Fat Charlie the Archangel

Around two or three years ago, I noticed a half-pea sized growth that showed up over night on Fat Charlie's hiney hole. I freaked. Ran him in to Ol' Poke n Stick, certain it was some hideous rectal cancer. Doc looked at me like, "Get out of here, you're not really an RN, are you???" but said, kindly, "Why that's just nothin' but a little polyp." I tried to save face by explaining that I didn't think humans got polyps on the outside of their hiney holes, and if they did I for sure had never seen one, but anyway I was so mightily relieved that nothing else mattered.

We named Fat Charlie's polyp his 'butt bump' and it has slowly grown to the size of a large marble (for those of you who are old enough to know how big a large marble is - about an inch in diameter for the sake of the younger readers). It sticks out from under his tail and shocks visitors for a moment until we explain, but it hasn't caused any harm.

Now, last week I noticed a spot on Fat Charlie's leg. It looked like a Bad Spot and I didn't like it. I decided on Wednesday that I would call the vet on Thursday (from work) for an appointment Friday. I left for work Thursday morning. Charlie's butt bump was pink as usual and the Bad Spot looked not as bad, but I fully intended to make an appointment for Friday during my lunch break.

I forgot. Work was crazy busy.

When I got home to the insanity of eight whippets who have wondered all day if I had gotten lost or eaten, I remembered that I forgot. Then I saw Fat Charlie's butt bump: it wasn't pink. It was purple/black.

Rats. My wonderful vets worked Fat Charlie in this morning.

They would have removed them both today, only Charlie had already eaten his breakfast. Cheerios, Total, and a sprinkling of Grapenuts with Organic Fat Free Milk and Organic Lowfat Yogurt. He'll have to go back in first thing Monday morning, with an empty tummy. He's a great good sport and doesn't pant or shake at the vet's. He looks at me and looks at the door: "Let's go now, why don't we?" But he kisses the sweet tech and even Ol' Poke n Stick and Baby Doc too.

Then something remarkable happened. I was back out front, paying for the meds, and the radio that is always on in their office played an old song. You know, the theme song for Gray's Anatomy (I think, I never watched it), "Chasing Cars"?

It was the song I used for Very Old Dog's tribute. I was writing the check, blab, blab, blabbing as usual and then boom I was soaking wet sobbing. Well, what do you do when you hear these lyrics piping right into your heart?

"I need your grace to remind me to find my own. If you lay here, if you just lay here, I can lie with you and just forget the world."

Oh I sobbed Fat Charlie out to the van, where the rest of the waggle waited and we beat feet out to the Kennel Club property. They ran and soaked up the gorgeous morning, I mowed and fixed the fence, and appreciated each of them.

And then I lay there. I just lay there with them and just forgot the world

hug your hounds

We're Home/Thank You/Figuring Things Out - part 3

I woke up Sunday morning knowing what I had to do, but not accepting it. It wasn't light out, and one southern mocking bird was singing away in the dark at the top of his lungs, as if life were something to sing about. Giacomino was curled up against me and Bill was awake. Both of us were crying.

I got to talk to my sister. They extubated her in the afternoon. I talked to the ICU nurse. Martha's pain was well controlled by the morphine drip. I'm coming, I said. I don't know when yet, but I'm coming. "Okie dokie," Martha said in a hoarse whisper. That morphine is good stuff.
My friend, Swede William's dear breeder Lisa in Sweden called. She listened to me ramble. And then she echoed Bill's exact words: "A week, a month, a day means nothing to a dog. It means everything to us, but nothing to a dog. Do not wait too late. That is where we can be cruel; that is where we can be selfish." Words I myself had spoken in the past to another dear friend.

We had a lovely walk around the block in the warm sun. He started to fall several times but I caught him. It didn't dampen his enthusiasm. I spent the day scanning photos. Oh and Lisa in Sweden had reminded me that I needed to trim William's neck fuzz for the National. This is not an activity to attempt through swollen tears, I later realized. I thought I had done a fine job. William's neck looked like he had encountered a maniacal, fuzz buzzing, fur-craving beaver badly in need of orthodontia.


I can't go into the next hours, except to say that I am blessed with the most wonderful, compassionate vets in the world. When I left them, something snapped in me on the forty minute drive to the crematorium. On the way there, I started to keen. Sounds just came from me. And on the way home the keening became screaming. Can you imagine? There I was driving on Lone Oak Road, in my big old Warburton Whippet van, with my unshowered bed hair, just screaming. I've never screamed as loud and it kept coming. I couldn't make it stop. I got frightened and I called Bill. "Talk to me," I screamed. "I need to hear your voice. I can't stop screaming." I scared him and he wanted to come get me. "No," I screamed. "I'm almost home."

Somewhere a plan had taken shape. I would drive to Atlanta the next morning. Carolyn had been on the Board of the American Whippet Club. Another board member was having health issues and would not be able to make it. If I didn't go, I didn't think there would even be a quorum, and nothing would be voted on, new officers wouldn't be elected and it would be a mess. I would show Swede William, go to the meetings, deliver the Willow Award, and then head up to Toledo, meeting Friend One with Spice and Easy on the way. That night the bed was so damn empty.

Tuesday morning I checked my email one last time before packing and heading to Atlanta. (Remember the Comcast outage? This LINK will take you to Comcast's official explanation.) Some of the lost emails had dribbled in during the night. And then my breath caught. There was an email from Carolyn. The subject line said "Re: Easy." I thought perhaps her brother or sister-in-law had emailed me some info from her computer. But it was an actual email from Carolyn, which I had gotten back in December. It must have been stuck on some server somewhere, and when Comcast's glitch got fixed... I had been trying to figure out when Easy's cancer surgery had been. I couldn't remember if it had been in January of '08 or November of '07. The email said,

I thought it was his lymph nodes but Greg took Easy to see ROn today
and we are pretty sure that his thyroid tumor is back - it has been
almost a year. Right NOW , he is eating, drinking, playing, barking, and
basically acting , eating normally but I am not sure how long it will
last. Ron X rayed his chest today and said it is perfectly clear so at
least that is good for now............. The surgeon thought it would
coms back in his chest first ....... I do not plan to put him through
surgery again....

And with that miracle electronic glitch, Carolyn was able to answer so many questions for me. The surgery had been in January. No more surgery for Easy. I had done right by my own Very Old Dog. I got out my suitcase, relieved that this would no longer cause worry for a Dear Old Soul, and I stopped screaming, and began a good old-fashioned cry. I miss Carolyn. I miss my Giacomino. Oh my poor sister.

Hug your hounds

We're Home/Thank You/Figuring Things Out - part 2

Carolyn's will offered no surprises. She had left the dogs to her three friends, and each of the three of us had numerous concurring independent conversations with her about her wishes. [I would encourage all of you, Dear Readers, whether you have one dog or ten, whether you are twenty years old or seventy, to clearly spell out your wishes for your dog(s) in your will. TODAY. It makes one less thing for people who are grieving to deal with, and it is the last gift you can give your dogs.] I told the other two friends of the miracle home that had materialized for Early, and they agreed: it was perfect.

Friend One would be driving from western Pennsylvania to the National in Atlanta on Saturday and could take Early along. Susan (Early's angel) would arrive in Atlanta on Sunday. Friend One would leave Atlanta on Tuesday, and I would arrive. Susan and Early would go home on Tuesday. Early would get to meet Susan's other two whippets in the neutral territory of the Atlanta hotel. If for any reason things didn't work, Earl could go back with Friend One or with me. I had then the privilege of calling Susan and telling her all systems were go. We cried. Then I called my dear friend Rhonda, who loved Carolyn, knew Early, and knows Susan. My left ear is still ringing from her squeals of delight. "OH it's PERFECT!!!" she cried. "Susan is PERFECT!!! Oh I'm SOOOO HAPPY!!!! It's PERFECT!!!!"

I went to bed happy that night. I wanted to tell Greg and Carolyn that it was all coming together. That their sweet dogs were all going to be in the right place. That they would be pleased.

On Saturday morning (this is important for later) Comcast email went down. I put a note on my Facebook page that I couldn't get any Comcast email, and I heard from friends from Massachusetts to I don't know where on Facebook that their Comcast email wasn't working either.

A week or so before all of this, I had been out working at a Kennel Club Show and Go (or at some board meeting downtown or something... I can't remember, but I was gone for a couple of hours). Bill was home with the dogs. Giacomino had lost his footing right in front of Bill's eyes and had fallen out in the grass. And he couldn't get up. Poor Bill was beyond distraught. He gently lifted him, but Beans' four legs just didn't work. Bill carried him into the house and covered him up on his bed in the kitchen and sat by him. He knew that when I got home, we would have to make that awful phone call. I walked in, saw Bill's ashen face, and knew something was terribly wrong.

Only Giacomino didn't know, and when he saw me he jumped - okay, wobbled - onto his feet and said, "Hi! You're home!" Bill nearly fainted with relief. My Very Old Dog - who would have been fifteen on April 17th - had spinal stenosis. A narrowing of the spinal column in his neck made his legs numb. With this last fall, things worsened dramatically. He couldn't tell if his front feet were right-side-up or knuckled down. We tried some steroids, which maybe helped a little. Not really. But he was eating and happy, and could still enjoy his walk around the block, albeit with much more help from me.

So, where the plans stood, this year I would only go to the National for the day of the Board and General Membership meetings. Usually I set up a booth to sell my collars and book, enter all the dogs and am gone for nine days. But if I drove Tuesday, did the meetings on Wednesday, and drove home on Thursday, Bill would only have to worry over Beans for two nights. I entered Swede William, whose class would be on Wednesday afternoon, since I would be there anyway. I would meet saintly Friend One in Lexington on the way home to collect Easy and Spice. (It wouldn't have been fair to Bill, or Easy and Spice, to bring them into this house and then have me leave for the National.)

Saturday morning (the same Saturday that my email was down) the phone rang. Or maybe it was Friday night. I didn't recognize the number. The grandmotherly voice on the other end asked in a Midwestern accent if I were Patience. Yes, I am. Then the voice told me that she was sorry, but my sister Martha had undergone emergency surgery for a bowel obstruction last night, only when they opened her up they found massive ovarian cancer everywhere. The tumors were too large and involved to remove, so they had done an iliostomy to relieve the obstruction, left the tumors, and Martha was in the ICU in Toledo.

I can't even remember my end of the conversation. I couldn't talk to Martha because she was still on a ventilator. I needed to get to my friend's house as I was dog sitting. I felt dizzy. It was a beautiful day. I went to Heather's house and walked Emmett and Edgar. Heather lives in a gorgeous old neighborhood, and I'm not sure I had brushed my teeth. I needed a new plan. I couldn't make my brain work. I had just studied in my RN review course that the brain processes emotions and events while you sleep. It prioritizes and compartmentalizes stuff during REM sleep. I would sleep on it and try for a plan Sunday morning.

I was at Heather's from around 11:30 to 4:30, when the next shift of dog sitters arrived. When I got home, though Giacomino had been safe and quiet, he couldn't stand without help. He was tired, because he had worried while I was out. A horrible, burning realization crept into my gut, and bile spilled up into my throat. I had to go to Atlanta and to Toledo. I would be gone for a lot longer than five hours or two days.

I looked at my darling Very Old Dog and felt that my world was closing in on us.

Oh, God. Oh, God, no.

Giacomino

His legs gave out.

His heart, his magnificent wise generous old heart

Never did.




hug your hounds with all your might

while your arms still have them.

I'm Only Human

Right. I got it. Beating myself up for Very Old Dog's skinned up nose was a little over the edge. I'm not God. Thank you, dear commenters, for giving me a little perspective!

Yesterday was more typical of Western Kentucky's January weather than what we've been suffering, errr.. experiencing lately. It was mostly sunny and in the upper 30's. Which felt like the mid 50's in juxtaposition with the freaking, freaky minus ten wind chill of the day before. (Shudder.) I can't make myself imagine what the two Lauries in Minnesota are dealing with. No, it's like imagining being a victim of water boarding, which we can now finally say is torture. Again. Minus twenty? Torture. You betcha.

But enjoying yesterday's (relative) warmth, the three youngsters - Sam I Am, Swede William, and Lindy Loo - joined me after everyone had walked, while I did poo duties in the yard. I'll admit to shirking these duties during the torture time. When it's minus ten, the scooping can wait. The dogs won't stay out long enough at those temperatures to savor poopsicles, so, it can wait. Thus, yesterday's scooping took longer than usual.

And Very Old Dog, toasty in his fleecy housecoat, joined us in the sunshine, too. Lindy Loo ran and ran and ran like ... well, like a whippet. Sammy ran after her, with Swede William in not so hot pursuit. (He tends to wait at the corners and ambush, being the clever fellow he is.) I tried to place myself between the running missiles and Very Old Dog. If a scraped nose had undone me, imagine a collision with a 30 mph whippet. Oh lordy.

Very Old Dog had been an outstanding runner in his youth, in his prime. We had driven from our farm in Maryland all the way to San Diego, California in 1998 for the American Whippet Club National Specialty. And at that National Field Trial, Very Old Dog outran and out-coursed 115 talented whippets to win Best In Field. And he did it with breathtaking ease.

So when the youngsters were careening around the yard yesterday, I saw my Very Old Dog get a look in his eyes. It was a look totally unburdened by the human silliness of worry, regret, wistfulness, caution, responsibility, or self pity. The look in Very Old Dog's eyes said only one thing:

"WA- HOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

And off he tottered. Full tilt, in both meanings of the word. He scampered after the speeding pocket rockets, only to be directly in their paths after they had reached the end of the yard, and had turned around and continued their game of chase.

My heart.

The projectiles that were the young whippets zipped on either side of him, miraculously avoiding the nightmare pile up. Very Old Dog turned around without tipping over and chased after them. He let out a yip.

Now, that took me back. And it took me to the place where he was at that very moment. He was a quiet dog when he was young. But when the "bunny" (the white plastic bags which acted as the lure at the lure trials) would whip around a pulley, suddenly turning, my quiet dog would "yip" in the joy of the chase. "YIP" (translation: "I'll get you, crafty bunny! You can turn, but I'm gaining on you! Woopeeeeeeeee!") When he yipped in the yard yesterday, I realized he was having the most fun.

He "ran" along with the other three until they wore all the way out. If they had knocked him down, I would have felt like the stupidest excuse for a servant on Earth. But they didn't. And as I carried his protesting self up the three stairs to the breezeway, feeling his enlarged heart pounding for all it was worth, I kissed his scabby nose.

I wish I could fill every minute of his every day left with such joy.

I can't help it. I'm only human.

Linda Arrives!!!

Oh, dear readers, I am a mighty bad blogger. Yes I am. I've said it and I mean it.

I bought batteries. I put the camera right on the kitchen counter, where I couldn't possibly forget. I repeated "I shall take photos, I shall take photos, I shall..."

I opened the kitchen door. Sam I Am looked around me. So did Mama Pajama. Bill had a good hold of Very Old Dog to avoid tippage, either from over excitement or from bumpage and generalized greeting flummadiddle. Fat Charlie came swooping in. Luciano's eyes got huge.

They couldn't believe who I had found. Their Linda!!! The very Linda who Lindy Loo is named for!!! Here right here in our kitchen, brought in with the rest of the groceries!

Since when did Krogers start stocking Their Linda!!!!????

The greeting was sweet, dear readers. Excitement, disbelief, sniffing just to be sure it wasn't a bobo Linda, but no... It was the real thing. Their LINDA!!! Whom they hadn't seen for two years, which is very long in dog time.

But I failed you. So taken was I in the merriment, and so senile am I in the head, I forgot to pick up the stinkin' camera and click.

These are from two hours later, after the meal.

Sammy says, "My Nana Linda."

the rare Mama Pajama kiss, as tolerated by Sam I Am, and witnessed by a happy Very Old Dog

I promise I'll do better tomorrow. I'll try to.

I'll ask Linda to remind me.

hug your hounds

A Moment with a Very Old Dog

[Giacomino - pronounced jocka-MEEno - is fourteen and a half. We rescued him, starved and sick, from a for profit breeder who had sold two of his littermates, at five and one half weeks of age, to a pet store. We thought we could find him a home. He was in our house for about ten minutes when we realized something. He was home.]





Very Old Dog has been my shadow for over fourteen years. Even though I learned, long ago, never to step backwards without looking, I have still stepped on him 459 times. When I shower, he curls up on the bath mat. When I type, my chair ends up scooted in too far under the computer desk, because he has sprawled out beyond the edges of his bed, and if I move back I'll run over his sweet nose. Right now, in bed as I type on my newly repaired and once again functional laptop, his head is on my right foot.





The dogs all went to bed last night a little past nine, (lobbying for their snacks early) but I finished some sewing. I came in the bedroom an hour later. Very Old Dog was sound asleep on the foot of our bed, (I lift him up and he gets his snack there) where he has his own pillow and blankets. I brushed my teeth, and when I climbed in bed, my Very Old Dog got up - no simple task these days and nights - and moved up to the top to rest his head on my arm. His coat is so soft. And though most of his brindle patch has faded to white, his ears are still black. They often stand straight up now, straining, because they don't hear much anymore. But they feel as silken and soothing as they ever did.





He looked at me, and sighed, and snuggled in and then even with my limited human understanding, I realized something. Very Old Dog always used to lie next to me on the couch, or climb in my lap in a chair, and lately he hasn't been. It dawned on me that it isn't because he doesn't want to, which is what I thought. He can't. He can't get up on a couch. My heart broke a little bit.





Today, I picked him up and held him in my lap whenever I could. Even extra for lost time. And I will tomorrow and every day I can.





Hug your hounds

Very Old Dog

From when he was a tiny scared bit
Of someone else's trash,
To now.
A great, creaky uncle so gentle with the world.

Fourteen. Fragile as the hopeful wish
Of a poor child,
At night.
Until he sees my walking shoes go on.

How extraordinarily privileged we are.
To share this soul,
Goodness.
Someone else's trash. My treasure.







hug your hounds

I flew to Oregon for the annual American Whippet Club National Specialty Show. It is the first time since 1995 that I haven't shown my dogs at the National. Mama Pajama was second in the Triathlon twice, and sweet Giacomino was Best In Field when the National was in California ten years ago. Bill and I drove to San Diego from our farm in Maryland with the whole waggle, which was six whippets back then, and we had a ball. I also usually set up a booth where I sell my collars and leads and lots, lots, more. It is a grand time seeing folks I can only talk to on email groups the rest of the year, and seeing so many lovely dogs. When 600 whippets converge on a hotel for a week, it is quite the sight!



But this year the price of gas was simply prohibitive. And it is Quilt Week in Paducah, meaning that our town goes from about 36,000 to 76,000 or more. The Quilters come to town by the bus load for the American Quilt Society's show. Leaving Bill with nine dogs for the entire week when he would be extending his hours in the gallery to accommodate the hoards of visitors would not be nice. Not nice at all.

But, I needed to be at the Whippet National for the Board meeting and the Annual meeting, so I decided to fly out. I would drive the two and a half hours to the Nashville Airport, fly to Denver and then to Portland, where I would rent a car for the first time and then drive the two hours from Portland to the hotel in Eugene. Simple.

By some miracle I packed the night before. I could leave our house at ten in the morning and be allowing myself plenty of time for the economy parking option. I had already printed my boarding passes. I woke at seven just because it was time to wake. I scritched Very Old Dog on his butt, and to my abject delight, he did rollies and play bit my hand. It was a treasured game from his youth, with which he hadn't indulged me in months. He was always delighted to see suitcases, because he always went on the trip.

Downstairs we all went, out to potty, and in for breakfast. I was pouring the kibble into the dishes when Giacomino just fell down. I didn't see it happen; I heard it. And he was up on his feet instantly.

What on earth?

I continued with the breakfast fixing, and within another sixty seconds, he fell down again. This was not good. I supported him between my knees and finished fixing the bowls. I had to support him to eat, as he fell a third time while I put down the other dogs' dishes. Thinking, I was thinking.

I helped Giacomino into the kitchen to a bed. I told Bill that vestibular disease is not uncommon in old whippets, and I thought our sweet Very Old Dog might have a case. I looked at his eyes for nystagmus, and didn't see any, but then sure enough, his left eye started a rhythmic dancing pulse to the left and back, ever so slight.

"That's it, Bill. He must have labyrinthitis. Oh God, I shouldn't go." Then the sweet dog vomited his entire breakfast, and within a minute, both eyes were moving so violently that the poor guy's whole head was shaking side to side, side to side, side to side. It was awful. I called my vet and left a message with the answering service. It was only 7:12. He had gone from happy to this state in twelve minutes.

I said, "I'm going to take my shower quickly, in case I need to take him in, honey. Can you sit with him?" Bill took my place on the kitchen floor next to Very Old Dog's bed. I ran upstairs and I swear I did get wet, and soap and shampoo were both involved, but I ran back down the stairs at 7:17. What I saw stunned me. Giacomino was flinging himself over and over on the hard kitchen tile, (like a child rolling down a steep grassy hill, log rolling style) and Bill was trying to keep him still, totally without success. I gasped.

When a panicked person writes on Whippet lists that their senior whippet suddenly couldn't stand and they fear a stroke or brain tumor, I have frequently been the person who suggests that it could be Vestibular disease, and not to be too afraid. Just get the dog to the vet. That was my advice on a number of occasions. But when I saw my dear, sweet Very Old Dog flipping himself around on the kitchen floor, I was the panicked one. I scooped him up and ran for the van, only to realize that there was no way I could get him in a crate without him seriously injuring himself.

Bill still had his jammies on. He drove and I held Beans on my lap. I just knew I would not be bringing him home and I tried to be calm and cheerful for him. I tried to be. I failed miserably, but I tried.

I've mentioned on these pages that I love my vets, dear readers. I love my vets. Ol' Poke 'n Stick wasn't in yet, but Dear Doc took us right back, saying, "Don't you have a plane to catch?" I said I didn't think I'd be taking any planes today.

Dear Doc got to work examining Giacomino, and when she looked at his eyes jerking jerking jerking sideways and back, she said, "Oh you poor fellow!" She listened to the history and examined him carefully.

"This is classic, classic vestibular syndrome, Patience," she said. "He's going to be fine. Really. We'll get some meclizine in him and he will be absolutely fine. Honest. You go on your trip. He'll be fine."

And when I left at 10:30 he was already resting more comfortably. And Bill called me an hour later as I crossed into Tennessee to tell me that his eyes had already stopped moving. Completely. Bill pampered him and carried him up and down the stairs, and every time I called, he said that Very Old Dog was just fine, eating up a storm, and happy.

I got home at 1:50 this morning. It was a long two and a half hours back from Nashville. Bill was waiting up for me in the kitchen. The dogs all were asleep in our bedroom. I tippy-toed in but they all woke up. I kissed the nine noses. Giacomino was sound asleep, and looked up at me a little foggy eyed, like, "Where have you been? I've been on one wild ride!"

It is good to be home.

Hug your hounds

Just Some Photos

Apologies if you were coming here looking for a literary gem. Today I am sharing the pictures of the Birthdays, and I hope you enjoy them.

The Birthday Dogs at the Kennel Club Property, worshipping the Sun.

Sam I Am squeaks.

Very Old Dog remembers.

Lindy Loo exalts.

There were gifts from our friends Karen and Steve. Is that not the coolest lamb in the world?

The HUGE pot of beef and rice and carrots.

There was folderol and excitation.

I cut up the beef and added the veggies.

Had to have a little celebratory Bowser Beer with dinner!

Very Old Birthday Dog approved.

So did Sam I Am.

And for dessert, there were naps all around.

Hug your hounds

A Dog Day

We didn't have a party for the birthdays. We didn't have a people party, I should say.



The dogs and I went out to the Kennel Club Property. It was an absolutely lovely day. Mid sixties, with sun that was warmer than that by far, but constant cool breezes kept us in perfect comfort. When I turned the dogs out into the large fenced area, I had to consciously remind myself that they were, in fact, dogs. I looked out at the herd of sleek shapes with their heads down grazing, and my brain saw a paddock full of tiny horses. It was good spring grass, though, and nobody puked. They simply enjoyed the tender shoots.



We nearly didn't make it. I had to retrieve a shipping container from the attic. I was stubbornly attempting to get the attic steps down by myself. (The ceilings upstairs in this old house are eleven feet, and the attic stairs fold up in one of those pull down doors. Eleven feet of fold up stairs are heavy and hard to manage, and my shoulders don't work so well.) Bill was encouraging me to let him help, and I was crying about something totally unrelated and not listening to reason, and I fell off the little step ladder and the stairs came crashing down on my head. Then I let Bill help. And he is such a kind man, that he didn't call me a stupid idiot or fall down laughing.



It seems like we only just celebrated Giacomino's thirteenth and Sammy's fifth birthdays. I have lost great chunks of this year. January and February completely elude me. I looked at their papers, to make absolutely certain, and it's true. They are fourteen and six. Giacomino's sister Lilly is Sammy's mom Jessie's mom. Dogs are only pregnant for sixty-three days, and Lilly only came in season every ten months and she was only bred one time. Jessie only had one litter, too. What are the chances that Lilly's grandpuppies would be born on her birthday? Is there a mathematician among you, dear readers?



I think it was a little miracle.





Sam and his great uncle's births couldn't have been more different, though. We rescued Giacomino and his brother Jazzbo from a "breeder" who sold their littermates to a pet store when they were five and one half weeks old. It's too long a story for the blog; I knew better than to buy the puppies from the pet store, but I threw up in the pet store's trash can one day. They didn't sell any more whippets after that. Giacomino was starved and filthy and full of worms and worried. Whippet puppies should be little pudge balls. He was skin and bones. This "breeder" also bred and sold pit bulls, and the whippet puppies didn't come out very high on the food chain.









Sam I Am, on the other hand, was born into the best of worlds. His Nana Linda and her anesthesiologist husband delivered the first puppy while the three midwives raced down I-95 at four in the morning. Jessie did a stupendous job and popped those puppies out bing, bam, boom. (Linda had made the trip to Massachusetts in February with Jessie to be bred to Sammy's father in a blizzard alone. It turned out to be the same days that Bill and I had come to visit Paducah for the first time, and I wasn't there for my friend. I would be there for the birth.) Jessie's seven puppies were born and were so beautiful and healthy, we were wild with happy relief and excitement. The x-ray had predicted seven. Jessie started to push again, and we figured it was the missing placenta. "This placenta has a head," I exclaimed, and out slipped Sam I Am.


Giacomino (for new readers, that is pronounced Jocko-MEENo and he's also called Very Old Dog in these writings) has been my shadow for fourteen years. He also won a Hound Group, and finished his Championship, owner-handled, and his Field Championship in AKC and his Lure Courser of Merit in ASFA, and got his obedience title, and was Best In Field at the American Whippet Club National Specialty in California. Meaning we spent a lot of time together, having the time of our lives. And he did all that before he was six, when an injury put a stop to any sort of competition.









And now Sam is six, and he's the very first Agility dog, and the very first Therapy Dog. (Well, Giacomino was a certified Therapy dog, but he only saw the patients in our office.) And Sam is so like his great uncle. It's uncanny.



I thought about all of that, and more, as I sat in the grass today watching the dogs. The young ones (Sam is still included in that group) ran with their squeaky toys and rolled in not too stinky stuff. The seniors walked around and smelled county smells and smiled a lot. A very kind neighbor has been visiting Giacomino and working on his meridians and his Chakra to help him with his thunderphobia. He's been sleeping better since she started. He proved that by flopping on his side in the sun and closing his happy eyes.


I bought a big hunkin' huge piece of pot roast on the way home. I had a Board Meeting to go to, and we had stayed late enjoying the sun. The dogs were hungry and didn't want to wait for the rice to cook and for me to cut up the humongo beef, so I gave them their regular food. Bill had pasta (with you guessed it broccoli rabe yum) ready when I got home, and it had a bacon garnish. We're disgustingly fair around here. If one dog gets to lick a plate, nine dogs get to lick a plate.




But tonight, when the rest of the dogs were outside, Giacomino got a whole slice of bacon, and so did Sam I Am.



And that was OK. Ain't life grand?









Hug your hounds

[good photos credit Laurie Erickson. snapshots me]

Ninefold

We went to the Kennel Club property today. All nine dogs and I. Usually, I take the three youngsters, Sam I Am, Swede William and Lindy Loo, and the object of the trip is to run. And run and run. I throw toys and encourage zoomies and throw more toys. And if I do take more than three dogs, I only put them out in groups of two or three at a time, to avoid high speed collisions or disagreements.



It was beautiful today. I don't mean nice, I mean if today were a food it would be home grown fresh gigantic strawberries dipped in Godiva chocolate, chilled, and with the juice running down your chin. Sixties. Warm sweet sunshine. Light blessed breeze.



I took them all.



I tossed their regular toys in the fenced area, and I set up my dog show folding chair and plopped my camera on it. I filled a bucket with water and clipped it to the fence. I had thought about bringing my book, but decided against it. I would just sit and watch my dogs.



I brought them all out of the van and into the yard. It was a little bit gutsy of me. If someone had started mad zoomies, disaster might have ensued. For once in my life, I didn't dwell on the worst case scenario; I sat in my dog show folding chair and I enjoyed the day. I enjoyed the dogs.



There were some mini zoomies, but Madame Fun Police Delia said, "Oh, I think not! Not on my watch." She wouldn't bother Sam, or Fat Charlie or Luciano. She was intent on keeping the young 'uns, William and Lindy Loo in line. Very Old Dog and Maria appreciated this. They walked and trotted around the perimeter with their noses in the grass, stopping to press their nostrils down into the dirt after a scratch to release the fresh scent. They don't see so well, and their hearing is diminished, but those noses are just fine. The smells of exquisite earth and spring roots must have taken those two old dogs right back to their grand glory days.



Mama Pajama was one of the finest running whippets in the country. That little dog was fearless, focused, and flat out fast. But since her illness, she has not enjoyed being in any situation which could involve being accidentally crashed into. When I've brought her to the Kennel Club property before, she would wait anxiously at the gate to go back in the van. It would take much coaxing to get her to play, and then only if she were alone in the fenced area. But today, maybe since zoomies were at a minimum, or perhaps because I was sitting in a chair instead of hurling toys like a pitching machine gone spastic, Mama Pajama enjoyed herself. She too sniffed and snuffled along the entire fence line, sometimes lifting her lovely head as high as she could, savoring some airborne aroma floating by.



We had no agenda. After a while, Mama Pajama, who is usually off by herself in the house, climbed up in my lap and settled there. Very Old Dog, who is perpetually, trippably* glued to me at home, wandered the far reaches of the enclosure, never giving my whereabouts a first thought, much less a second. Maria roached and rolled, and then her daughter Delia and great granddaughter Lindy Loo plopped down and copy-catted, for a roach-a-rama threesome. Swede William and Lindy Loo would grab a toy and do mini zoomies, avoiding Delia, only to have special Luciano swoop down and steal the toy right from their mouths. He'd smile triumphantly with a mouth full of stuffie, and then lose interest and drop it.



Fat Charlie ran and played and grinned at me and then flattened himself in homage to his God, the sun. He let his dear sister Mama Pajama hump him in high spirits. She only does it for a couple of seconds, and only when she's exceedingly happy, and only to him. He played a little with the young 'uns, and chased Sammy for a bit. But mostly he laid his angelic self down, right near my chair, and smiled his pleasure.



And dear Sam I Am. He had worked hard the last two days. At the hospital, at the women's shelter, and even at the Public Radio station, where he helped with the Spring fund raising. He was never without a squeaky toy in his mouth. He sopped up the ablutionary rays of that glorious southern sun and filled his lungs with cleansing country air. He relaxed. So did I.





Hug your hounds.







*I made that word up, but I like it.

The Gang's All Here!

Your wish is my command, of course!

First there was chaos.


And then there was utter mayhem:

And then, thanks to Molly's help and Laurie's genius, there was perfection!

Lying: Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie

Sitting: Lindy Sexy Butt Loo

Standing: Giacomino, Maria, Sam I Am, Swede Does Any One Want Some Of ME William, Delia, Luciano

L to R: Lindy I Am Irresistible Loo, Fat Charlie, Maria, Sam I Am, Swede Dear God In Heaven Help Me William, Delia, Luciano, Giacomino

Lying: Mama Pajama

I wish I could figure out why some photos are click-and-enlargible, and some are not. Just blogger magic, I suppose.

hug your hounds

Way too short - way too long

Laurie and thirteen year old Spats:

Oh our lovely visit with Laurie and dear Spats, Rivet, and Simmer was just way too short. It felt like it was only beginning, and there she was today, already packing up to go home. A forecast of a snow storm across Illinois teased at keeping them here one more day, but the storm petered out and they got on the road at about 10:45 this morning.

We had a delightful time. As mentioned, the dogs were stars. Not a sneer or a snarl offered during the whole visit, and Lindy Loo's virtue remains intact. Sam I Am would listen for his brother Rivet to emerge from the guest room each morning. He'd cock his head at the sound of the door opening, and then jump up wagging as he heard Rivet plink, plink, plinking down our ridiculous stairs. When Rivet's handsome self appeared at the bottom of the steps, Sammy turned inside out with wags and smiles and bounces and woo-woooooos. "Look! It's my very own brother! Again! This morning! Right here in our house!"

Sam I Am's brother, Rivet

And we did get to do a lot of fun things. We went to visit Phyllis and Maddie (I'll post those photos later.) We ate ourselves silly. We practiced Agility at the Kennel Club, and were so impressed with our incredibly talented dogs! I was able to watch Laurie take impossible photos like this one:

Laurie left me with these priceless photos and so many more:

Two treasured Very Old Dogs, Giacomino and Spats

Giacomino and Maria

Molly and Mama Pajama

And as to the "way too long" part? Oh the travellers had a flat tire on the way home. After a little scenic detour through Central Illinois (well, that dang I-74 can just sneak by without so much as a howdy do, if you're admiring the beauty of your dogs in your rear view mirror), Laurie called to say that she had a flat. Bill and I were worried sick, until she called back saying she and her dogs were tucked into a toasty warm hotel room, with free wireless and a king sized bed. They will have about five more hours to drive in the morning, after they switch the donut for a real tire.

Hug your hounds

A Tap on the Shoulder

A gentle nudge.

A little wake up call.

It was an eye opener. This might sound ludicrous to you, dear readers, but I was unprepared for the Very Old Dog's Very Bad Day. "Oh baloney," as opposed to bologna, you say. I've written how many pieces on this blog (you can check them out here) about Giacomino's and Maria's advancing ages, always recognizing that every day is a gift. Hug your hounds, I say.

But, the Very Old Dogs and I have fallen into a comfortable, predictable routine. (I didn't even think to include Maria in the VOD category, and her thirteenth birthday is Thursday. Thirteen.) Giacomino waits at the top and the bottom of the stairs for my assistance. Maria barks to be covered up. Her back legs tremble when we stop to chat with neighbors on our walks; his back feet drag on the sidewalk after we get going again. They are not what they used to be, but they have been what they are for a while now.

We laugh. I ask Maria, "What does a cheerleader say?" She gets a sparkle in her eyes, and dances around, winding herself up and lets loose with a perfect, "Rah, rah, rah!" Unless, of course, we are performing the trick in front of guests, in which case she answers, "Arf. Arf. Arf, arf, arrrr-roooo." And then she winks at me, and when the conversation has turned elsewhere, under her breath she whispers, "rah, rah, rah."

And on our walks, Giacomino shows his exuberance in the form of modified leapies. When he was young he had the most delightful habit of leaping straight in the air, off all four feet with legs pogo stick straight, *boing* up as high as my five foot five inch head. Staying perfectly parallel with the ground. A capriole. This did not involve the slightest pull on his lead. One moment he was walking along in front of me, and the next moment his butt was eye level. It was usually accompanied by sort of war woop, "wooahrarrr!" And it was saved for special times. The first warm, sunny day after a long gray cold spell. Exiting the van and finding himself at a Lure Trial. A walk with a special visiting friend. Nowadays he does the modified leapy. It's frankly more of a lurch than a leap, and I always gasp in fear that he'll fall splat, because he has, but even so these modified leapies make me smile all the way from my fuzzy socks to the pompom on my hat. And I'm toasty warm all of a sudden.

On the day that Giacomino wasn't himself, not even his older version, I sputtered. He was vulnerable, and so mortal. I had settled in to the Very Old Dog reality show as though it were an over sized down comforter wrapped around me. I had forgotten. The privilege of loving these souls comes with a price. And when my sweet Old Dog gently reminded me that part of the deal was to go on without him at some point, I wanted to negotiate a new contract.

Maria's self-assigned life's work has been to create laughter. Trotting around shaking the bejesus out of a squeak toy or back talking woo-woos when you point an accusing finger at her, and then play bows with wagging dances when she hears the laugh she was after. And Giacomino, even as a starved rescued puppy was so concerned about his humans. He couldn't bear human sadness, cocking his head and drawing up his eyebrows until his forehead was raked with wrinkles. Three times Giacomino cried tears from his eyes. When we were mourning Bill's dad. When I moved away from my friends. And when my first whippet died. When I was overcome with sadness, so was he, and that snapped me out of it.

So I've had a gentle warning. An overheard whisper of what will come. A chance to brace myself, to steady my steps. To laugh louder for Maria, and to shout "woo-HOOOO" right out there in public at the top of my lungs for each modified leapy Giacomino attempts. To dawdle a bit more during the geriatric amble around the block and let them go ahead and bark at the Stupid City Squirrels. To sneak a lot more people food from my plate to certain waiting lips.

It is, after all, my very special privilege.

Hug your hounds.

OK, Old Dog?

You didn't eat your breakfast.

That has never been your way.

You look so tired and troubled,

What's the matter, can you say?



Fourteen years you've been my shadow

Now you're curled up in a knot

Like the one that's in my stomach

And my breath which can't be caught.



I'm not ready for this, Old Dog,

Surely I can't be that brave.

You have always been my courage;

I can't make my heart behave.



I must be calm and comfort you.

Oh God how will I cope?

Though grateful for your life, your soul,

I cannot help but hope



That we can have still one more day,

To sit, warm in the sun.

You nestled in my guarding arms,

Time's dirty work undone.



So sleep tonight, my dear Old Dog.

I'm here, I'll hold you close.

Tomorrow you'll feel better and

We'll chase away the ghosts.







Hug your hounds

-

-

Dog Dreams

On the dog lists, there is frequently a new owner who cries for help:

"I think my dog is having seizures. When he is sound asleep he will twitch his legs and his eyes roll around and he yelps in pain. What do I do?"

Ah, dog dreams. This morning - technically it was, I suppose, the middle of the night, three or four AM - Very Old Dog had repositioned himself from our determination of "his spot" on the bottom of our bed, to his determination of "his spot" on my pillow between Bill and me. He had kindly but firmly reminded me of the clause in his contract where

3 (c) Human Servant shall at all hours, immediately awaken and raise bedsheets to allow access to Canine for snuggling under covers.

OK, so I was a little sketchy on the "awaken" part, but I had managed to lift up our covers and enjoy the warmth and closeness of Very Old Dog. Unfortunately, Bill was fulfilling another clause in the contract

3 (f). Human shall move to the very edge of the bed, taking up no more that six (6) inches of mattress space, and shall uncomplainingly endure doggy toenails digging into all parts of Human's body, including but not limited to chest, back, face, rump, and private parts.

You get the picture: Bill clinging for dear life to remain on his own bed, me feeling warm and snugly with Very Old Dog, and said Very Old Dog entering his deepest REM phase of sleep.

This dog was so full of fun in his youth and middle age. He was a dog who would run butt tuck zoomies in figure eights just for the sheer enjoyment of the running. He would play ball until he dropped. He would chase squirrels up a tree and then jump ten feet up the trunk for fun. He still tries - hard - to join when the youngsters now do zoomies and leapies, scaring the living bejesus out of his Servant. He's got some bad discs in his neck, and his legs go all wobbly, and zoomies and leapies are life threatening events. So his Servant, sadly, must do everything in her power to curtail such activities.

But not when he's dreaming. I watch with delight as my darling Very Old Dog paddles madly in his sleep. I imagine him running through autumn crisp gold fields of oat straw, zigging and zagging and leaping to get a better view, just because he can, and just to afford me the thrill. I see my torpid dog's tail thumping on my bed, and I picture him racing by me in his dream, sporting a devilishly delighted grin as he skims past my vulnerable shins, accelerating as he goes by, gaily wagging his pleasure. His eyes, blinking and unseeing in his sleep, sparkle with life and joy and boundless energy in his dream. He purely winks at me as he runs by. And when I hear the quiet, "Yip, yip, rahr, ruhr," of his sleeping voice I translate that into battle cries of the hunt. Oh is there no more beautiful music than that of a hound in full tongue? Or the barks of a joyful reunion? The woof of anticipation at the soon-to-be-thrown toy or ball?

I know my Very Old Dog's dreams are full of pleasure. They allow him the pure canine thrills which now elude him. Perhaps that's why he sleeps so much more these days.

I hope I am a part, even a small one, of his dreams. I hope I was a good enough Servant to be included in remembered good times. I hold him close and I feel the dream melt away. He sighs, snuggles into the pillow, and waits for the next dream to take him back to his glory days.

Every day is a gift. Every day is a treasure.

Dream on.

Walk-o-rama in Squirrel City, but first..

... First, some clarifications.

The novel I'm excerpting (hmmm, Mr. Spellcheck see if that's a word!) is a work in progress, and is not available yet. But, if you just happen to know any big time fancy literary agents by all means do let them know I'm available for representation! Or if you happen to be a close friend of Oprah, or Garrison Keillor... oh shoot, I fainted again. Dear Bill encourages, "You have to think it is possible, for it to come true." I love dear Bill.

This blog is spreading like wildfire, and I have you, dear readers, to thank! Thank you thank you thank you! Apparently you are sharing the address http://patience-please.blogspot.com/ with your friends and your lists and your groups and it is working!

OK, back to the good stuff!

Walk-o-rama in Squirrel City

It is up to me to walk all of the nine dogs this morning. Bill has to go in for some early morning blood tests and he can't have coffee, so he's not going to walk his usual two.

This arrangement does not please Delia, who adopted Bill as her Own Human, and the affront of his early morning departure, coupled with the poor substitution of me as her walking companion is nearly too much. To make it even worse, she has to go on the second walk. Humph! Pee-yew to the Inferior Human.

I've been walking the grownups in pairs, although the last walk includes the two yearlings plus Sam I Am. There was a time, back on the farm, when I walked all eight, plus (Saint) Opie the big old black lab, at once. But that was at the farm, and if they took off and dragged my well-padded butt across some plowed field in pursuit of deer, rabbits, ground hogs, or fox, we might emerge bruised and battered, but at least we would emerge. Here, in the city, if they drag me into the street, and there's a truck coming, well it's not a pretty picture.

And then there's the noise factor. We feel compelled to sound the GREAT VERMIN ALERT at the sighting of any squirrel, evil horrible cat, or hairy dog, and we've been known to be fooled by Blowing Trash. And we can make some noise. I have been training them to be quiet by carrying pockets full of treats. If they see any of the Great Vermin subspecies, and they don't bark, they get a treat. It's worked better than any other method I have tried. The 'head bop' method simply taught them to duck while they screamed. And lordy it was a mess when I forgot I had the poop bag in my hand and I bopped Luciano on the head and the poop bag exploded. That was not a good method. Walking in smaller groups greatly decreases the noise factor, and a pair of dogs doesn't get nearly as riled as a pack of nine.

I did decide to walk in threes this morning. Call me lazy. First three consisted of Giacomino, Maria, and Mama Pajama. The cumulative ages (not counting me) top thirty-six years. Thirteen and a half, twelve and more than a half, and ten and a half. That's a lot of dog years. In people years they would be ninety-three, ninety, and seventy-three. In deference to Mama Pajama, we went around two blocks instead of one. On the last leg, a Stupid City Squirrel decided to jump out on the sidewalk ten feet in front of us. Ouch! (Instinct propels the dogs forward playing havoc with my decrepit shoulders.) Good dogs! They regain their brain function and turn to look for their no barking treats. Ouch! Mama Pajama likes a little blood gravy with hers: chomp. I am nonetheless delighted with their restraint.

Then a big treat. Neighbor Lorrie is out in her yard. Lorrie is one of Mama Pajama's Very Favorite People in the Whole World. Oh she wiggles and wags and grins, and praises me for having found Lorrie, and goes back to wagging her delight at Lorrie. Lorrie makes a great fuss over the little sweetheart, and then Lorrie and I catch up. I have no doubt that I missed the dogs' hints. Lorrie and I were talking away, and I'm quite certain that the dogs were trying to get my attention.

"You-hoooo??? Hello, idiot Human? Anyone home in la la land? Do you hear that? Do you have a single scent gland in your entire olfactory system? Ears, please?"

"Blah, blah, blah." I was talking to my friend in total oblivion.

So, Mama Pajama sounded the full GREAT VERMIN ALERT.

"Wow," said Lorrie, hands over her ears.

Once a month on the first Saturday at noon, since we live in Tornado country and have a nuclear plant next door, they test the Emergency Alert Siren System. (This can be quite disconcerting to people who have moved here from other parts and don't know it is a test.) The sirens can be heard for miles. They don't hold a candle to Mama Pajama's GREAT VERMIN ALERT.

"Oh, man!" cried Lorrie as blood from her ruptured eardrums trickled through her fingers. "She is loud!"

The Stupid City Squirrel hopped along the telephone wires overhead. I wished he would get electrocuted. (I'm sorry, but I really did.) Giacomino and Maria are head butting me for their treats, because they haven't made a sound. I am mortified as it is only 7:30 in the morning, and this is not at all neighborly.

"Later, Lorrie," I say, dragging the dogs the half a block home. Mama Pajama's eyes are shining; it's been a great morning for her, so far.

Next walk was Mama Pajama's brother Fat Charlie, and the much miffed Delia and her brother Luciano. "Well, it is high time," sniffs Delia. "Second group, indeed. Humph and grumble." But then we're out the gate and heading down the sidewalk and all is forgiven. And there are squirrels everywhere. What is it, National Torment Dogs Day in squirreldom? And I don't help matters. When I see a squirrel or cat as we walk along, I let out an involuntary gasp, usually coupled with an expletive. I can't help it. If the dogs haven't already seen the critter, my gasping and expleting sets them in a fit. They know what it means. In fact, you can sit in the TV room, amid somnolent dog bodies, and I can gasp an expletive and the entire pack will explode and run around looking for vermin. Then they realize they are in the TV room and I have played a joke on them and they shoot me "how could you" looks and try to find a better place to lie down than the one they just vacated.

But the three dogs were fantastic, and I managed to sing songs the whole time to distract myself from gasping and we did fine.

(to the tune of Home on the Range)

Oh give me a home where the squirrellies don't roam

And the sidewalks are all free from prey!

Where the cats stay inside

And the loose dogs all hide

And in peace we would walk everyday...

Only two and a half more miles to go. The third group. I stuffed my pockets full of Really Yummy Treats. I sang. First thing the neighbor's cat comes trotting down the sidewalk towards us. Gasp, expletive, BACK TO SINGING IN A SHOUT:

HOME HOME IN PADOOKEE

WHERE THE VERMIN COME AT YOU IN SPADES,

EVERY CAT EVERY SQUIRREL

IN THIS WHOLE FRIGGING WORLD!

I WOULD LOVE TO LAUNCH ONE HAND GRENADE.

The dogs, along with the workers on the roof next door, look a little frightened of me. I'm a little frightened of me. I have no effect on the squirrels or cats, alas. We must have passed twenty of them. I passed out treat after treat, and I beamed at the dogs. Good dogs! Wonderful dogs! We pass a couple of hairy dogs and we don't make a sound. My nerves are frazzled to the point where I'm quite positive that you can see sparks flying out the top of my head, the ends of my fingers, and probably out my butt too, but the dogs, bless them, haven't screamed once.

And people say, "It's so nice you can walk with your lovely dogs. Isn't it a great way to relax?"

Yah.

My dog is getting old

My dog is getting old.

Actually, there's no "getting" about it. My sweet dog is old. Giacomino (pronounced, for the non-Italians in the group "jocko-MEEN-o") is thirteen and a half. I've been through this many times before, and though I'm better at knowing what to expect, it all still comes as a surprise.

Giacomino - Beans - started out as a for-profit-breeder's leftovers. We rescued him when he was a nine and a half week old starved puppy.




The photo was from a week after he came to us, and in that week he had gained three pounds. He was just the ugliest of ducklings. When he arrived, Bill scooped him up and carried him around, crying. Bill's soul is entirely too gentle to conjure up the cruelty involved in that tiny puppy's introduction to this world. And of course there is so much worse out there.

Giacomino was named for an immigrant who helped Bill's father in the olden days on the farm. A wizened little man, down on his luck, who cheerfully dug ditches and did odd jobs with a strength impossible from his wiry small frame. It fit the puppy perfectly.

He was supposed to stay ugly and sweet, but he missed that message. He stayed sweet, but he didn't stay ugly, and he became my most accomplished whippet, in terms of titles earned and show wins. He won Best In Field at the American Whippet Club National Specialty in San Diego, CA. (Actually the Field Trial was in Temecula.) He won a Hound Group even before he was a champion. (That means of the 3200 dogs entered in the show, he was one of the seven that made it all the way to the Best In Show competition.) He got obedience titled and was a registered Therapy Dog. And through it all he was my shadow.

I've stepped on that poor dog a thousand times, because he's always right behind me. He follows me into the bathroom, but discretely turns his head. He came to us with a forehead full of worry wrinkles, and they have appeared throughout his lifetime when I'm doing something stupid. Like going somewhere without him. When he became the oldest dog, he moved from his crate in our bedroom to our bed at night. The previous oldest dogs always jumped up onto the foot of our bed when it was time, and curled up in a little ball. Giacomino has, every night for the past two years, jumped onto my pillow, closed his eyes and feigned sleep immediately. And every night for the past two years, I've dragged his dead weight, passive-resistive self to the bottom of the bed. He sighs.

But right now, Giacomino is not in his bed a foot behind my computer chair. He is asleep downstairs in the kitchen. I snuck up to do a quick post and take my shower, and he's deaf enough that I was able to sneak. I put the baby gate across the bottom of the stairs, so that he wouldn't fall up them. I have to help him up and down, because he's got enough disc disease in his back that his legs don't always do what he tells them. Not a good thing for narrow, curving, steep steps. Or for old dogs.

Sometimes when he is up here, and I'm writing or sewing I get up to use the bathroom. When I come out, there is Giacomino peering down the steps, ears all a-kimbo, wrinkles galore, wondering where I disappeared to. Damn the deafness. I hate embarrassing him that way. He sees me come through the bathroom door, and he wags, drops his ears, and tries to be dignified in his blunder. In his world it's unthinkable to lose his Human.

He walks around the block each morning with his beloved twelve and a half year old Maria. They scan for squirrels and evil cats the enemy of all. They leap - sort of - and "woo" when the leashes come out, and wag rewards my way. They love their walk, no matter that it is one block instead of two miles. His back feet drag as we go along making a jazz riff scratch beat on the sidewalk. I sing to him, trying to keep up Bill's good work from more than twelve years ago.


My sweet dog is old. Every day is a gift.