That might be true today.
It's hard to know where that fine line is between being ready to say goodbye to a much-loved pet, and giving up too soon. We've all faced it, or we will, if we haven't yet. The gray hair creeps over the senior muzzle, eventually whitening the entire face; the eyes cloud over, the ears stop up, and the gait shifts from exuberant to hesitant. But still she eats, drinks, roams the yard (bouncing off the fence due to the clouded eyes), and barks imperiously when she needs your attention.
Then one day she just doesn't get out of bed, choosing instead to sleep all day. You wake her up and carry her outside (if she's carry-size), and when you set her down, she falls over and can't right herself. She stands spraddle-legged, shaking from the effort of maintaining balance. You bring her back inside to her food dish because she hasn't 't eaten since the day before, and she sniffs it and turns away. You take her to the water bucket, because she drinks water 20 times a day, and she sniffs it and turns away. You put her back in her bed, and she goes back to sleep almost immediately.
So you call the vet, make an appointment to have them checked out, and you worry. And you cry, because you realize that 16+ is a fantastic age for an iggy, and her paws are totally entwined all around your heart.
Meantime, you glance over and she's standing up, getting out of her bed, hobbling to the water bucket and drinking deeply, and your heart smiles, thinking maybe it was a false alarm. You bring some BilJac liver treats to her bed, and she eats them with no hesitation. You pull the expensive lunch meat from the fridge, and give her a couple slices, breaking it up into bite size pieces. Your heart smiles again, thinking maybe it really was a false alarm.
You cuddle with her awhile, loving the weight of her 10 lbs gathered in your arms and resting on your chest, grinning when she rests her head on your shoulder, hoping she'll fall asleep there. But she lets you know she's had enough, and you gently place her back in her bed, in front of the little ceramic space heater that's been running all day for her on this fairly warm day. You notice, as you rearrange her blanket before putting her back in bed, that the bed is damp, and your heart sinks again. The little one has never peed the bed before, to your knowledge. Maybe it wasn't a false alarm.
At any rate, there's nothing you can do tonight, so you make sure she's warm and cozy, the water bucket nearby in case she wakes up thirsty, and you head to your own bed. Your other dogs curl up beside you and you find comfort in their presence and their enduring, unquestioning love.
You find yourself waking early the next morning, listening for the imperious, demanding bark of the senior iggy that always starts your day, and it doesn't come. Then you realize you haven't heard her bark since the previous morning, and she usually barks several times a day. Your heart sinks again, and you lie there cuddling the big dogs while pondering the little one.
What is the right thing to do for her? What is BEST for HER? It's hard to say. She eats, she drinks, but the sleep-aggressive dog has to wear a muzzle 24/7 because she'll walk into him while he's sleeping, not realizing he's there. She has to be carried into the yard so she doens't walk off the side of the ramp. Once there, she walks in circles, like a canoer paddling on only one side of the boat.
You think about your friends who have faced this journey before you, about Giorgio, the IG who lost both is eyes to glaucoma and lived at least one more year, confined to the kitchen and carried in and out for potty breaks. You remember how you thought that was no fit life for a dog, and you remember hoping it would never reach that point for yours. Has it now? She used to have the run of the house. Now she has a portion of the kitchen and laundry room, and her bed in the office during the day. She lost her human bed privileges when she started pooping in her sleep.
You ponder the next 10 days on your schedule. The first three are relatively light - a Friday doing course development instead of teaching, and a weekend. But the next week is packed full with a tight schedule that would leave no room for an unescheduled vet trip, if one is needed. You remember the pain of letting your last dog go without being able to be there to say goodbye, because that was best for her, and you resolve to not face that this time.
You think about asking an animal communicator to talk to your little one, but remember when she tried to do that with another dog, and how she said the dogs were surprised you had asked her, because we all communicate fine with each other. And you realize that the little one *has* been communicating with you through her cloudy eyes, the unhappy droop to her head, her gentle snuggling the night before. And you weep as you realize you might be saying goodbye today to the best little iggy that ever walked the face of the earth.
Then you start doubting yourself. Maybe you misunderstood what you saw. Maybe she's not that bad. She still eats, doesn't she? Still drinks? Maybe it's not time. We'll let Doc tell us. Doc is good at knowing this stuff.
Having decided that you're not making a decision, you get up and take hte big dogs outside. When you come back in, you go wake the little dog, and realize as you lift her from her bed that she's soaking wet. Your heart sinks again as you realize maybe you didn't misunderstand anything. You carry her outside and set her down, gently catching her before she falls over, and watch her stand spraddle-legged to keep her balance, head shifting from side to side like a snake, entire body quivering from the strain of standing. Your heart sinks again as you gently pick her up and bring her back inside to her bed in the office in front of the space heater. Since her bed is wet, you appropriate one of the beds from the big dogs and put that in front of her heater.
Then you go to your PC to type a post on GreyTalk.com and are interrupted by the sound of her toenails scrabbling on the kitchen floor. You bring her back and put some water in a dish. Because you love her, you hold the dish of water directly under her pretty little nose until she realizes it's there and starts drinking it. Then you find the BilJac liver treats and feed her some of those for breakfast, becuase she ignored her food dish when you pointed it out to her in the kitchen.
And you doubt yourself again, because she's eating and drinking, standing and walking, looking for what she wants and needs. To be honest, at this point you don't know if you'd rather she be ok or not. You don't know for sure how happy she is with her very limited life that would drive *you* crazy. So you email Doc and give her a status update, and end the email with: "Just so you know, if we have to let her go today, I'm ready." And you try not to hate yourself for saying that, and try not to think about whether you're saying that because it's best for the little one entwined in your heart, or because you can't bear the thought of watching her decline further over time and aren't willing to do the heroic things that other friends have done with/for their dogs. You reassure yourself with the knowledge that she is a much-loved dog, and she knows that she is loved and will continue to be loved no matter what happens today.
And then you sit and weep because you have no idea how this day is going to turn out, and 11am is still so very far away.
Update: 11am came and went, and at 1140, I left Doc's office alone, a tiny blue collar tucked into the pocket of my jeans, and a big piece of my heart lying on a table in Doc's exam room. Run free to good health, baby girl. Your mama loves you more than she has words to say.
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, whence cometh my help." The hills have always brought me peace, which is odd considering I'm terrified of heights. I run here when my heart hurts, and it hurts today. I was here last October for a similar reason, and the golden-leaved trees spoke to me of the beauty in change.
The trees are bare now, and the green kudzu that lined the roads is relegated to its winter status of drab brown vines, revealing the underlying foundation of its foliage sculpturing to be dead and decaying trees and buildings. The shadows of the naked trees turn the road into a UPC barcode and the roadside into an Ansel Adams homage. But whether leafed or bare, the trees speak to me of eternity and remind me that emptiness will be filled.
Usually, when coming to "my" waterfall, I leave home before sunrise, aiming to arrive as soon as the park opens, hoping to avoid both the crowds and the Georgia heat. But this is a Friday in January, when everyone is finally back at work after the holidays, so crowds are unlikely. When I left home at 830am, it was 26F, so overheating should not be an issue either. My planned arrival today is around 11am; by then the temps should be in the mid to upper 40s, if not more.
I stopped again for breakfast at Wendell's, the restaurant I discovered in October. They don't remember me, of course, but I remember them and the food/service is as good today as it was then. I told them today that as far as I'm concerned, they are now the only restaurant in Helen. As I follow the two-lane road out of Helen, I get so caught up watching a huge bird in flight (Heron? Maybe, but I never saw his long legs streaming out behind like a kite tail, so I'm not sure) that I missed my turn, and didn't realize it until I had gone two miles out of my way. The mistake was easily corrected, and soon I was making another turn, onto Anna Ruby Falls Rd. I love this road. The two lanes twist and climb, guarded on either side by trees that occasionally allow glimpses of the lake.
I normally drive this part in silence, windows open to hear the wind whispering sweet nothings to the trees. But Mike's new CD has been playing since I pulled out of my driveway some 80 miles ago, and it brings me such comfort that i let it play until I park. Looking around, I realize that even with my later than usual arrival, there are only ten other cars in the lot, and at least two of those belong to staff.
This seems to be my day to go against tradition. Instead of immediately starting the climb to the Falls, I walked away from that path, heading toward the picnic tables near the stream. There are large rocks jutting from the middle of the stream. I would love to sit on one and just listen to the wind and the water, hearing the voice of peace.
In summer this is a wading area, making the rocks accessible, but this is a Friday in January, and even in my less coherent moments, I have sense enough to not wade into the mountain-fed stream. Still, I wish I could, and as I sit on a picnic bench I hear Mike's words in my heart.
"I fell down in the valley of the shadow of death, and was so afraid I couldn't catch my breath."
Such appropriate words for this week, and this day. I had no idea when I bought Mike's CD that I would soon be walking through my own valley of shadow, but God knew and provided comfort in the music of a friend.
"I had to sit down upon a rock and breathe the promise."
I cannot sit on the rock in the stream, but I can easily cling to the Rock who is Christ, soaking his shoulder with my aching heart.
"I am persuaded that nothing in all creation can ever separate us from you."
Let that be true for Tom, I beg. I'm glad the picnic tables are empty, because the tears are flowing now, my over-burdened heart releasing its surprised pain into the comfort of God's creation.
Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I decide it's time to see the Falls. Reversing my steps until I reach the trail on the other side of the visitor center, I start my ascent. The hike to the Falls is normally fairly easy for me, but today it taxes my strength and I have to avail myself of their strategically placed bench before my legs and lungs give out. I don't know if it's winter idleness or the weight of my emotions dragging me down.
I am well within your hills, Father – where is your help? How do I silence the unending roar of "should haves" that blast through my heart, ripping my fragile peace to shreds? Why do I never get to say goodbye? What is your lesson to me in that? My heart aches, Lord, and the pain falls like liquid diamonds squeezed one by one from my eyes.
My soul is heavy with sorrow still, the burden almost more than I can carry. A song from Mike's senior project plays in my memory: "And you say, Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest! Learn of me, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light."
I'm coming Lord, crawling in my heart, knees and hands bruised by crashing onto the heartbreaking reality of a fallen world, where death claims all we love. I cling to your promise of an everlasting life nestled in the Father's love, and am grateful for its truth. Mike's songs are ringing in my head, both old and new, and I am blessed by the gift of words you have given him and your promise that reigns triumphant through all of them.
The breeze rustles the trees, soft counterpoint to the water tumbling down the rocky cleft. Creation sings your praise, Lord, bidding me join them in an alleluia of love, but my tight throat prevents the words escaping. My heart and mind then, will proclaim what my lips cannot.
Alleluia!
God is great and good,
Giver of all life and love.
Alleluia!
Tears flow again with the words, as the sun warms my back and brightens my day. God is still God, still King of Creation, still the Abba I can run to with my scraped and bruised heart. He holds all of creation in His love, including my loved ones. I start again on the trail with lighter steps and heart, the sound of falling water drawing me ever onward and upward to my goal.
I reach the Falls at last, thundering from recent rains, water jubilantly cascading from heights to depths. There's a lesson there too, about enjoying the ride even when it plunges into valleys.
I have no problem enjoying rides on quiet rivers shaded by stately trees. But rapids and cataracts dishearten me, and I find myself clinging instead of resting. The water drowns the voices of the other visitors here, nature's white noise machine ensuring I am alone with my thoughts.
My thoughts are sleepy now, like a still pool before the rapids.
They will flow with the current again, leaving the stillness to bubble along the streambed, sometimes chaotic like rapids between pools of serenity, but always they will focus on the giver of life, looking up into his hills and finding his peace.
As I wend my way down the trail to my car, I notice that even in the midst of winter's death, the rhododendrons promise the new beginning that follows every apparent ending.
I'm not yet rejoicing in this stubborn heart of mine, but my soul is lighter and the song in my head is praise, not dirge. My weeping may endure for another night or ten, sorrow cascading from my eyes, but joy returns in due time. I was blessed with the love of a brother of my heart; that love and blessing will never fade, and Tom will always be alive in my heart.
words and music by Michael Stephen Rivers, a college friend who lives in the PNW and writes/sings beautiful music.
His latest CD "My Father's Face" has a song called The Winds of Summer. Every time I listen to it, I think of ATP and the folks here. I've asked him to send me the lyrics, but until he does, here's the first verse of it. Unfortunately, it's not one of the sample tracks on his website, so I can't even point you there to hear it.
UPDATE: It IS one of the tracks on his website. Go to http://michaelstephenrivers.com and click on "Music" That launches a pop-up music player. Click on the song you want to listen to, and prepare to be entranced
FINAL UPDATE: He sent me the lyrics
She’s planting her tulips in dark soil.
Hi Miss Mary, how grows your garden?
She pushes back stray hair and sacred toil,
She just smiles at our back yard.
On her knees she tends these bulbs and seeds
That sink down in the moist, black earth
Till like petulant teens, slender and green
They rise up and sway
To taste the winds of summer,
Taste the winds, the winds of summer,
Taste the winds of summer
In our back yard.
How was your day, dear? Oh, quite contrary.
I got up late and kept on running.
So I’ll rest my arms on this old cedar fence.
Listen to the trowel, her quiet humming.
On her knees she tends these bulbs and seeds
That sink down in the moist, black earth
Till like petulant teens, slender and green
They rise up and sway
To taste the winds of summer,
Taste the winds, the winds of summer,
Taste the winds of summer
In our back yard.
I’m gonna open my heart like an old, stuck window-
Let it in, let it in, sweet air kisses my skin!
I could listen to her bright, red tulips sing
All life long…
Taste the winds of summer,
Taste the winds, the winds of summer,
Taste the winds of summer
In our back yard.
Copyright 1995 Michael Rivers/wineglass productions
...I'm planning inside stuff. With my house as well as my yard, I have 5 and 10 yr plans. Even so, it's hard for me to believe I've been in this house 4yrs already. When I bought it, it still had the original carpet that was installed when the house was built in 1986. I was ok with that, because I have a geriatric italian greyhound, and figured with old carpet, I wouldn't be upset if she messed on it (which was true).
I also figured that with her advanced age, I'd be able to replace the carpet in a couple years, after she passed on to the rainbow bridge. I underestimated my grammaw dog, there. While she is definitely old, halfway senile, partly deaf, blind in one eye, and gimpy she seems to have no interest whatsoever in the rainbow bridge. That's a good thing for my heart, but devastating to my carpet.
Poor little Zoe wakes up from sleeping, takes 2-5 steps away from her bed, and is convinced she has moved outside. This was especially annoying when she still had bed privileges with me. I revoked her bed privileges last winter, and revoked her bedroom privileges last summer. She now spends her nights in the kitchen, where the linoleum floor is much safer from her senility. But the bedroom and hall carpet are beyond repair.
I'm not much of a carpet fan - I grew up with hardwood floors. Since becoming a dog-owner, I figured I would have laminate flooring if I got to choose. But while shopping for flooring over the last month, I've fallen in love with tile.
First, I fell in love with an 18" slate tile I found in Texas. Then I got home to GA and found out that tile was pretty much only available in TX or in the outskirts of my state, requiring a 5 hour one-way trip to get it. Next, I found a 12" ceramic tile that I liked, but I'm still not sure that it won't be too dark for the entire house. The picture below was taken outside - it's darker when it's in the house, and you can't see the other colors as much.
Even so, it's incredibly affordable, and available at the big box store 3 miles from my house. I went there yesterday to confirm it was still the incredibly affordable price, and as I moved towards it, I glanced at the other tiles on display and stopped dead in my tracks.
What stopped me was an 18" glazed porcelain tile that looks like slate and has so much texture that it meets/exceeds ADA requirements. With dogs, non-slippery floors are a huge bonus. I know greyhound owners who have to put area rugs everywhere for their greys to be able to walk around the house becuase slippery floors scare them so much. And my Casey-girl has been known to slip on the one hardwood floor in my house, so non-slippery floors have a huge appeal to me.
I bought one tile and brought it home with me to see how it fits in the house. I LOVE IT. I WANT IT. It's a warmer gray than the ceramic, and the additional colors are much more noticeable in it (all of which work with the colors in my house). The picture below was taken outside and shows the 2 tiles together.
Seeing them both like that pretty much makes up my mind for me. *sigh* My wallet will cry, but I'm going with the porcelain. They also had a 12" porcelain that was similar, and a dollar less per sq ft, so I'll check that out before I finalize my decision.
I'm buying enough to do the entire house (all but the livingroom - it's hardwood), but will not install it all at once, due to budgetary constraints. I'll do my bedroom and hallway this spring, and the rest as I can afford it. So it might take a total of 2 years to get all the carpet and linoleum replaced, but that's ok.
My 88lb lap-dog Pippin has an owie on his foot that requires me to leash-walk him until it heals. So we spend time every day in my front yard which is normally off-limits to the dogs due to its not being fenced. This afternoon as we were heading back to the front door, I caught some movement in my peripheral vision, and looked towards it.
A hawk was landing on the utility pole near my house. I made Pip wait while I admired the beauty, thanked it for landing there, and asked it to wait while I grabbed my camera from inside.
Got Pippin inside, found camera and memory card (they're never in the same place cuase that would be way too easy), and scooted back to the front porch. Hawk was still there, and stayed while I took as many pictures as my dying battery would allow.
This is the best of the five (others were blurry -- it's a very windy day here in N GA). I love it when I see or hear the raptors in my neighborhood -- much as I love the songbirds that frequent my feeders, I love the raptors more, and my heart soars with them when I see them wheeling in the sky.
