Oh Mama Pajama

Mama Pajama in one of her few 'safe places' with puppy Jabber in May.

Mama Pajama is fourteen and a half, just about. She has been the Bravest Little Soul in the World. She was a phenomenal lure courser in her day. (In fact she was the #1 AKC whippet all systems except Bowen one year. Number one in dogs defeated, Best of Breeds, and Best in Fields.) She loved lure coursing. Usually she was one of the smallest dogs out there, but she would out turn, out follow, and out run the competition, much to their surprise.

And then she got sick. She got a disease which nearly killed her. (Neutrophilic vasculitis.) And when I thought it was time to put her down she said to me clear as a bell, "Not yet. Not yet." She could barely breathe, but she said, "Not yet." We cancelled the appointment and to everyone's astonishment, she got better. That was nine years ago and she's been in complete remission for four years.

Now we have a new problem. She's terrified. At first I was what terrified her. I am the tooth-scraper, the toenail-grinder. (I am also the dog-walker, and food giver, but that didn't get me anywhere.) Needless to say, nowadays Mama Pajama's teeth are gross and nails are long, because I can't stand to be her boogeyman.

The look that breaks my heart - her ever-present expression ... oh, Mama

Even with me being the Great Satan, Mama Pajama has had Happy Times. She is happy, happy, happy first thing in the morning. She bounces around me and wags and sparkles as we make our way from the bedroom through the half mile trek down the crazy stairs out the back door. She gives me silly nose pokes just like she used to on the way to the starting line. She dances and play-bows. And when she gets outside sometimes she even does her Spins of Joy. A tiny whirling dervish, channeling her half sister Willow, with a big grin and eyes afire.

Mama Pajama's Spins of Joy make me feel like I've won the Super Bazillion Lottery, only better. And if her brother, Sweet Old Dog Fat Charlie, is simultaneously running laps on his wobbly old legs with a big toothy grin directed my way and his breath raspy and loud through his worn out larynx ... then, my dear readers, life is grand.

Where she spends 99% of her days - on the daybed in Bill's study with Delia

She stopped going on walks this summer. It was too hot even at oh dark thirty and she said, "No." After breakfast - which she ate with relish - she would head up to the daybed in Bill's study. Only Delia would go in there, and only when Bill wasn't in the studio. Mostly she has the room to herself. I take her out to potty at lunch time, after which she runs back up to the study. Then she would happily come down for dinner, happily come down before bed, and happily tuck into her doorless crate in our bedroom for the night. (She does NOT like to share our bed.)

She used to come down for visitors, but that stopped. She used to sit on the porch with us, but that stopped. She used to love her walkies. (Back when she was too sick to walk, I carried her the whole way, because she still wanted to go.)

This week she has decided she is terrified of the kitchen and the dog room (where meals are served for goodness sake). She is so terrified that I must carry her through the kitchen, and then she won't come to the door when she's finished pottying. I have to put her in a crate while I prepare breakfast and dinner, or she slinks upstairs. She shakes in the crate. (But she does at least eat all her food.)

I'm not aware of anything that went wrong, and Bill can't recall any mishap while I was at work. Oh it is awful.

Well, Friday it was purely glorious out. I marched myself upstairs and carried my petrified dog down and said, "Mama Pajama we are going walkies." When I put her lead on (in the dog room so she was shaking and cowered) she smiled and wagged. PAY DIRT!!! We went with Fat Charlie and Sam I Am around the block, stopping to sniff at everything and to stand still in the sun, because we could. She had a good time, until we approached the house, when she got small and scared. But we had a good time for a bit. I let her slink back up to her safe place and called it a minor victory.

Yesterday, I went to help with a project at the Kennel Club. (Turned out they didn't need me, but...) Bill is out of town, and I was going to work at the hospital from three to seven-thirty so another nurse could be off to be in a wedding, and I really didn't want to crate the dogs all morning too. So, I loaded everyone up in the van and off we went.

Mama Pajama has the crate right behind my head, and she looked frightened and miserable, even after we passed the vet's office. But when we got to the Kennel Club property, and I got Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie out of the van, and she spied her beloved friend Dee, oh happy day!!! She wagged and she JUMPED UP ON DEE!!! She wagged some more and smiled out loud! BINGO BINGO BOOYAH!!!! Slot machines going crazy in my heart! And I thought, what would she do if she got to see her Linda again? Her Sara? Her Rhonda? Her nana Terrie? Oh, Mama.

Today is another gorgeous day. We will go for a walk, Miss Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie, sweet Sammy, and I. And I have some figuring to do. I have to figure out some short little visits for her with her Special People. I need to figure out some Fun Stuff for Mama.

My job is to give Mama Pajama a bit of joy every single day. It's only fair. That is only a fraction of what she's given me.

hug your hounds

Rain, Rain, Go AWAY

the 1937 flood

And leave my poor sweet Very Old Dog alone.



Giacomino didn't start minding thunder and lightning until he was twelve or so. Never gave it a whisker's notice. Now, he breaks my heart. For nearly fourteen years he has been brave, silly, noble, adoring, and treasured. He feared nothing.



On a good day you can hear his heart with your bare ear, thunkin' away with its leaky valve. He doesn't have a murmur, he has a shout out. I asked about a chest xray to see how enlarged his sweet heart actually is at his last visit, and Doc said, "Well whatcha want to do that for? He feel all right? Is he eating and happy and doin' good? He looks fantastic! Whatcha want to do that for?" I love my vet.



It started thundering at 7:30 yesterday morning. I was at a Chamber of Commerce meeting. (Only to support a good friend would I go to a 7:30 AM meeting.) I heard that thunder and my heart squeezed for my Very Old Dog. Bill was right there with him in the kitchen, having his coffee and saying, "It's OK, Giacomino." We could hear the rain on the roof of the Convention Center, and boom, boom, boom.



It stormed all day. The thunder came and went. But the rain kept on coming at us like crazy wild contestants hurrying down the isles on the Price is Right. Giacomino is never more than three feet away from me, hasn't been in his whole life. Not in a neurotic, separation anxiety sort of way, but in an "it's all right, I'll keep you great good company" kind of way. Yesterday he stayed closer than normal, and when the thunder would wake him, he'd raise worried eyes to my face. And he'd stand - not an easy, take it for granted task these days. And he'd pant.



I rub the bells of his ears to lessen the sound of the thunder. Sometimes that is all it takes to make it better for him. But I couldn't mask the terrific crashes of yesterday's storm.



The lightning eased up around dinner time. This was a kindness, because we were invited to our neighbors' for supper. The food was savory and the conversation just delightful, and as we were saying our thank you, the sky exploded. Even Bill said, "We've got to get back to poor Giacomino." It was only a two block drive, and we hurried.



He was beside himself. I tried going to bed as if it were a normal night, and gods weren't blowing each other up right over our heads. By midnight I took him downstairs. It's not quite as bad for him downstairs. This old house has huge windows, so there was no hiding from the lightning. There was no distracting him from earth shaking blasts coming relentlessly. The sump pump harmonized with the wind. I lay on my back on the couch, with Giacomino lying on my chest. No part of him touched the couch. But his heart was beating so hard that the couch reverberated. The cushions shook.



I talked to him, I sang to him, I read to him. I stroked his forehead and rubbed his ears. The newspaper got delivered at 2:30 AM. At first I thought it was a drunk driver, weaving from side to side up the street. Then I heard the thunk of the paper hitting the porch. Giacomino went out and peed in the rain.



At 4:45 AM the wind died down and the rain simply fell out of the sky instead of shooting itself at us. And the thunder stopped. Oh finally that damned thunder stopped. I carried my exhausted old dog up to our bed, managing not to wake Bill. Swede William, who hadn't exercised that particular precaution, and had joined Very Old Dog and me shortly after we went downstairs, went back in his crate and flopped down. We slept until 8:30.





It rained all day today, too, but there was no thunder. I don't know how my brave dog's heart didn't disintegrate right along with his last nerve and mine last night. We had a blissfully quiet day, and he is sound asleep in our bed as I type this on my laptop.



Please, weather gods, leave this dear old dog alone.

Hug your brave hounds

It's Raining, It's Pouring

When it decides to rain around these parts, it can solid rain. The storms here are violent and don't fit the pattern we all knew back in Maryland. The first time we had thunder and lightening in January, the two oldest dogs, now both gone, cried "No fair!" Gracious and Caruso had each independently become severely thunderphobic in their dotage. I don't know who detested distant rumbling more: oh how it tore my heart to see my darling, dignified seniors shaking violently, tongues curled in panic panting, eyes wild with terror. It was so bad that I got drugs for them from the vet, after trying the diffusers with mom's pheromones, and the herbal stuff which had no effect on anything but my purse. Even the drugs from the vet were a wash. So great was their fright, that the dose had to be enough to render them wobbly and incoherent, which brought on its own set of fears.

Now Very Old Dog, who will be fourteen next month has become a thunder hater. Thank goodness, Maria, just turned thirteen, does not mind the boomers in the least. The dogs - all nine - and I took Bill to Paducah's little airport yesterday. The storm warnings were dire, but his flight was on. Barkley International (that cracks me up) Airport has two or three commercial flights in and out per day. The sky above our farm in Maryland was always host to multiple planes, their trailing stripes criss crossing in some nonsensical Tic Tac Toe of the gods. Here, a plane in the sky is something to make everyone, even the dogs, pause and notice.

We dropped Bill off, and then went on to the Kennel Club for Tuesday practice. I had to move some equipment and tidy a bit in preparation, and as I was outside shaking a throw rug, I saw Bill's plane fly over. I jumped up and down and waved like a wife at a returning World War II sailor. Only instead of waving a hanky, I was waving a big hairy throw rug with dirt and dog hair forming a cloud around me. "Bye Bill! Here I am, honey! Here! Here!" Jump, jump. Silly, but there you go.

As soon as the first person and dog arrived for practice, the skies opened. The Kennel Club building has a metal roof, and there are overhangs on each side under which you can park. The rain crashed down, and the noise obliterated all other sounds. I ran out to check on Very Old Dog in the van. He was mildly concerned, but not the least frantic. I gave them each two biscuits and brought Swede William in to practice.

It poured the entire two hours, making our informal conformation and obedience practice pretty much an individual thing between folks and their dogs. If we tried to help each other or compliment something, it went like this:

"Wow, she looks great tonight!"

"Are you talking to me?"

"Pardon?"

"I didn't hear you?"

"Oh, she looks really good!"

"What crook's in the 'hood?"

"No, I said she is doing great!"

"Well, of course she's chewing bate, I just gave it to her!"

"Never mind."

So we mostly communicated with smiles and nods and thumbs up.

If you want to see nine disgusted dogs, come witness mine after a trip to the Kennel Club which did not involve running in the fenced area. Add to that being dragged out of their warm, dry van in a torrential downpour and being pushed through the gate into our little yard, and you've seen the worst. Oh they were not happy campers. They do love the attacks of the sillies that come with being inside and wet, though, and soon we were all a chaotic crash of towels and toys and woo-wooing. Maria squeaking the purple monkey at a maddening rate of six squeaks per second, Sammy was shaking the life out of the platypus sending her egg babies flying, and Looch was pouncing from one flying egg to the next. Swede William was overwrought and thought he could hump Lindy Loo who was trying to run laps around the kitchen island, but not getting very far with her Swede William anchor. Delia felt the need to chastise Swede William for such an inappropriate display, and stalked him with her head, tail, ears and dander up. Looking at me to say, "Fix this, or I will! Stop the little pervert!" Fat Charlie was hip checking me for more toweling, Mama Pajama was emptying the entire water bowl while I was distracted. And now Very Old Dog was having a tug of war with Maria over the purple monkey. Dear merciful heavens! Two necks with bulging discs tugging and shaking and oh Lord don't do that, sweet hearts!

The thunder didn't start until one in the morning. I awoke to a distant rumble and thanked all that is good for Very Old Dog's very diminished hearing. He hadn't noticed. The next lightening was bright and long and his head popped up. I started the thunder routine. The lightning flashes, I start gently rubbing Very Old Dog's ears to blot out the sound of the thunder. It works really well, as long as I don't miss a flash. I ended up sleeping sideways across the bed, so that my hand was already on his neck. Fat Charlie was in Bill's spot in his absence, and spread out onto my pillow as well. By three the thunder had stopped, though the rain hadn't noticed, and we slept soundly the rest of the night.

It is still raining, so in lieu of walks, we're having individual play, or training play, or rubs and cuddles. As long as the thunder stays away, and leaves my Very Old Dog be, this rainy storm is feeling cozy. The daffodils are in full bloom, and that helps.

Hug your hounds

[Oh and do read the next entry down and enter the drawing for the give away!]

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.

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

-

-

Something is Up...

Hello, it's Very Old Dog here. This is me on the right, walking with my Lady Maria so you know who's talking.

My name is Giacomino (phonetically speaking 'Jocko MEEN') or Beans for short.

Something is fishy around here. We think it might be something that the C-A-T did. Or not. Our Servant was sprucing up everything and putting name tags on our downstairs crates. This is usually Good News as it usually foretells of a Trip. I always get to go on the Trips, unless the Senile Servant forgets me. I do worry that she'll forget me.

They've been all preoccupied with Benign Potatoes Hyper Trophies and all they talk about is TUNA, TUNA, TUNA. And the manservant has been uncharacteristically jumpy and worried and they've set the alarm for FOUR AM. The weirdest thing is I heard them talking about going to Nashville for the TUNA. I know they've gotten tuna in Paducah before, because the Servant pours the juice from the can over our food and we LOVE it, so why would they drive two and a half hours each way for TUNA? And leave at O-dark-thirty in the morning?

But the Servant is so Senile and starkers, that nothing would surprise us at this point. In her big rant post she quoted Senator McGovern and called him Senator McCarthy... Woooo weeee talk about fractured fairy tails!!! Luckily a blogger named Nat whose fingers are still connected to his brain pointed out her error, so she fixed it right away on the rant. Of course she had already written her two senators and her representative quoting Senator McCarthy's Washington Post editorial... You should see just how red she can blush, and just how long it stays. Silly Senile Servant! Trying so hard to do the right thing and being so human and fallible! I gave her extra snuggles for that, and Sam I Am did too. but she's human so she's still embarrassed and mad at herself.

The good news is that our really good friend and neighbor Karen came calling today, and the Servant showed her where all our treats and biscuits are. So if they do go on a Trip to Nashville for the TUNA tomorrow, at least Karen knows which crates are whose (I don't have one, I have a BED) and where the treats are.

That's the news from here. The Servants are finally asleep. They won't admit it to each other, but they're both so nervous and upset. Silly things.

Hug your humans-

Very Old Dog

========================================

Be Still

Be still, my little dog, lie near and let me love you.
Your heart and mine, close and quiet in deep calm.
I need this time, this peace, this moment just because you
Share my very soul, you are my prayers and my psalm.

Be well, my little dog, rest easy and recover.
So tired from the struggle in your body with disease.
Sleep tight my little dog, while around you I will hover
Praying deep with all my voice: heal my little dog, oh please.

I love you, little dog, I love everything about you.
I love your quiet, and your wildness, your softness and your might.
You are a great little dog, I've never had a cause to doubt you.
Now, be still my little dog, rest quiet and sleep tight.

(c) P C Renzulli

All Before Nine in the Morning

I woke up this morning from an odd dream. It had to do with giving birth, and in it, Bill said, "Patience, if you just let go, I think it will come right out." Made me think about the trouble I'm having with my novel. In my dream I didn't "know nuthin' about birthin' no baby," and in real life I don't know nuthin' 'bout writin' no novel, but perhaps if I just let go, it will come right out. Even in my dreams, Bill is so wise.

We ate our yummy organic non-instant oatmeal with real maple syrup and started right in on walking the waggle. Very Old Dog has been having a bit of trouble lately. The ligaments in one of his toes on his right front foot just gave up working at all last week. So this one toe is flat instead of arched like its neighbors. And it hurts. I've been giving him some Trammadol, and wrapping his foot in Vetrap, and that has helped a lot. We've been able to do our usual walk that way, around just one block with the Lady Maria.

This morning, after I wrapped his foot and put on his coat, Very Old Dog went into a crate and wouldn't come out. (He doesn't even have a crate; he has a special bed, so he got in Maria's.) He just looked at me with one ear kattywonkus and his worry wrinkles had sprouted on his forehead. For all of his thirteen and a half years, there was not a dog in the house more enthusiastic about going "walkies." Back at the farm, he would leap straight off all fours like a pogo sticking cartoon character as we headed off. We walked miles in the farm fields on lead and off, chasing deer and fox, squirrels and groundhogs, cottontails and the wind. And for the last five years we've walked all over this southern city, never shedding the leads, but losing none of the enthusiasm. Trading sunsets for river views, fields for sidewalks, deer for Stupid City Squirrels, fox for admiring strangers. Even two weeks ago, he was trying to pogo stick at the sight of an Evil Kitty, which is how he injured his toe.

But this morning, he went in that crate, and he made it clear that he did not want to go. So I told him it was fine and gave him his biscuit with the rest of the dogs waiting their turns to walk, and Maria and I headed out alone. I was crying a little bit.

We got to the next corner and Maria and I got attacked by the Evilest Evil Kitty of Them All. It's our new neighbor's cat, and I'm sure he is a wonderful companion. He is certainly quite the Character. He goes on walks with their dogs (though he's loose), and he spends a lot of time outside Stalking the Neighborhood. We heard a great commotion in the leaves to our left, and turned to see the Evilest Evil Kitty of Them All charging full speed at Maria and me. Yikes. At the last second, he charged up a tree right next to us, stopped on the first branch and blew a big raspberry right at the stupefied Maria. If a dog could stand with her jaw down around her ankles, Maria did. She looked up at me with big eyes.

I gave her a yummy for having not barked and we proceeded. We went about ten steps when I saw a very large, loose dog come around the corner of the next house. My heart jumped. Maria would be so vulnerable. Oh, thank God, it was our sweet neighbor Woody. Woody looks like he is maybe a Rottweiler/German Shepherd cross and is just the most wonderful guy. He belongs to our friends, Keyth and Elaine, and they take the very best care of him. They walk him miles and miles and pick up his poop and he's always beautifully groomed and he is loved and socialized and oh my good Lord, what a relief it was Woody. I called him and he came up grinning and got a treat and we headed back to his house. I knew Keyth and Elaine would be frantic that he had gone AWOL.

I rang the doorbell at Woody's house. Now, I must describe my typical morning walkies appearance. I am not a morning person. I usually get up, eat breakfast, and start to walk. Then comes the showering, getting dressed in real clothes, brushing teeth, putting on make up, doing hair part of the day. So I can look a little scary when I walk, but my neighbors are a tolerant bunch, and they're used to me.

I rang the doorbell again, somewhat urgently. Woody had run around to the back of the house, presumably to the site of his escape, but I couldn't see him. Luckily, I didn't see Keyth coming down the stairs, as the door surprisingly opened. OH! Oh, dear! Oh my!

My father had wanted to name me Prudence, but my mother prevailed. Something must have stuck, because I really am a prude.

I had rousted Keyth out of his shower. Keyth grew up in California. I don't know why I mention it here, but it seems important. He was holding a towel in front of his wet unadorned self. I don't know anything that was going on below his bare, nekked shoulders, because my eyes never went below shoulder level.

"Woody's loose!" I blurted, my eyes fixed firmly on Keyth's face.
"Oh, OK, wow, thanks," said Keyth. I don't know which sight was more scary. My morning walkies appearance, or Keyth's birthday suit. I did not see him turn around (thank God in heaven) because Maria and I were already scurrying down the sidewalk, back on our merry way.

Well, after that, the rest of the dogs' walks were just tame. Never mind the eight Stupid City Squirrellies during Fat Charlie, Mama Pajama, and Swede William's walk. "Oh, that's nothing!" I said to them. Puhff. And the bus full of high school students touring the galleries who thought it was clever to bark at Sam I Am and Lindy Loo? Forget about it. I just waved at the kids, delighted that they were fully clothed. "Oh yeah, no one has ever barked at a dog before. You're so original and clever, even the dogs aren't impressed. Have a great day!" I said under my grateful breath.

Very Old Dog did not lobby to go on any of the walks, so I was confident that I had understood his wishes. I gave him an extra treat, and he is now on my lap as I type. Such a huge change in our lives.

All before nine in the morning.

Hug your hounds!

----------------------------------------------------

The Lady Maria

Maria will be thirteen on February 7th. Unimaginable! She is ageless.

Maria was the fourth whippet in as many years to join our family. First came Gracious who was going to be my only whippet ever. A year and a half later Caruso flew across the country to keep Gracious company. The next year Giacomino came, in Operation Rescue. Then Maria. She was the baby. A dear friend who helped out at a large show kennel fell in love with her and conspired to get her in a loving home. "There is something about her expression," she said to me. "You have to have her."

I went to the kennel. Because of the sheer number of whippets there, I was horrified. All of the dogs were happy and all of the runs were clean. But there were three litters with only a few weeks separating them in the "puppy building." My friend led me by my appalled elbow to the front of the run which housed Maria, her mother, and her litter mates. The litter was seven weeks old. The mom stood and wagged at us, waking her sleeping brood. The puppies tumbled over each other, yawning and stretching and running to meet us. Maria stayed out of the scrum, but her eyes never left mine as she play-bowed and did a little twinkling "ah-roooo."

My friend got her out of the run. At seven weeks, she already stacked (the legs parallel, head up show pose) perfectly, but she was uncomfortable being held. She was friendly and engaging, but stiff as a board when you held her in your arms. I imagined with this many puppies, the only time they got held was to do toenails and vaccinations and wormer. So I put her down and played with her. "Woo ah-roooo!" she said. Such a mouthy little one.

Show breeders like to keep their puppies to "grow them out." It's much easier to see if a five month old pup is likely to make it in the show ring than a nine week old. My friend kept nagging at the breeder to "give" the red and white bitch to Patience. Finally at a show, I was in the ring with the breeder. We were both in line waiting for our ribbons after a large class was judged. She was a Big Deal in the dog show world and I was a Newbie. I was intimidated. I said, "See, if you let me buy that red and white puppy I will get her out and show her. I'm still learning, but I'm getting better at handling."

"Oh, you want to buy her? Your friend was trying to get me to give her to you. If you want to buy her, I'll bring her to the show tomorrow and you can take her home." All righty then. I had no idea my friend had been trying to get me the puppy for free. And I was so new "In Dogs". I had dogs all of my life, but the Dog World was a novelty with unfamiliar rules and customs. I am now ashamed of having supported a breeder who churned out litter after litter after litter after litter.

But I just didn't know back then.

So the next day Maria came home. She was five months old.

I named her Maria to appease Bill. He had wanted to name his oldest daughter Maria, but his waspy first wife thought that Maria Renzulli sounded too Italian. I'm waspier by double than his first wife, but I thought Maria was a lovely name, and how could Bill mind another whippet if it bore his first choice name?

She was a darling puppy. So full of spit and spirit. And mouthy! What a talker. She never, ever challenged Queen Gracious's authority. I could not get her over her dislike of being held, and Lord knows I tried. She would tremble and hold herself at arm's length, pushing with all her little might. And when I would put her down she would shake herself off and bounce grateful "woo-woo's" at me and run and find a toy to kill. Glad to have escaped the torturous lap time alive.

And now, when she'll be thirteen in a couple of months, she has finally had a change of heart. For all of these years she has been the House Clown. If I had a nickle for every time I have exclaimed, "Oh, Maria you make me laugh," I would be able to buy a nice motor home, free and clear. And her mouth! She has even gotten mouthier in her dotage, as impossible as that seems. I borrowed a trick I saw from another whippet person. I can ask Maria, "What does a cheerleader say?" "Rah, rah, rah!" she says, bouncing her forelegs off the ground with every rah. I need ear plugs to fix their dinners. She starts when I move the bowls from the sink to the counter. "Whine, rooo, rah-rah, don't forget me! Hurry up human. Oh, the help is terrible these days. A mature whippet could starve to death by the time you get the bowls down. How hard is it to scoop the dinner in the bowl? Are you still at it? What is taking so long? Hellooooooooooo? Yahooooooooo! Here it is!" Then she daintily eats, one kibble at a time, staring daggers at any dog who finishes before her and saunters over to see if she's going to eat all of hers. "RRhhhrrrrrr," she warns, keeping one eye on the interloper and one eye on her dish, refraining to take another bite until the curious backs off. "Oh Maria you make me laugh! Eat your silly dinner."



But back to that change of heart. In Maria's contract it clearly states that she must be covered. Any time, day or night, she will woof to summon her Humble Servant to tuck her under her blanket. Now, she is perfectly capable of doing this herself, and when I come back from running errands, I will find her all tucked in. She pulls and bites the blanket, and circles and moans, and finally she is completely invisible in her shroud of warmth. But if I'm in ear shot, downstairs, upstairs, in the middle of a dinner party for twelve, in the shower, whatever, I will be mustered to her Ladyship's bedside.

Her change of heart? Lately she has stood by my chair and whined. Being a limited and dumb Servant I try several different tacks to appease her. I move her great granddaughter off of Maria's favorite chair. "Is that what you want?" No. I go and open the door. "Do you need to go out?" No. "Are you chilly?" I put her jammies on. That's nice but no. I let her lick my oatmeal bowl. "Is that what you wanted?" Yum, no. "What ever is it, Sweetheart?" Whine, whine, sad eyes, whine. "Oh, Honey, I'm sorry. I'm so slow. Humans are just so hard to re-train. Here you go."

I scoop her up and hold her in my lap. She stiffens for the lift up and for an awkward moment until I settle her just right in my arms. Then she nuzzles in, and sigh-moans in contentment. And relaxes and melts into my heart.







Oh Maria you make me laugh. After twelve and a half years you are my lapdog. What a lucky human am I.








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And now for a little excitement! There is a group of wonderful bloggers called Dogs With Blogs. The whippets are making lots of new friends there from all over the world. They met an unreservedly delightful little Wire Fox Terrier named Asta from NYC that has taken the waggle under her sweet paw. She does not talk baby-talk, being a clever and precocious litter terrier, but she does have a bit of trouble pronouncing her "r's" - probably part of that New Yowk accent.
She is so kind and sweet and her secretary helps her to have just the nicest blog, so we made her this award to show our appreciation:



The Blog With Heart Award

• For consistently using compassion, humor and intelligence to create a blog worthy of the dogs who inspire us.

Do visit Asta's blog, and you'll see what I mean!

(The whippets are a little embarrassed by my lack of graphics skills, but they think that Asta will understand.)

A Dream

Sweet is the dream, divinely sweet, when absent souls in fancy meet.

-Sir Thomas Moore

I had a dream last night. Most likely sparked by a friend who spoke of a dream he had of his dog who had died last year. I felt a twinge of envy at his dreaming fortune. I used to have a rich dream life; now my dreams are sparse, vague, and melt into fog sooner than my head leaves its pillow.

But this morning I woke with a dream enveloping me, wrapping me in baby blanket clouds of comfort. I was holding Gracious, my first whippet, who died in 2004 at age thirteen.

In life Gracious was a strong spirit. She communicated with my dogdumb disadvantaged self with a shattering eloquence. I knew when Gracious was pleased with me, disappointed in me, when her life was good. She was not called Her Royal Highness for naught.

Not that she couldn't be silly. She could do "woozles" with the best of them. Butt high in the air, head poking, retreating, snaking at a squeak toy, then she would grab the toy, spin in dizzying, repetitive circles and then take off in butt tucked zoomies only to throw the toy, pounce on it, and start the game again. And then she would look at me, eyes afire with fun, and wag her joy my way. And in its purity, in its honesty, that joy was infectious. A person who could resist the spell of Gracious's joy was, well, this will sound judgemental, but a human who was not affected by Gracious's generosity of spirit was, quite simply, unworthy. Undeserving. Pitiable in their selfishness.

Gracious had the best memory of any dog - or human for that matter - I've ever encountered. I nearly lost her at a dog event when she saw a person she had lived with for a few weeks back when she was eleven weeks old. She was a yearling at the time, and she saw her old friend and bolted to greet her. She hadn't seen her for nine months, and had lived with her as a three month old puppy for a couple of weeks, but she was a Special Person to Gracious for her entire life. And I learned to hold on to Gracious's lead extra tight whenever we were somewhere that Lesley might be.

I got Gracious when she was six months old. I was her fifth home. After she had been with me for three months, I went to see a faraway friend for a week. When I returned, Gracious was nearly bald. Her hair had fallen out. I promised her I wouldn't leave her again. And I didn't.

And then there was Linda. All of my dogs adore Linda. Well, so do I! Gracious bestowed the highest honor to Linda: she gave my dearest friend her one and only puppy, Willow. And there was absolutely no question of her gift, or of her pleasure and satisfaction at Linda's acceptance.

And there came reunions of the highest order! Throughout Willow's life, at least once a week Linda would drive the hour to our farm to visit and walk, and Gracious and Willow would revel in the fantasticness of their reunification. Gracious would greet her daughter, and thank Linda and share her glee and light would shine in our small kitchen and we would every one benefit. It was a delicious contagion; a warm smile erupts as I remember.

But my dream this morning was of the quiet times with Her Highness. In life, when Gracious curled next to me, that is, when it was her idea and I was deemed deserving, she shared her deepest heart. Those of us who have completely loved an animal know this sharing. If you haven't experienced this, if your dog is tied to a tree out back, I could write a million words, yet you would not understand, and I am sorry for you. And it was this, exactly this, in my dream.

I held her in my sleep as I had held her for thirteen years. There is nothing quite so soft as a whippet's ear. Dreaming, I absently nuzzled her ear with my fingers. I felt the warmth of her body in my arms. I felt her breathing. It was so very real. I shared her heartbeat again. I embraced her spirit, and I loved her. Finally. Again.

I woke with a feeling of that contagious joy. I had tears, but they were tears of great good fortune. It was a good dream.

Gracious at age twelve, candid photo by Steve Surfman

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When All Is Right

The early morning autumn sun in Western Kentucky starts out bashful and timid, but by eleven or so, it cheers up. We peel layers, the dogs and I. My skinny sleek-coated built for speed canines have a hard time staying warm when the temperature dips below fifty. So they wear coats. If they are running, the coats are unnecessary, cumbersome, silly. But for leashed walking or getting in a cold van or hanging around outside for human chatter, they are mandatory.

There was a frost this morning, but now I have shed my jacket and sweater and all but the oldest dogs have been relieved of their coats. We drove out to the country to chase toys and each other; to run and run. I can be worried about my world, I can be walking with heavy shoulders and constant sighs. I can feel like I've wasted my life, like I have no talent, like I've done no good. Until my dogs start running and playing on a perfect day in the country and they grin at me as they run past and I am on top of my world.

I've brought my Very Old Dog. He is too fragile at thirteen and a half to rough house with the youngsters. Spinal stenosis divorces his legs from his will. I know he wants to rip and tear and teach those pups just how to run. I know he remembers what it felt like to run like poetry. Eyes shining while legs harmonize with the wind, lungs and heart filling, pumping, smiling and the whole world blurs by in awe.

I keep his leash on while the youngsters cavort. They swoop too close and I yell, "Hey! Watch out!" and they laugh at me and cut even closer on the next pass. I can feel the Very Old Dog's heart beating in the leash in my hand perfectly, as though the leash itself were arterial. His valves are leaky and the big old muscle has to work harder than ever. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. His ears are standing straight up at attention and he barely whines with each exhale: "Let me go, let me go, let me run like I used to, let me go."

I am tempted.

My dear friends arrive, and they offer to hold the young 'uns on leads.

"Sure. Why not."

I leave Sam I Am loose; he's old enough to be sensible, and he's polite by nature. I hold my breath as Very Old Dog and Sam I Am play tug with a de-stuffed toy. "Be careful of your neck, you silly Old Dog." I silently entreat the Old Dog gods to look out for him. It is so beautiful today. I have even taken off his coat. He is smiling as he wins the toy. Sam I Am is so gracious.

And then Very Old Dog takes off. His stride, once the simple picture of ground eating perfection, is all kattywonkus. (Oh Lord, don't fall down.) Sam I Am feels my concern and looks at me, worried. Very Old Dog feels nothing but the grass under his toes and the sun in his great big heart.

He pulls up to me wagging.

And every single thing in my world is right.

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.

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.