any changes in his mood or behavior.  Although Dad can be demanding at times, at least our visits have become social visits.  Dad consistently has indicated that he does not want me to help in his personal care routines.  He accepts help from the attentive and caring staff much easier than he ever did from me.  

     There are some things that Dad is still able to do.  He follows politics and voted in the last election.  He can pick out what he wants to wear.  He can shower and shave.  He can decide whether or not he likes someone.  He can express pleasure and displeasure and worries and joy.  He has opinions.  Here are some things that Dad can no longer do: balance a checkbook, dial a phone number successfully, accurately relay his medical history to medical professionals, recite his current address, cook, play cards, drive safely, reason out a complex problem, write clearly, decide to pay his bills without prompting.  Actually, Dad is resistant to paying any bills except for his rent and his cell phone.  Consequently, he no longer pays his bills.  That is taken care of for him out of necessity.  Dad does not understand why dentists cannot take time payments or that his cable bill and his cell phone bill are two separate bills from two separate companies.  Some days [although the days are fewer and farther in between these days], Dad recognizes that he has dementia-- but he can no longer recall which kind he has-- and he will say that his "brain is failing."  Other days [most days these days], he says he is in excellent health except for his eyesight and that his forgetfulness is just regular "old age."

     There are things about my dad that I wish I had never learned.  There are other things about my dad that I treasure knowing.  I love my dad.  It is difficult to witness, this losing of his self.  I am privileged that I can visit my dad and comfort him [sometimes] and laugh with him and make sure that he is getting his needs met and some of his wants.  Even though Lewey Body Dementia sucks-- all dementias suck-- I would not have missed the experience of having my dad living nearby for the world.  Eating lunch with Dad, sitting on the sunny open-air porch with Dad, hanging out with Dad while listening to some musicians that the house has brought in for entertainment, socializing with Dad and his housemates, spending quality time with Dad-- this is the stuff that memories are made of.  

     There is a new dog living at Dad's house.  The new dog is a joy.  All of Dad's housemates appear to really like the dog.  The dog is willing to be petted but is not demanding of attention, doesn't jump on the furniture, is quiet and doesn't really bark.  The dog's presence has gotten Dad and the others to talk about dogs that they have known and loved.  The dog is an older dog who was not able to tolerate being left alone in his foster home.  Because the dog found a place in assisted living, he was saved from a certain death.  The dog is never alone.  The house is never empty.  In a sense, my dad too was saved from a certain kind of death.  Dad considers the assisted living house to be "home."  After his recent hospitalization, Dad remarked, "It's good to be back home."  Dad is comfortable there.  He is comfortable enough to kick me out.  When he's had enough of visiting, he says to me "It's time you got going."  And I can go now, knowing that my dad is cherished and looked after and that he has other people there all the time.  I hope that Dad will die in his sleep at the assisted living home.  I don't want Dad to have to be transferred to a nursing home.  I'd rather he go to bed one night at the assisted living place and drift off and just not wake up again.  Dad is as happy as he can be in spite of the lesions that are ravishing his brain.

sapphoq on life    

The Passing of Twinkle

Twinkle was a fierce soul who was welcomed by the Earth Mother and his beloved Netta on Friday.  His passage was unexpected and has left huge holes in the hearts of his chosen family-- his human mum and dad, his dog Blondie, and his feline companion Bramble.


Twinkle's story started about six and a half years ago.  He was a mostly orange and red kitty born to a tuxedo kitty.  He was one of four siblings.  His one sister was also a tux.  His two brothers were mostly orange and red like he was.

Blondie (the dog) and I were walking down a street.  We were presented with the sight of two orange and white kittens tussling near a parked jeep and a tuxedo kitten asleep underneath some bushes.  One of the orange and white kittens ran over to inspect the dog, having never seen one before in his young life.  Blondie, for her part, was taken aback by a bold young one but responded graciously by allowing him to inspect her.  

"Oh what cute kittens!" I exclaimed to the woman in the driveway.  "Want one?" she said, "They're going to the pound in an hour."  I picked up the kitten who was still busy with my dog.  "I'll take this one," I said.  The other orange kitten outside was a bit shy and hid behind the car wheel.  The woman told me there was a third orange kitten inside who didn't seem to like people very much.

By time we had gotten home, I had named the kitten Twinkle.  He explored his new home boldly and without caution or hesitation.  Within the hour, he had settled in with the confidence that would mark his life.  Twinkle had no fear.

Twinkle persisted and made friends with the two older cats.  It was Netta, a ragdoll mix and a tortie shell, who taught him how to mouse.  I can still hear his baby squeals as the two of them ran up from the cellar with the dead prize in Netta's mouth.  She put the mouse at my feet and I rewarded them with a bowl of milk, an infrequent treat.  When Netta died, Twinkle mourned but still had our older cat Bramble.  Bramble also mourned but he still had Twinkle.

Twinkle and Bramble ran up and down stairs together, wrestled together, took naps together, even shared favorite spots together.  He played with the dog often.  He was also gifted with a strong stocky physique.  Whether stalking the frogs in one of the tanks, watching the crickets in the cricket keeper-- we called this "kitty teevee"-- attempting to eat the dog's food in front of the dog, picking out a toy from the dog's toybox that he wanted to play with, or reaching into a drawer in order to toss something out, he approached his world without any hesitation.  He knew exactly what he wanted at all times.  And we did too.

If Twinkle was chattering at birds outside the sunporch window, it was the crows he lusted after rather than the sparrows.  Twinkle had no fear.  He walked all over the clipboard of the cable guy while his older chosen brother cat ran off to hide until the evil stranger had left the grounds.  Twinkle recognized the doorbell.  Just like a trained dog would, he ran to get us whenever it rang.

Twinkle was a gifted communicator.  He was dominant over the older cat who did not seem to mind.  When Twinkle thought there was not enough food in the cat dish, it was the older cat who ran to get me as Twinkle stood impatiently near the food dish.  When the dog and I returned from our adventures in the woods, Twinkle was there to greet us as we returned.  He often sniffed the dog's paws.  I imagined this to be his way of sniffing out what we had done, what interesting smells the dog had picked up.  One time, after a particularly smelly encounter with something in the woods, Twinkle sniffed at the dog's paws and immediately walked away in what looked to me like disgust.  His temper was on display frequently at the vet clinic.  He fought us when it was time to put him into the cat carrier and clung fiercely to the back of it when it was time for his examination.

I have many memories of Twinkle.  Twinkle and Bramble in the bathtub full of soapy water, along with Blondie.  The two cats were always better about having a bath than Blondie.  They would let me soap them up and rinse them off.  Blondie is a squirmer and although part golden retriever, is much more difficult to this day to bathe.  Bramble will lay down in the bathwater even now to watch it drain.  Twinkle liked to play with bath bubbles, sitting on the edge and batting them around with his tail.  One time when he was very young, he fell in.  He cried out in surprise-- which set the dog and the other two cats to charging into the bathroom to rescue their kitten-- and immediately began swimming toward the edge of the tub.  I fished him out and he disappeared for a half-hour until he was dry and had groomed himself to his satisfaction.  The two cats were always better about having their nails clipped than the dog was.  Twinkle quickly learned to extend his paw, making his fast-growing nails easier to trim.  Twinkle was fascinated by drawers, wanting to climb into them or to fish something out of them.  Twinkle used to swing his paw at my dad in mock battles, he took playful swipes at my head when he was sitting on top of the easy chair, and would place one of his rear paws in my hand to hold when he was feeling a need for a bit of reassurance.  

Thursday, Twinkle spent a very long time watching the firebellies and the little green tree frogs in their tank.  He was content.  Thursday night, he crept into bed with us in the middle of the night for the last time.

After running some tests, the vet determined that Twinkle was very ill.  There was nothing I could humanely do to keep him alive and so I made the decision to have him put down.  Twinkle was suffering.  Medically, there was no hope.  If I had chosen to keep him alive, he would spiral downward-- even with the uncomfortable treatments the disease would have required-- and death could come at any time.  Out of love, I signed the papers.

Twinkle and I visited together for the last time.  I cuddled him in the colorful Indian blanket that someone had provided for him in the office.  When I was ready, the vet and the assistant came in.  Twinkle put one of his rear paws in my hand for the last time.  The vet shaved one of his front paws and plunged the needle in that would relieve his suffering.  The assistant was openly crying.  When Twinkle winced briefly, the vet encouraged him to look at me.  I scritched him under his chin and held his gaze.  I watched his life fade and his spirit gain release.