When you lose a dog that had an enormous personality you have to expect a change in energy. I always knew Hazer’s persona dominated everything on our farm, but I never put any thought into what it would actually be like when he was gone. Oh sure, I let myself think about it those half gazillion times I was irked with him for one reason or another, but I never seriously considered the changes.
I spent the majority of last week trapped inside because it rained eight days in a row. I got a tad depressed, and several times I had to remind myself that things would get better once I could get outside and start working on projects in the yard and garden. It’s been said that keeping a routine helps ward off the blues, and staying “busy” does too. So when the weather improved and I was finally able to dig into my outside chores I was shocked to find I was more sad than ever.
Again, it’s not like I’m trying to dwell on the fact that Hazer is gone, rather, I’ve actually gotten to the point where I don’t think about him every waking minute of the day. But yesterday as I went about digging and trimming it occurred to me that I’m going to have to go through an entire year of seasonal changes before I can fully wrap my head around this loss. Because every season brought a different role that Hazer played. His personality was so large that he inserted himself into the middle of everything I did. In fact, just last week when I pulled my vacuum cleaner from the closet I hesitated, waiting for the scramble of nails as he dashed to grab the hose and give it a good shake. Every day I go through dozens of little moments like that, moments where I pause to do something with or for for a dog no longer there. Moments that feel empty and profoundly different.
Learning to do things without Hazer beside me is going to take time and a concerted effort to change my focus. I’m sorry to say that the first few weeks Hazer was gone I barely even noticed Gus and Nina. They drifted in and out of my peripheral vision, doing what they always did without any help from me. I’m paying more attention to them now, trying to get a fix on who they are without Hazer here to steal the limelight. Nina seems to be changing the most, which surprises me given how much Gus had to dodge Hazer’s propensity to pick on him. I thought Hazers absence would affect Gus the most, but it’s not.
Nina has always been her own dog; aloof to everyone but me and Velcro without being needy. She’s the perfect blend of “busy,” but with an “off” button, the kind of dog who takes good care of herself, avoids trouble and will do ANYTHING you ask her with no questions asked. Inside, she likes to be near, not on top of you, but I can’t leave with a room without her immediately following. Outside, Nina marches to the beat of her own drum. Sometimes she’ll hang out nearby, but it’s far more likely she’ll be off poking around the property. She’ll pop by every now and then to keep tabs on my whereabouts, but generally she’ll wander off out of sight. (She’ll come lickity-split if called.) And she’s happy to follow me out to the barn, but once there she’ll promptly part company to go off to do her own thing elsewhere. Nina is what I’d call an “independent” thinker: she’ll gladly take advisement from me, but if none is offered then she’ll figure out a way to entertain herself.
Since Hazer died Nina has become more “there” for me, especially outside. I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find Nina has been sicking by me in the barn. Prior, she might have made a quick pass through the barn before going off to do something else. “OK, Mom’s here. I’ll just go poke around the stone wall or yard,” and off she’d go only to rejoin me when I was done. But now she’s actually planting herself out behind the barn right where Hazer used to lay to watch me pick the paddock and feed. Sometimes she scoots off for a few minutes, but she always comes right back. Her waiting doesn’t seem to be a fluke because I can tell she’s tuned into me. Every time I glance her way her eyes are on me, following my every move just like Hazer did. At first I thought Nina had an ulterior motive: She’s always been a living Hoover for any of the grain the horses dropped. But she’s not even trying to get to the leftovers. Apparently she’s just there waiting for me. Two months ago that never would have happened because Hazer always had my back.
Yesterday when I was out gardening I noticed that every time I looked up Nina was laying some fifteen or twenty yards away, watching. Granted, she’s not ten feet away like Hazer was, but she’s there instead of going off to do her own thing. That’s VERY unusual behavior for Nina and I’m not quite sure what to make of it. Do dogs consciously choose to fill a role when another passes? I don’t know, but I’d like to think so. I could explain this behavior by saying she’s twelve years old and not as active as she used to be, but that’s not true at all. Nina is twelve going on eight and what’s more, this behavior only started after Hazer died.
Don’t get me wrong: Nina is NOT Hazer. Even though she’s doing some of the things Hazer used to routinely do, she does them HER way not his. For example, when gardening with Hazer if I took a little “break” Hazer would move in and flop down beside me looking for some attention. Nina doesn’t do that. Instead, she keeps her distance or uses my breaks as an opportunity to go “off duty” and do her own thing. So the dance is different. It has it’s own rhythm and new steps that are unique to the dancers. And if you’re not careful that’s right where the sadness creeps in: your ear hears an old favorite song, your eyes see your old dance partner. You don’t intend to go there, but you do. Old habits die hard.
It’s a struggle not to see Hazer sitting somewhere nearby, just like he is in the photo above. I thought summer would be easier, but I’ve come to realize it will be rife with memories and habits that are going to be tough to break. Sometimes I’m OK with it, but more often than not this sadness sucks the joy right out of whatever I’m doing. I know this too shall pass, but I don’t know when. Until then I’ll just keep trying to give myself over to the change in our dynamics, knowing that eventually this new will become the norm.
I feel like I should be starting to act more like myself: Less grief, more …. well, less grief? It’s not that I don’t feel happy. Sometimes I do. Gus will do something that makes me burst out laughing or I’ll smile when one of the horses nickers for green grass. (They’ve been getting SO pushy about grazing!) I’m excited things are starting to blossom outdoors and in spite of the chilly temps, last week I saw my fist humming birds. That always makes me giddy. But the truth of the matter is, I’m still battling daily bouts of the blues.
It’s not like I go around looking for all the ways I can miss my dog. I don’t. But so often I’ll start to do something or I’ll be smack dab in the middle of something when it hits me: Hazer always used to do X, Y, Z every time I did this. When you live with a quirky dog you develop a lot of odd habits. For example, Hazer always used to want to drink out of the narrow opening of my garden watering can. He’d come trotting over every single time I filled it and wait patiently for me to turn the spigot off before tilting his head sideways (that’s the only way his head would fit under the handle) to get a drink. Gus caught on to that game, but Hazer always got first dibs. For a dog who really didn’t like water, Hazer loved drinking out of my watering can. Every. Single. Time.
Hazer also licked the rugs obsessively. For some reason this activity soothed him, especially in the evening when we would watch TV. His licking kind of drove me nuts, and over the course of a few years he ruined one of my large wool braid rugs by constantly gravitating to the same place. He didn’t limit his licking to the living room either; he also licked the office rug and a small bedroom area rug. I wonder how many times over the course of his lifetime Hazer heard me say, “Hazer! Knock it off!” When I said that he’d always pause. Sometimes the licking would stop just for a moment, other times he’d quit for the night. I was never sure which was the worse of two evils: Hazer licking or Hazer stressed because I’d told him not to lick. Both had the tendency to be annoying.
I’ve posted pictures of Hazer laying on various pieces of furniture, but he wasn’t the kind of dog who wanted to share your space. He never got up on the couch or a chair unless it was unoccupied at the time, and if you decided to sit down next to him he’d quickly vacate his spot. In all the years I had him Hazer rarely got up on the bed with me. As he aged he started to lay on my bed when I wasn’t home, but I only knew this because I’d hear the thud of him jumping off the bed the minute I walked in the door. Mostly, Hazer was known for sleeping in odd positions: upside down, flipped backwards against a wall and my personal favorite, with a pilfered shoe.
The only time Hazer ever came close to wanting to share my space was when we went somewhere in the car. Hazer would jump in the back of the Subaru and stand with his front feet on the narrow console between the seats. If he was feeling really affectionate he’d even go so far as to rest his chin on my right shoulder. That always made my heart melt and the sweetness of those rare, shared moments in the car almost made up for a lifetime of avoiding any outward sign of affection. Almost. I’d never owned a dog who guarded his affection like it was a resource with an expiration date. To say I struggled to adjust to Hazer’s aloofness is an understatement, and between that and his overpowering sense of seriousness, I learned to cherish this singular display of love.
Hazer was an unashamed, confirmed counter-surfer. He’d step away from the counter the minute I told him to knock it off, but I couldn’t trust him for a second if there was something edible or interesting anywhere near the edge of the kitchen counter. It seems really odd now, to leave a dinner plate sitting on the counter and know it’s not in any danger of losing half it’s contents the second I’m out of sight. Hazer was also a shameless paper-eater. Drop your napkin (which my hubby did just about every night) and it would get snarfed up and swallowed in a heartbeat. The paper towel and Kleenex always came out the other end, as was often confirmed during reconnaissance missions prior to lawn mowing. Sadly, like the year-round tufts of red undercoat, all tell-tale evidence of this quirky habit have now vanished from our yard.
Every couple of days I reach into my kitchen closet and pull out a couple of toys for Nina and Gus to beat up. Hazer always had HIS special toys that none of the other dogs were allowed to share. Now when I see those toys I’m not really sure what to do. His Cuz. His stuffy. His personal squeaky toy; they still cause me to tear up. I’m not ready to let the other two dogs have them yet. For some strange reason that feels disloyal. What do you do with a dog’s personal effects? Their bed. Their food bowl. Their special blanket. I haven’t figured any of this out yet. I gathered up all Hazer’s beds. Yes, plural, because Hazer had a “thing” about beds. Every time I bought a new bed Hazer quickly claimed it as his own. To solve that problem, every room in the house had multiple beds. That way Nina and Gus could choose from whatever Hazer decided to ignore that day. Don’t laugh, it worked. I learned to pick my battles.
Hazer taught me more about failure than anything I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. I failed at everything I tried to do with him, sometimes over and over again. I remember the early anger and frustration that (eventually) morphed into humor at being out-witted by my dog. All of my previous dogs had been wonderful all-rounders. By that I mean they were multi-use dogs, capable of easing gracefully from one situation to another. They got along well with people and they were more than happy to be around other animals and dogs. But Hazer wanted none of that. While Hazer never met a person he didn’t like, he harbored a life-long dislike of all other canines, including (at times) his own housemates. I can say with some certainty that nothing creates better handling skills than a dog who can’t be trusted not to fight in his own home.
No matter what their breed or temperament, all dogs have their own special talent. I don’t mean they’re great at herding, obedience or agility. I mean they have a unique personality trait that benefits you in some particular way. Some are great comforters who want to cuddle when you’re blue, or some are great listeners who solemnly guard your secrets and dreams. Others are clowns who entertain us and make us laugh, while there are the ones whose presence makes us feel safe and secure. Each and every dog has their own unique and special gift to share with us. Some even have more than one. But sometimes we get so caught up in the rituals of creating good, obedient and talented dogs that we forget to give them enough space to let their skills shine. I made this mistake with Hazer and I regret that it took several years before I relaxed my grip enough to really see his strength. Hazer’s gift, his greatest talent, was simply being with me.
Hazer wanted nothing more than to be by my side. You’d think I’d have known that since ACDs tend to be a quirky mixture of independence and Velcro, but I had a hard time coming to terms with Hazer’s idea of a good time. Hazer wanted to do stuff as long as he could do it HIS way, but mostly he wanted to do stuff to be with me. Unfortunately, I set my sights on making my dog a performance dog, and right from the start I set goals and created a general game plan to move us in that direction. Problem was, Hazer wasn’t particularly interested in performing. Oh, he was more than willing to do just about any task I asked, but he didn’t really love performing for performance sake. I can clearly recall his look of frustration the second or third time I sent him over the A-frame. Been there, done that. Next? He was bored to death, which usually morphed into trying to find a classmate to threaten.
When I changed tracks and got Hazer into herding he was a much happier camper. There, he could do something he truly enjoyed while working with me. From Hazer’s point of view that was the best of both worlds. Herding improved his responsiveness and intuition on our own farm and I’m fairly convinced it helped us fine-tune our connection. Unfortunately, we came to herding later in life and because of the rough nature of the sport I decided to “retire” Hazer after a couple of years. But the benefits from herding stuck and I wound up with a dog who wanted nothing more than to be the perfect farm dog. After that Hazer was by my side for every trip to the barn, where he’d calmly park himself in the hay and wait until it was time to go in or time to go do something else.
So it would make sense I guess that I’m feeling the loss of Hazer most as I go about my regular chores and daily routine. I’ll always miss the quirky stuff Hazer did, the oddities that made his personality so unique, but mostly I miss his physical presence. When I’m ready to leave the barn my eye still travels to where he used to lay and wait. And halfway back to the house I automatically turn to see where he is. My body and mind still register him as there, even though he’s not. I don’t know how long it will take for reality to catch up and replace habit, but I’m torn between wanting that to happen and hoping it never will.
A few years ago I started a new ritual. Since Hazer wasn’t particularly inclined to show or return affection I decided I would risk humiliating him and do it anyway. I’d cup his handsome muzzle in my hands, plant a kiss on his head and pronounce my undying love for him. Hazer’s typical reaction to any kind of emotional display was to stare at me with disgust, feign surprise or growl. He was like an adolescent child who despised any outward display of parental affection. Naturally, this made me want to do it all the more. And so I did. Several times a day I’d pause to tell Hazer all the ways I adored him. And after awhile it seemed like he stopped hating the attention and he started to look more smug than annoyed. “Yes, my mom thinks I’m great. She says I’m her favorite red dog. Says I’m the most handsomest dog ever. Says I’m her best bud.” I’d like to think Hazer understood. If not the message, then maybe the sentiment behind the words. Because the truth is, he was all that and so much more.
It’s been three weeks today since I said my final goodbye to Hazer. I try real hard not to “count the days.” I really do. But it happens anyway. Things just automatically get divided into one of two categories: all the stuff I did before Hazer died and the stuff I’ve done since. Trust me, I haven’t done very much since. Certainly nothing that warrants remembering.
At the risk of sounding maudlin I’ll admit I’m not doing great. Oh, I’m past the stage where I can’t breathe and I have to shut myself in the bathroom to muffle the sobs because it upsets Gus and Nina. But I’m shocked (and willing to say, a little bit frightened) by how often the tears still come. Suddenly out of nowhere I’ll find myself going to that dark place where I question my decision to let him go. I’ll wonder if I did everything I could do to help him. I’ll see snapshots of him in my mind, pictures where he’s happy and healthy in one, then languishing and not at all himself in another. When my head gets really messed up I’ll reluctantly grab my cell phone and glance at the handful of photos I took of him the last two days he was alive. My eyes will linger on those pictures a few seconds, which is just long enough to convince me I did the right thing. Sometimes it’s only a matter of hours, or if I’m really lucky a day will pass before the cycle starts over again.
There are a million and one firsts. First time I finished a roll of paper towel and Hazer wasn’t there to get the empty tube. First time I made salad and Hazer wasn’t there to beg for lettuce. First time to the barn, the garden or the car without Hazer at my side. First time I unloaded groceries and didn’t come out to find Hazer rooting around in the rest of the bags in the car. First time UPS or FEDEX pulled into the drive and Hazer didn’t announce their arrival. The first Saturday my husband went in to work without a dog. Those are just a few of the firsts I’ve had to get through and every day brings more; those moments when you pause for just a fraction of a second, waiting for a dog not there. I can still barely sit down at my computer because I’m bombarded by literally thousands of photos of Hazer. I’m still at that stage where I want to look at his pictures, but I can’t. I can’t handle the fallout.
I know it will get better, but I’m afraid it will get better. I’m afraid there will come a time when the thought of Hazer or the mention of his name won’t cause my heart to break and my eyes to fill. It’s like I’m being tortured, but I don’t want the torture to stop because that would be like saying my life is OK without him. And my life will never be OK without him. But I know my heart will heal because that’s just the nature of things. Eventually all my memories of Hazer will become happy memories and the pain of his loss will lessen with time. Perhaps I’ll always remain a little wistful about Hazer, but the bulk of my sadness and grief will wash away and leave me with a lot of gorgeous photos and dozens of great stories about a big red dog who waltzed into my life and stole my heart completely.
I’ve had so many things go sideways on me lately, I’ve taken to saying my life has turned into a bad country western song. Most people chuckle when I say that, which makes me laugh a little too. I suppose that’s the whole point of saying something like that when the truth of the matter is, you’ve reached the end of your rope and you feel like your heart is breaking about a million times each day.
About two weeks ago, right around the same time I broke my leg (and around the same time I came down with a nasty stomach virus), Hazer decided to stop eating. Given this isn’t a dog who plays “games,” I took his aversion to food somewhat seriously. At first I thought maybe he was just having an ‘off’ day, but that’s not his typical MO. So I kept a close eye on things. Well, as close as I could given I was hugging the toilet and pinned down in bed for several days with my own form of hell. Some days Hazer would eat a little, other days not so much. I knew how he felt, but once I was fairly confident I could hobble around on my broken leg without barfing, I made an appointment to see the vet.
As I stood on one leg and heaved Hazer’s forty-two pound butt into my (previously) clean and dog hairless SUV, I was once again thankful that he isn’t an eighty-five pound GSD. Riding in the car is one of Hazer’s favorite things to do, but he didn’t show much enthusiasm for it that day. After a few wobbly attempts to copilot from the console, he curled up in the back corner of the cargo bay and didn’t move until we pulled into the office. As per his usual behavior, Hazer sprang to his feet and commenced shrieking while I went in to announce our arrival. Probably a moot point given the cacophony of noise coming from the parking lot.
Fortunately, the office was deserted. Hazer is dog-reactive and even in his weakened state I knew he’d never miss an opportunity to try to kick some doggy ass. We didn’t need the drama, so he waited while I got the all-clear. (Pet peeve: Vet’s offices that are designed in a way that fail to allow enough space for reactive or shy pets to get in and out without having to endure or cause additional trauma.) Thankfully, I was able to wrangle Hazer out of the SUV and gimp our way into the office together.
I love my vet. That bears saying again: I love my vet. First on the long list of reasons to adore her: she’s an experienced ACD owner herself. She GETS this curmudgeonly, stoic, serious breed. That makes for oh, so many things I don’t have to explain to her about my dog because she’s been there, done that with her own gang of bad-ass dogs. Whereas one vet might suggest an elderly dog sometimes plays mind games over their food, my vet believes me when I say food and games are not his gig. Like me, she’s known this dog since he was thirteen weeks old. She knows his quirks and his “death doesn’t scare me” attitude about most things in life. She knows that while he’d try rip any dog a new one, he’s never met a person he didn’t like and while he looks kind of mean, he’s really got a heart of gold. (Well, unless you’re another dog) But most important, my vet knows that when she looks Hazer in the eye and asks him how he feels, his answer is always going to be “ready to roll!” even when he can barely stand up.
We ran tests, took vitals (borderline temp), and did a very thorough exam (fine) while Hazer ate liver treats like they were gummy bears. (They’re about the ONLY thing he will eat). On the up side, nothing looks way out of whack. On the down side, obviously something is wrong. Since blood tests take about 12-14 hours, the best I could do is hope that I’d have a few answers in the morning. We talked about things I could do to try to tempt Hazer to eat (none of which have worked for us thus far) and returned home to wait for a call with the test results.
Meanwhile, Hazer is no longer interested in tagging along while I do barn chores, so for the first time in eleven years I’m flying solo. Between multiple trips to and from the paddock I still expect to see him laying in the hay, waiting with that expectant look on his face that says.”I’m here if you need a hand, Mom!” And when I’m done, I can almost hear his shrieks of joy as he jumps back and forth behind me, herding me as we walk toward the house, hoping there might be enough time for a quick toss of the Frisbee too. Instead, as I limp along the well-worn path my eyes glance toward the edge of the woods, to the place where a smattering of early spring flowers are ready to bloom , flowers that mark the place where Dozer and all the dogs before him have been laid to rest. I choke back a few deep sobs and wipe away the tears. I’m not willing to admit defeat yet, but I’m worried that I’ve been so laid up myself that I haven’t had time to contemplate Hazer’s final resting place. The thought shatters me anew and my guts clench with dread.
Late the following morning the vet calls. Her voice is cheery and bright and because I know her so well I realize the test results are good. Actually, they are beyond good. Hazer is a very healthy senior dog. Well, mostly healthy. There is that one little issue with anaplasma. Again. *Sigh* We live in Tick Central. Both of my ACDs have been treated multiple times for three persistent tick-related diseases. Hazer has been treated about seven or eight times. That’s a lot. And while it’s very difficult to know if we’re treating a NEW infection or just the old antibodies, we go on clinical symptoms. So if the dog has a low-grade fever and no appetite and everything else is OK except the titer numbers, then we treat it. Again, with thirty days of harsh antibiotics. It’s a necessary evil.
Unfortunately, by Friday the lack of interest in food or water and the fever had taken a toll so that afternoon I had to shovel Hazer’s butt back into the (now hairy) SUV and run him back to the vet for fluids and a shot that we hoped would calm his tummy enough so that he might eat. Or at least get the antibiotics down his gullet. Because prying his mouth open and sticking your hand down his throat is NOT a pilling option for this boy! But before he could get that shot he needed X-rays because you don’t want to mask an intestinal obstruction by giving a powerful drug to settle the gut if there’s a blockage. I didn’t object, especially since X-rays would give us even more information that we could maybe use. (The X-rays were read immediately by the radiologist and they were EXCELLENT!)
Home I went with a lumpy, but well-hydrated dog who looked none the less for wear. He perked up a bit, had a little pep in his step and small spark in his eye, but he still wouldn’t eat more than a handful of this or that. Have I mentioned how frustrating it is to be opening multiple cans of dog food, frying eggs in bacon grease and cooking all different kinds of meat while combating the dregs of my own five-day stomach virus? Ugh. For a dog who would normally eat anything offered, it’s just weird to see him not want to sample much of anything. And we’ve tried it all. I even made a last minute, eleventh-hour drive across town to pick up a frozen specialty that’s known to snap all but the most finicky eaters out of their funk. He refused to even try it.
So far I can interest Hazer in a few dried liver treats, a moist training delicacy appropriately named “Great Bait,” and an assortment of holistic doggy biscuits. That’s what he’s been living on for the last three days while I cross my fingers and hope today will be the day the antibiotic starts to kick in and make him feel more like himself, more like the dog who used to eat anything we gave him with gusto and glee. He looks a lot better today. He’s got more interest in taking pot-shots at Gus, in pissing everyone off in general and launching into random fits of barking. That’s my boy! *Sigh* He’s also drinking more water (good), but he’s still not interested in eating a real meal. I don’t know how many times I’ve thanked God he doesn’t weigh ten pounds. I don’t know what I’d do if he was a small dog who wouldn’t eat. While Hazer isn’t a fatty, at least he won’t fade away if he misses a couple of meals … or that’s what I tell myself as I wrap another plate of home cooked goodness and shove it back in the refrigerator. (My other two dogs are going to be fat as ticks!)
The clinical stuff is easy to write about, it’s the emotional toll that chips away at me; the hundreds of times a day that I look at Hazer with a mental check-list in mind. Is he resting OK? Does he look like he’s in pain? Is he freakin’ BREATHING? (I actually check several times a night. I’m up anyway.) Am I missing something? How long can this go on? Does he want to go?
That last question is the biggie. Hazer and I, we’ve had “the talk,” the one where I tell him it’s OK to want to go and just give me a sign if you’re ready. (Sob) Hazer stared back at me with clear, wise eyes. Licked my hand. Gave me his paw.
Not ready yet, Mom.
Having animals should teach you something about growing old. The closer Hazer gets to the edge of his life expectancy the more we’re just trying to have fun and make every minute count. It’s not that he doesn’t annoy me sometimes. He does. Make no mistake about that! But I’m trying to overlook the stuff that old age tends to exaggerate. Like his propensity to want to control things beyond his control, and his tendency to shriek at every little thing. Even imaginary things.
It’s ironic that a dog who in all his long years never wanted affection or attention, now seeks it unashamedly. I used to think that would make parting company easier (when the time comes) and then he goes and has a change of heart toward me these last few months. Does he sense his time is growing short or did he just give up the fight to be a bastard to the bitter end? I’d like to think he had a change of heart, that all the years of trying to break through his tough exterior actually had an effect. Either way, I’m enjoying it. Soaking it up like a sponge. It’s nice to be able to touch your dog without him giving you the stink eye and moving away, or sneak in a snuggle and a kiss …. as long as I don’t linger very long.
Hazer, you’ve always had my heart, albeit from the other side of a glass wall. My only regret is that it took age and infirmity for you to break through the barrier. Here’s to making every last minute count.
I read this book on the tails of having read Rosemary: The Hidden Kennedy Daughter (by Kate Clifford Larson) because I wanted a good look at how the generation before Patrick coped with the “stigma” of mental illness and mental disability. That book was quite eye-opening, and so when I read this book I had a very clear understanding of the deeply rooted, almost pathological need for Patrick’s family and extended family members to either deny and/or keep their mental illnesses and addictions secret. Unfortunately, as Patrick so clearly points out in his book, his family is not alone in this practice.
Stunningly well written, Patrick exposes his journey through the labyrinth of mental illness and addiction, and the price he paid to get supportive help. This is not a juicy Tell-All book about family secrets or shortcomings, but an honest look at the personal, social and political struggles of the individuals and families of those who suffer with a myriad of chronic mental illness and addiction.
At times the book gets a bit bogged down in the details of the political process, but I never felt the author’s story got pushed aside for a political agenda. Patrick does a good job of balancing his inner journey with the events that took place on a local and national level. I’m not particularly given to reading political jargon and yet this book held my interest captive right to the bitter end.
This book touched me deeply on a personal level because my own family has struggled through several generations of mental illness and addiction. Reading Patrick’s personal account of his story gave me a much better insight to the wreckage of mental illness and addiction and the ripple effect it has on the extended family. I now have a greater understanding of why the generation before me didn’t seek treatment for themselves or their loved ones, or when they did, why the treatment failed to deliver any lasting results.
A Common Struggle was not all train wrecks and despair. In fact, there were several points along the road where I found myself shedding tears of joy and relief. Patrick reveals his highs and lows with such honesty and poignant hindsight that you can’t help wanting to jump for joy when he actually gets things right. I came away from this book with a greater empathy and respect for a wonderful human being who just happens to struggle with a “common” health problem that many people have. I’m so happy and thankful Patrick lived to tell us about it.
My own extended family has a few skeletons in the mental illness and addiction closet. Actually, more than just a few. I grew up in a family full of doctors and lawyers and high powered men who clearly had a vested interest in keeping the family secrets secret. However, in reading the two above mentioned books, I finally came to understand the cultural stigma that my parent’s generation felt they had to prevent: the stigma associated with mental illness and addiction. It never occurred to me (at age fourteen) that the reason my parents were so afraid of family therapy was because traditionally, the medical field attributed the cause of mental illness (in my case, depression and activities with a propensity for addiction) on faulty parenting.
That was an ah-ha moment for me. It wasn’t just that my parents were being assholes, they probably felt judged and most likely they felt great shame when it was suggested our family seek group therapy. At a time when my parents should have been feeling relieved and supported, instead they felt enormously embarrassed. Marginalized. Less-than. Blamed. I can’t begin to explain how their resistance and shame felt to me, but the dread that hung in the therapist’s room could have been cut with a knife. Every time the therapist directed a question to anyone but me, one of my parents would tersely respond with, “Why don’t you ask HER. That’s why we’re here!” I sensed my mother in particular bore the brunt of most of the blame for my shortcomings. After all, hers was a generation where most moms stayed at home and they were considered the primary care-giver and influence on their children. And it didn’t help that my mother’s sister had a lengthy history of mental illness. My father (a doctor) never let her forget that. I don’t remember how many times we went, but I know it wasn’t very long before my father used his medical authority to pronounce the treatment DONE.
Had it not been for a very personable and empathetic school psychologist, I might not be here today. I can say without any hesitation that David Weisner saved my teenage life. That odd, quirky, unquestionably geeky psychologist provided a safe place where I could share my feelings and work on ways to try to cope with my social and familial estrangement. My parents were not pleased that I was seeing him and resisted all requests to join us, but they couldn’t prevent my visits to his office during school hours.
So back in the early 70’s I was having weekly psychotherapy sessions, which turned out to be a positive experience that ushered me into a much healthier adulthood than the path I was on as a teen. Unfortunately, many of my fellow students and friends didn’t have the same good fortune and today, many of them are dead or dying from the long-term effects of addiction, alcoholism and mental illness. The numbers are literally staggering, and sadly, they are frustratingly unnecessary; mostly due to the stigma and the lack of access to good, long-term treatment.
Meanwhile, the ripples keep spreading, and not just in my own family. My husband’s family struggles too. A young girl in her early twenties is trapped in the loop of mental illness and heroin addiction and her immediate family is torn between trying to help and locking their doors to prevent another robbery. She has been in and out of detox and rehab to the point where finances are strained and benefits limited. What do I say to her mother, who tearfully admits she doesn’t want to have to bury her daughter … but knows someday she probably will? What do I say to her sister, who still loves the little sister she used to know, but is tired of being robbed for drug money? What do I say to her father, who himself is in recovery and can’t afford to let her stay for more than a quick shower and a hot meal? It’s nothing but a trail of broken hearts and broken dreams and it’s every where, hidden in every family.
And it’s not just an American problem, it’s a world-wide problem. People who think mental illness and addiction are the product of an affluent society are sadly mistaken. We just deal with it a little differently. Here, we let you wander homeless or stand back and let you get caught up in the revolving door of inpatient/outpatient “care.” Here, we hope your family will shelter you, oftentimes putting their own lives at risk. Here, we blame guns when the mentally ill use them to express their angst and make headlines. In other countries, you get “tied” if you aren’t capable of functioning in society (read the book for that definition), or you are warehoused in institutions that don’t even pretend to offer treatment or rehabilitation for patients.
I wish I could say my own extended family has dealt well with the challenge of mental illness and addiction, but it hasn’t. We have our skeletons, our denials and our methods of self-medicating our demons. Because stigma and shame still runs deep. My generation in particular still suffers from the restraint, hesitancy, conflict and denial of the preceding generation. And even though all but one or two of that generation has long since passed, we still hear their voices in our ear, feel their influence on our daily habits and choices. I can only hope someday our extended family can break free from the secrecy and denial that hovers over us, that keeps the sun from shining on our faces. Patrick’s book gives me hope that slowly, gradually our society will make progress toward helping families get help for their loved ones. Because nobody should have to suffer silently with an illness we KNOW can be helped.
I have days (more than I’d like to count) where I cant look at my dog without getting teary. He’s suddenly aging way too fast and things are cropping up here and there that are problems, albeit minor problems thus far. He’s had reoccurring lip infections, a small fatty tumor near his rib cage, miscellaneous small bumps (growths) scattered here and there and the worst of his ailments: a degenerative loss of coordination and strength in his hind legs.
None of these issues are really unexpected. Hazer is eleven and at some point most dogs will begin to show signs of aging. Sadly, nothing lives forever. As much as I’ve always tried to have a matter-of-fact attitude about death, I’m struggling with it this time. I think that’s due to my own advancing age: I’m not quite sure I’ll ” just get over it” when Hazer’s gone. In the past I’ve always mourned my losses, but I knew I had plenty of time left to open my heart and home to another dog (Or three!). In fact, it wasn’t even something I had to think about. Now? I’m not so sure.
When I do the math the projections put me into my early seventies for my next “aged” dog. Will I be able to cope with another loss then? Will I stay healthy enough during my sixties to provide for a young active dog? What about the rising cost of vet care and other miscellaneous expenses? As my extended family members age, what if I need to travel to be with them or just visit more often? It gets complicated and bottom line, I’m not so sure I can ease the loss of one of my dogs by investing in another. And so I think the finality of losing Hazer makes me sad. I’m not saying I won’t get another dog (and I still have Gus and Nina), but the odds of my raising another Cattle Dog from scratch seem slim … or slimmer than they used to be.
I can always adopt an “adult” dog. I know this, but I’m not sure I’ll do it. Nina was a “failed” foster, but I think that was an incredibly lucky situation where I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I’m not a big fan of trying to bring an adult dog into a home that already has adult dogs. I don’t think it’s nearly as easy or as smooth of a transition as getting a puppy. So it’s hard to say. I’d like to think I’ll try to keep my options open because I like the idea of providing a home for an animal that needs one, but sometimes it’s just not the right choice.
If anything, it’s pretty clear my days of hiking, herding, Frisbee and doing all the marvelous things I’ve done with Hazer might be done. And while the older, tired part of me is probably just fine with that, there’s a part of me that’s grieving. When Hazer is gone it will be the end of a three-decade era of canine fun and games. I don’t say that to sound morbid, but it’s true. I’ve already noticed that the activities I do with three year-old Gus are much tamer than what I’ve done with my previous dogs in the past. So with that in mind I can’t help but wonder if it’s even fair to get another young, exuberant Cattle Dog pup? I’ve always rallied. I’ve always put a lot of time and energy into my pets. But maybe deep down I know it might be time to take things down a notch. And that makes me a little sad.
I can’t even begin to describe all the places my mind goes every time I look at Hazer. My life with him has been SO complex, so packed with opposites and extremes and yet, so full. They say you miss the really difficult dogs the most: all the struggles, the heartbreak, the little tiny successes that get overshadowed by all the epic failures. I haven’t even lost Hazer yet and I know that’s true. Raising Hazer has taught me more about life than any dog before him. It taught me humility, pride, sacrifice, patience and mostly, it taught me how to love something that is deeply flawed.
As a perfectionist who holds herself to a very high standard, love has been Hazer’s greatest gift: Unconditional love for him. Love, when the very last thing you feel is the milk of human kindness. Love in the face of embarrassing failure. Love that lets you admit you’ve messed up … but it’s OK. Life with Hazer taught me how to love when my love wasn’t being returned and how to love when the love I was getting back didn’t look or feel like the kind of love I wanted. He taught me to love in the midst of hopes and dreams that have been crushed and flushed, and to love when there is no other choice but love.
Life with Hazer has seen a lot of ups and downs, highs and lows and two steps forward, ten steps back. And when people ask me if I’d go back and do it all over again I usually have to pause, because I’m not so sure I would. But I’m glad I did it. I’m grateful for all I’ve learned. Living with Hazer has been an enormous challenge, the kind of challenge I’ll never take lightly again, but the kind of challenge I’ll always be proud I took. I love Hazer to the moon and back, and while a day seldom passes that we don’t lock horns over something, my life has been richer (and certainly LOUDER) because of him.
I’ve spent the last week trying to get comfortable with the idea of letting go of my winter plans. Boarding a horse when you have a barn in your own back yard is a big step, and not one I take lightly. It required a good deal of planning and forethought to move my horse and that isn’t something I’d decide last minute to do. In fact, I didn’t board Dharla at all last winter; a decision I’m still not sure was right or wrong.
That said, I know when something isn’t working. I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach and I can’t stop thinking about things. Although I’m not prone to insomnia, if I’m bothered enough about something I’ll wake up during the night and spend several hours tossing and turning while my mind goes over every little detail. When the same symptoms start to creep up on me during the day I know I have to address things.
The last few weeks have been a little stressful. I’ve had multiple animals all my adult life so it’s not very often that I’m caught off guard. I expect “stuff” to crop up now and then. Illness. Hierarchy spats. Changes in routine. What I’m never prepared for are multiple issues at once. Like the sick dog who needs a month of medication, and the horse or another dog who decides to develop a medical issue at the same time. That throws me for a loop.
And when talking about medical things can I just say that I like my diagnoses cut and dry? For example, your dog (or horse) has X, Y, Z. Do _____ (fill in the bank) and it will get better. I like it even more if the Vet can tell me an approximate time frame for when the patient will start acting and feeling better. For those of you who don’t have animals (first of all, my deepest sympathies. Go out and fix that oversight right now!), it’s a little like having a sick infant. You fret. You worry. You wish for the millionth time they could tell you what’s wrong and say exactly how they feel. But they can’t, so it’s a guessing and waiting game. It sucks. If you’re anything like me, you start steeling yourself for “the worst.” I’m never quite sure what “the worst” is, so I run through a completely different scenario about every hour or so. And by default, I go into “evaluation” mode, which is to say that every time I look at said animal I run through a mental check list of potential problems. It’s exhausting.
I have one dog who just finished 30 days of medication for anaplasma. For the fifth year in a row. To be honest, we’re not sure if we’re treating a new infection or the remnants of an old one. But with a list of very serious (potential) issues when left untreated, who am I to argue? I’m not inclined to play Russian Roulette with my critters. She’s a great pill-taker and she looked a bit perkier after a week or so of treatment. That’s not to say she seemed sick. She didn’t. We caught the high titer on an annual tick panel that I run on all my dogs because we live in tick Central.
The red dog is struggling with mobility. It came on quickly, which leads the vet to suspect it’s not arthritis or typical old age. (He’s a healthy 11) He’s trying an arthritis medication for a week to see if it makes any difference in his ability to get around. Day 3 and I see no change. He’s willing to run and play and do all things dog-like, but his body isn’t buyin’ it. Next line of exploration is nerve and disc testing. We already know he has spinal fusion in his lumbar region, so it’s possible there’s an increasing issue there. He seems to be pain-free and the biggest problem is keeping him from doing stuff that he really wants to do, but can’t. Think: seventy year-old who wants to play rugby. This is a dog who requires a lot of mental and physical stimulation or he gets obnoxious. He’s like the high drive puppy breeders warn you about, but sometimes fail to mention will quite possibly stay that way … f o r f r e a k i n g e v e r! Yes, this is a challenge and depending upon what kind of day I’m having, it can become a night mare.
The horses are doing pretty well. One is a little leaner than I’d like, but we’re not sure why. It’s not worrisome enough to run any tests. Thankfully, this winter hasn’t been to hard … yet … so we made some feed adjustments and we’ll see if that helps. We recently found out Rascal is 95% blind in one eye. That’s not exactly a health issue, but it’s interesting information nonetheless. We also learned that Bullet has diminished vision in one eye and Dhalra has a an ocular anomalie in one eye. What is it with eyes here?
And Gus? Gus is wonderfully normal. No health problems. No temperament issues. No worries. Just pure, unadulterated fun and love! Being the only “normal” pet on the farm is a big load to carry, but Gus soldiers on like it’s no big deal. Gotta love that rattitude!
(Hazer, age 10.8 yrs.)
It’s hot here. So hot that my dogs aren’t even thinking about going outside. They lay around all day on the cool tile and hardwood floors and when I open the door to let them out, they just stand there looking at me like I’m nuts. I’m going to take my cue from them and stay inside the next couple of days. Oh, I still have to stagger out to water the gardens and take care of the horses, but there isn’t much I can do for the horses except feed and water them. The horses don’t like the heat any more than the dogs, but I can’t bring them inside to escape this inferno. I would if I could. I wonder if the same animal rights activists who think barns should be heated in the winter think they should be air conditioned in the summer? Don’t get me started ….
Whenever I finish a good book it takes a few days to slip back into the real world. My body goes through the motions of my daily routine, but my head isn’t in the game. I’m still back there …. wherever that might be. The book Stable Relation was “that” kind of book; a book where somewhere around the halfway point I started glancing at the dwindling pages left to read and dreaded the fact that the book would soon end. I slowed myself down to a crawl, putting the book aside every couple of pages and giving myself time to digest the words. Still, the story had to end and when it did, I found myself wanting more. More wisdom. More patience. More love.
Anna writes a lot about love and patience and her intuitive wisdom leaps from nearly every page. That’s not to say Anna thinks she’s wise. She doesn’t. But I guess when you spend the first two decades of your life steeped in angst and irritability you eventually have to make a choice: you can either become what you’ve been shown or you can run like hell in the opposite direction. Having been trapped in midst of a very dysfunctional upbringing, it seems like it would be the wise choice to try to change your destiny. That said, I’m fairly certain this is MUCH harder to do than most think.
I grew up in an era where animal training and farm life were not particularly pleasant. We did not operate from the core philosophy of first, do no harm. It was more or less assumed that all animals were “dumb” and humans needed to bend them to our will. The vast majority of farmers didn’t consider the animals in their charge pets, friends or companions, but saw their animals as a source of income, be it in the beef or dairy market or as breeding stock. And they didn’t speak of these roles in politically correct terms so as not to offend anyone. What’s the saying now? It was what it was.
When I left home with the first dog of my independent, adult life, I didn’t know squat about training an animal. I grew up with an assortment of animals, but training wasn’t a big focus in my life. I had a horse that was already broke to ride when I got her and although I suppose I can claim I taught her how to race barrels, I suspect (because she was so enthusiastically good at it) that she already knew how. My first dog was a Humane Society adoptee who, a little initial fear aggression aside, was so biddable and willing to please that merely thinking what I wanted her to do got immediate results. Naturally, with these two highly successes starts behind me I thought I had a gift.
I do not.
As life went on I got out of horses (briefly) and into dogs. By the time my future husband entered the picture we had four dogs between us, and that number didn’t drop for several years. The dog’s ages were staggered and almost as soon as we lost one, we got another. We were into the big breeds then; German Shepherds and Dobermans, soon followed by the slightly smaller (but formidable) Australian Cattle dogs. I was usually the one who spent the most time putting some basic training on our pets. I had moderate expectations and none of our dogs were particularly difficult to train. I soon found I had good results training the dogs I considered “mine,” but somewhat less success working with the Doberman gang that belonged to my husband. By the time we morphed into Cattle dogs my husband was removed from the training process all together. It was me who spent the lion’s share of the day with our dogs so the responsibility fell on my shoulders.
I never took a formal training class until I got Cattle dogs. Having been forewarned that ACDs can be more of a challenge, I enrolled my second ACD puppy in something new: Puppy Kindergarten. It was 1998 and it sounded like a great idea. After all, who can argue with teaching a young puppy how to sit, come, and play nicely with other dogs? I eagerly arrived for the first class only to discover that I had the smallest, youngest and most easily intimidated pup in the group. Unfortunately, the trainer knew very little about how to help pups with issues like mine and I was even less enlightened. With hindsight, I should have gathered up my puppy and walked away, but I thought I had to stick it out and we were encouraged to try. By the third or forth class my pup’s fearfulness had turned into aggression. She was so tiny that several of the other puppy owners thought her behavior was “cute,” but I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I think I stopped going shortly thereafter. Fortunately, my puppy didn’t end up aggressive, but she was always aloof and very much a loner. I’ll never know how much of her adult personality was nurture or nature.
Because I’m a slow learner and have a burning need to DO THINGS RIGHT, several years later I enrolled my next ACD puppy in puppy kindergarten. By then the Internet was well into swing and I belonged to an ACD news list. For the first time I could rub virtual shoulders with experienced trainers and dog folks and learn the proper way to go about raising a responsible pet. Most of the people on these lists had high expectations of new puppy owners. Lots of folks showed their dogs and bragged about their prowess in everything from conformation to obedience and agility. The Canine Good Citizen test had just been created and many experienced handlers encouraged novice folks to aim for that.
My second puppy kindergarten class was far worse than my first. My puppy Hazer was a social menace and our attempts to change his behavior with positive reinforcement and gentle exposure was a disaster. In his defense, he nailed everything connected to performance. Sit, come, stay, down, place … he did it all and he did it flawlessly on the second or third try. Problem was, his mind worked at warp speed and he was easily bored once he knew something. He didn’t “get” repetition. It irked him. And when he was bored he was trouble with a capital T. I distinctly remember the instructor asking me to remove my puppy from the classroom while other dogs were socializing off-leash. Hazer was a land shark and nobody wanted him anywhere near them or their puppy. I stood in the hall with my treat bag, drilling Hazer on anything I knew he could do so I could reward him. “Watch me!” “Good boy!” “Sit!” Over and over we worked on skills he’d already mastered while his classmates flailed around and failed abysmally in their attempts to grasp the most basic stuff.
In retrospect, I should have left that class too, but I didn’t. Some deep desire to Get It Right held me captive to the bitter end. That decision was hugely detrimental to my dog. I didn’t know that then. I erroneously thought sticking with it was important, but I know that was a mistake now. Fortunately, I’ve since learned to put what’s best for my dog ahead of my own needs, wants, goals and yearning desire to “fit in.” But back then Hazer was going to be my golden boy, my first wonderfully bred, purposely chosen dog who was created and selected with certain long-range goals in mind. I had high hopes and standards. That sounds pretty lofty for someone who’d never really learned how to train a dog before. But all my previous success (via minimal effort) with my former dogs led me to believe that I knew a boatload more than I did. I had an ego in my way. Not a loud, pompous ego, but a quiet, profound belief that I was much smarter than I was.
I firmly believe Hazer came into my life to teach me that I didn’t begin to know how much I didn’t know. And much to my chagrin, he wasn’t the only pet to do this. A few years later my new horse Dharla did the same thing. She rode into my life on the heels of a well-honed 23-year relationship with the perfection that was known by me as Tia. Young, green and full of vinegar, it would have been easy to blame Dharla for our early blunders, except at some point I stumbled onto Anna’s blog and I stopped thinking I had the wrong horse. Ironically, I also stopped reading everything I could find about “natural horsemanship” and began looking at my own heart stuff. Because Dharla and my roadblocks weren’t about leadership or round pens, they were about me. I am my own worst enemy. I know that now. No, Anna never came out and told me so, but her words left little doubt in my mind. And I’m actually OK with that, with me being the problem. It makes me appreciate Dharla’s patience with me so much more.
To show you just how far I’ve come, there was a time when I thought I knew what leadership meant. I did lots of basic training and ground work and tried to build trust slowly. Still, Dharla and I continued to encounter friction under saddle. The more we worked on basics, the more frustrated I got. So I started to search for a different approach and naturally, turned to the Internet for answers. Eventually I found Anna’s blog, signed up and started the gradual shift in my thinking. For awhile I still grappled with the concept of leadership. Oh, I understood what the word meant, but the internal debate about leadership and how one ought to go about creating it was so mixed and emotionally charged that it was only through much experimentation and personal exploration I came to see that leadership is the wrong word for me. I now prefer to have a partnership with my animals because a “partnership” suggests the mutual desire to share an activity or goal. A partnership also implies respect. Respect for the leader as well as for the led. So when I’m working with my animals I like to keep in mind the concept of asking as opposed to demanding. A leader says, “Follow me because I said so.” A partner says, “Let’s do it this way, together. Will you trust me?” Bottom line, am I asking my horse or dog to follow my lead or am I stubbornly insisting? Since force tends to lead to resistance, I try to keep my leadership soft and pliable. I’m open to options. I’m willing to work with what my animals can give me today, even if it’s not the whole enchilada. Don’t like passing the gate? OK, let’s cut the ring in half and skip going past the gate for now … and my, what a wonderful, calm trot you have today! It’s hard to make an issue out of something if you remove the problem from the equation and focus on what is going well! Go back and revisit gate-passing another time, when you and your horse are working and thinking better as a team. I try to remember there’s no “Have-to” in training. You get to progress at a rate that’s right for you and your partner. Sure, in an emergency situation you might have to insist your animal follows your lead without hesitation, but that aside, most training is about building trust and partnership slowly, one small step at a time time. It’s about finding that sweet spot that’s not built on the theory of “Because I said so!” but, “Because I asked.” And yes, I’ll always be grateful to Anna, the friend who helped me hone my mantra.
So what is getting it right? I guess for me it’s learning a better way, a way where I can lead and follow with my heart. Because like Melvin Udall says in As Good As It Gets, that makes me want to be a better woman.
After a long tense day at the vet, Hazer is back to “normal” this morning. I picked him up at almost four PM and although he seemed fairly alert, he wasn’t at all his usual self. I helped his wobbly butt into my car, where he wined the whole fifteen minute drive home. (Hazer is typically not a whiny dog!) Seconds after walking in the door he puddled up just feet away from his bed and fell asleep. An hour or two later he woke up long enough to eat a small meal, then slept through our dinner and into the evening. When Hazer was awake he was whiny and defensive toward the other two dogs, who were kept well out of his reach and behind gates. I sensed Hazer’s fear and trepidation about being so incapacitated and I did everything I could to alleviate his concern. I expected this and had a solid plan in place before he came home. Actually, the only thing that did surprise me was how long the effects of the anesthesia seemed to last. In all fairness, the only other time Hazer has ever had surgery he was a much younger dog, so I suspect his age might have had something to do with his response. This really drove home my belief that the less I mess with Hazer the better, and while I don’t regret my decision to have his teeth done, I’m glad I didn’t put it off any longer.
At nine thirty Hazer went out for last call, then directly to my bedroom to his bed. At that point he was slightly more mentally alert, but I could see he still didn’t have a good grip on things. He was, however, willing to tolerate sharing the bedroom with Nina. I suspect this was because Nina isn’t one to make a fuss over much. She gave Hazer a quick curious sniff, then moseyed over to her own bed and hit the hay. I love Nina’s matter-of-fact, non-threatening demeanor. I was pleased that she did as exactly as I thought and acted as though nothing was amiss. Hazer quickly zonked out and didn’t stir all night. This morning he’s fit as a fiddle and right back into our regular routine, none the worse for wear.
And his teeth? They look fabulous!
I’m having a Hazer vacation today. Over the last few years I’ve been using a holistic dental hygienist to clean my dog’s teeth, but Hazer finally reached the point where he needed a more thorough cleaning. For many years digestive upset has forced Hazer to consume a grain-free diet, which I suspect is at the root of his dental problem. This (expensive) type of diet has resolved some of his digestive issues, bit it’s a more “sticky” type of food than traditional kibble. Add the fact that Hazer has never been one to tolerate much hands on, and you have a situation where I can’t really do much here at home to clean his teeth. Oh, we give it the college try, but evidence shows we don’t put much of a dent in things.
Any time one of my animals needs special care or vet attention I worry. I worry about the procedure itself, and with Hazer I worry about his ability to cope with the environment and stress. The worry doesn’t end when he comes home. In fact, I have to be extra diligent when we return from the vet this afternoon. “Vet smell” can send an alarming scent to my other dogs and their curiosity will not be welcomed by Hazer. Hazer is the kind of dog who reacts negatively to any perception of infirmity or weakness; his, or that of another dog. So we will have to take plenty of time to re-acclimate Hazer once he is home. This would be best done outdoors if possible, but since winter has decided to stick around it will be too slippery and cold. Fortunately, I’m prepared to manage things inside. By bedtime tonight, things should be well on their way back to normal.
Hazer is such a large presence that the house feels quite different when he’s not here. It calls to mind Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone; the minute the house is a Hazer-free zone I want to run around and do a million things I can’t do (or can’t easily do) when Hazer is home. Like vacuum, lay on the floor (?) hug the other dogs, come and go without having to trip over his prancing body or do just about anything without having to listen to his ear-piercing shrieks or threatening growls. There’s a freedom in this, yet it feels empty. There is quiet in his absence, but the peace lacks energy. I’ve always said my relationship with Hazer is Yin and Yang and nothing makes me more aware of that than the few rare moments when he isn’t right beside me.
Yesterday morning the breeder of my adorable Rat Terrier Gus had a tragic kennel fire. Two dogs were lost in the blaze and three dogs, including Gus’s father Bruce, were badly burned. The kennel structure and everything in it was lost.
I’ve started a fire relief fund for Carmetta and her family to help them pay for long-term veterinary care for the surviving dogs and to help offset the cost of rebuilding their kennel. Meta and her husband have three daughters who not only witnessed the fire, but were nearly injured trying to help save their dogs. All of these dogs were deeply loved and a big part of this family. Like many breeders, their dogs are constantly rotated between house and kennel, insuring all get plenty of family time. These dogs took frequent turns sharing family beds, surf boards and road trips and were a regular part of their everyday life. Witnessing this accident will have a long and lasting effect on these young girls and their family.
In the few years since I’ve met Carmetta I’ve come to know her as the kind of person who always goes out of her way to help others. She’s a gentle lady with a soft-spoken demeanor who works tirelessly behind the scenes to get things done and always refuses to take any credit for her efforts. She has volunteered countless hours to her local and regional breed clubs and associations and has been very instrumental in promoting awareness of our breed. Meta has also been a willing mentor to many and an exemplary role model to others for ethical, responsible breeding.
A devastating kennel fire is not a good way for a family with limited resources to start the New Year, nor is it a great way to kick off a long winter in northern Vermont. Over the years I’ve used social media and WordPress to donate to several causes. One fall it was a picture of an emaciated horse that pushed me to help with a winter hay fund. Another time it was a story about a newborn baby with an uphill battle against a life-threatening, rare disease. And there have been numerous stories about dogs that, due to no fault of their own, have fallen into some sort of complicated situation with owners that need help.
I don’t ask much of my friends here, but today I’m managing this fundraiser and I can promise that if you can see it in your heart to give a little something, it will be greatly appreciated and used to help this family with their loss.
I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And Gus thanks you too.
This morning I read a blog post that was a humorous attempt to disguise the stress and mind-numbing tedium of raising children. It struck a chord. Not because I’m a scary mommy working out of my home while I raise three children under the age of five. No, that’s not what grabbed my attention. The post spoke to me because I’ve shared my home and my life with a constantly revolving door of animals since I was eighteen. (Well, longer if you count growing up on a farm) I understand that people who choose to have children carry the added burden of trying to raise successful, well-adjusted members of society, and I get that parents never stop “worrying” about their kids. But those things aside, I see very little difference between raising kids and raising animals.
In the child-rearing post mommy railed about her burnout that stemmed from the small stuff. She freely admitted her complaints sprang from a well of fatigue and tedium and not actual dissatisfaction with her parental, care-giving role. I get that, I really do. You have kids, you love your kids, but they make you nuts. That’s perfectly acceptable. And yet, those few times I’ve mindlessly griped about my own burnout from living with multiple animals I’ve been met with everything from eye rolls from parents to tisk-tisks from pet owners.
It’s totally understandable that parents with any shred of sanity left will eventually gripe about the annoyance of being at the constant beck and call of a toddler. That’s normal and I think at some point every parent experiences burnout. I sort of feel the same way when a mild case of mid-winter colic keeps me hovering in a sub-zero barn for several hours. The first time that happened I didn’t complain. I was scared and oh, so thankful the second my horse started to feel better. But somewhere around the 10th time my horse got colic the fear and the thankfulness got a little silted. I can also relate to Mommies who complain about their lack of personal privacy since I routinely share my bathroom with no less than one or two dogs who simply can’t be out of my sight when I’m home. And I get that Moms can’t seem to catch a break from all the laundry their kids generate. Me? I never get a reprieve from the dog hair that’s in, on, and under every object and surface in my house.
Like having children, life with pets is a choice. I’m not saying I don’t want a life without my pets, but many years ago I came to the realization that my decision to have multiple pets would come with a few serious inconveniences and some occasional (OK, daily) monotony. Like being woken up three times a week for the last 10 years by a puking dog with a genetic digestive disorder. And having chosen to live with different kinds of animals, every day is marked by multiple feedings for various groups of them, then picking up the poop all that food creates. Unlike potty training, cleaning up after pets never ends; you’ll have to scoop and dispose of waste forever.
I’ve been bitten (accidentally), stepped on, mowed down, puked on, pooped on, woken up and kept up, and like any human parent I’ve withstood numerous hardships and inconveniences to ensure my animal’s health and safety always come before my own. I haven’t done this with regret, but there’ve been times when every fiber of my being was literally screaming for Calgon to come take me away. Or the funny farm. Really, either one would do. I’ll be the first to admit that sometimes I hate my problem pets: The Autistic, psychotic herding dog. The lunk of a horse who has been the source of two recent (accidental) concussions. The tenacious Terrior who has taken a sudden shining to shredding cardboard and socks. The list could go on. (And on and on)
Most of the time I don’t mind my pet’s quirks, but sometimes I want to put them all on a one-way shuttle to the moon and go off to live a quiet, normal life. A life where I don’t have to look at my watch every 4 hours and drop whatever I’m doing to run home and feed someone. Or a life where I sleep in past 6 AM. and don’t have to suit up on a snowy night to trudge out to the barn at 11:00 for last call. Or a life where I can wear black without having to exhaust a roll of tape first. A life where my husband walks through the door after a long day and instead of reading his lips I can actually hear him say, “Hi honey, I’m home!” A life where I can have noisy sex without setting off the dogs. A life where I can cook a meal or use the bathroom without canine supervision.
The magical ingredient that keeps my sanity in check is knowing that my life with this particular set of animals comes with an expiration date. And every time I get fed up or worn down by the routine or stress of living with my pets I remember they’re only here for a short period of time. They won’t grow up and go off to live their own lives, visiting from time to time. They’ll be gone for good. So even though there are moments when the madness feels like it’s been going on forever, I try to remember that it will eventually come to an end. And the really crazy thing is that when it does, I know I’m going to miss it.
So for now I’ll just keep trying to pet The Dog Who Must Not Be Touched, keep the Terrier out of the laundry basket and avoid being mowed down by the lunk in the pasture. And if that doesn’t work? There’s always Calgon!
Neena was the first to hear it and let slip a warning growl; a low rumble that started softly and built quickly into a “back off” bark that meant business. In the still seconds before the other dogs sounded their alarm I heard it too: the distant shrill yip of dancing coyotes. Immediately Hazer followed Neena’s lead, leaping to his feet, moving toward my bed and barking ferociously while Gus howled an alarm from his crate in the living room. It’s an eerie sound to hear at 4 o’clock on a crisp fall morning. The pack must have been pretty close for humans to hear them through our closed windows. I lay there thinking about the horses. Coyotes aren’t a real threat to a small herd of healthy equines. But still. And while the sound of yipping coyotes can seem a bit creepy, I can’t help picturing them dancing and playing in the moonlight or running and cavorting through dewy fields and mossy woods. That’s not a frightening vision at all.
The coyotes and dogs carried on for the better part of twenty minutes. There was no stopping them. Neena didn’t seem to carry on very much, but the boys were thoroughly caught up in the vocal chorus. Gus was especially reluctant to quiet down and continued to bark and growl for some time after the interlopers had moved on. Our first fall serenade.
His Royal Highness is feeling much better and is back to his humorless dictatorship over CurTale Farm. All is right with the world again. For now, anyway.
I woke up yesterday to a three-legged lame dog. *Sigh* The more animals you have the more interesting life gets. In all truth, I didn’t notice the lameness until we went out after feeding horses to play ball and Frisbee. It’s possible the dog was hopping on three legs prior to that, but if he was it didn’t register with my brain. It’s more likely he was walking fine UNTIL we went out to run around. I dunno. I have three dogs, two balls and one Frisbee all going in three different directions simultaneously with a carefully orchestrated rhythm that insures no two dogs get back to me at the same time. It’s a canine juggling act. Anywho, on the first return Hazer came back limping. Not just “ouch, my paw hurts” limping, but literally holing his left front paw up off the ground gimping. That didn’t deter his desire to play Frisbee at all, it just slowed him down some. Naturally, I took the Frisbee from him and looked at his paw. Cautiously. Hazer isn’t known for accommodating pokes, pries or … hell, Hazer doesn’t even like to be looked at. He tolerated some exploration, but grew increasingly impatient with the fact that I wasn’t tossing his Frisbee again. My inspection of the suspect paw was interrupted twice so I could kick Neena’s ball again and lob the tennis ball for Gus. That didn’t do much for Hazer’s patience.
Cattle Dogs are notorious for their high pain threshold. Both Neena and Hazer have had some pretty serious boo-boos and both have showed complete disregard for their pain. As their human it’s my job to evaluate these situations carefully, not take their word for how they feel. They could be bleeding out a lung and if asked, would say they’re fine and just throw the Frisbee again, damnit! They’re like a four year-old child who wails and sup-sucks the entire way up the stairs, insisting they’re not tired and they don’t need to go to bed yet. Yeah, right.
The jury is out on the diagnosis. I made sure he had a very low activity day yesterday and that he did minimal stairs. He seems a bit better today, but I’m watching him carefully. Lyme disease can show sudden and acute lameness symptoms and he’s had Lyme several times. If he’s not fully recovered in a couple of days I may have him looked at by our vet. Time will tell.
Last week, before it turned 90 and ridiculously humid, I went hiking in the woods with Hazer. We hadn’t gone hiking in a long time and I was feeling pretty nostalgic, especially when we came to Hazer’s “up” rock. The “up” rock is a very large bolder that graces the side of this one particular trail. When Hazer was a youngster he learned to run ahead, jump up on this rock and wait for me to come along, praise him. and give him a treat. It was a game we always played. We’d approach the general vicinity of the rock and I’d say, “go find the up rock” and Hazer would run ahead, jump up on the rock and wait for me to come give him a treat. It was great fun and we’d play the up rock game both coming and going on that trail. Although the trail is littered with large boulders in several areas, this is the only rock Hazer has ever climbed.
We hadn’t hiked this trail in about 2 years and I’d kinda forgotten about the “up” rock. As usual, Hazer trotted along in front of me, veering off the trail from time to time when something piqued his interest. At some point Hazer jogged ahead out of view and when I came around a bend, there he was waiting patiently on his favorite rock. I was so amazed that he remembered! It really warmed my heart. Fortunately, I always carry a little pouch with treats and I gave him several as I praised him for remembering our game. I called him down and we continued on our way.
The trail crosses several small streams, but all have dwindled to barely a trickle in most places. Our final destination is a larger stream that, despite a recent dry spell still sports a pretty little water fall and a deep-ish “swimming hole.” Hazer’s never been much of a swimmer, but if opportunity presents he likes to wade in a stream. At this particular spot he’ll usually walk in until the water is about belly deep, then stand there to cool off and have a drink. There’s a nice crop of ledge that I can sit on while he putters around for a bit. This is our turnaround point, so there’s never any hurry to rush off. Many a deep conversation has been held there between Hazer and I and today was no different. We had a lot to discuss.
Hazer is getting old. Oddly, I’ve noticed him aging more so than Neena, who is the same age. He sleeps a lot more during the day and his movements aren’t as quick or as steady. More often than not I’ll come home from an errand and Hazer won’t run to greet me in the kitchen like I’m the second coming of Christ. When I put my things down and go looking for him he’s usually sacked out somewhere comfy, awake and well aware that I’ve returned, but not inclined to jump up and carry on like before. Sometimes he picks his head up off his pillow, other times he just glances in my direction before sighing and drifting off to sleep again. It makes me a little sad. He’s not always like that, but it’s not unusual either.
I’ve spent most of Hazer’s life wishing he’d shut up and behave more like a normal dog. He could be the poster dog for Autistic Dogs. To say he’s a difficult dog to live with is a gross understatement. Quirky, irritating, OCD and socially inept, he’s the kind of dog who’d have been better off being the only household pet. But he’s not, and so he takes it upon himself to make life hard for everyone. Back in early June Hazer jumped Gus and they had a nasty fight. Hazer doesn’t signal these things and even though I’ve always got one eye trained on him when Gus is around, his usual MO is to wait until he’s behind my back to make a move. There was no pre-warning growl. His posture didn’t change. He just launched. And for the first time ever, Gus didn’t ignore the challenge. Oh, there have been other instances when I’ve had to step between the boys to “break” Hazer’s locked-on, I-dare-you stare. But Gus has always let Hazer’s nonsense roll off his shoulders. You see, Hazer is an alpha-wannabe and I think most dogs get that his nonsense stems from his insecurity. But this time it was different and Hazer finally barked up the wrong tree one too many times.
I’ve lost count how many fights Hazer has started. It’s not a lot, but any fight is one fight too many. And every time it happens you’re horrified, even when the outcome isn’t all that bad. Why do dogs who live in the same house and seem to get along fine suddenly snap and want to kill each other? Something has to take place between them that humans can’t sense or see. Some invisible trash-talk, some insult or challenge must get hurled through space in a glance or a stare. Humans always can’t hear this “inaudible” dialogue and sometimes we can’t even see it, but it’s there. And it can get ugly fast.
I pulled Hazer off Gus, who was reluctant to let go of Hazer. Gus is a terrier and he’s got a strong gripping instinct. Tapping the super-human strength that adrenaline brings to these situations, I hurled Hazer across my kitchen and herded Gus into a corner of the foyer. He was injured, bleeding and threatening to bite me, but there was pain and fear in his eyes, not angst. I paused for a few seconds to give Gus a moment to calm down. It was not a good scene, but at this point I was just thankful that Neena hadn’t jumped into the fray and that for the moment, Hazer wasn’t the least bit interested in finishing the job he’d started. I got both ACDs into my office, closed the door and directed my attention to Gus, who was shaking his head, splattering his blood all over my kitchen cupboards and floor.
As far as ears go the damage was minimal. It could have been MUCH worse. It seems like the bigger the ears the more the target, and Gus has HUGE ears. He sustained a puncture wound about halfway up one ear and the very tip of that ear had what looked like a small divot in it. I couldn’t tell if the divot was just some fur missing or if the tissue was gone too, but it was clear Gus wasn’t going to let me touch it. At least not right away. I grabbed some sterile gauze which I dampened with cold water, then did my best to clean the blood away so I could decide if we needed to make a trip to the vet. Experience has taught me that ear wounds might bleed like heck, but they don’t always require vet attention. After about ten minutes or so the bleeding started to abate and I got a better look at the wound. I didn’t think there was much the vet could do besides clean him up and send him home with some antibiotics and pain meds. I’m not a big on treating every little wound with antibiotics, so I decided to keep an eye on it and pass on the vet unless things took a turn for the worse.
The bigger problem was figuring out what to do from that point on. Living in a small house with two dogs who don’t get along is a serious problem, one I’ve always said I’d loathe to do. Baby gates were dragged down from the attic and covered with polar fleece blankets to discourage any visual challenges. A new routine and protocol had to be instantly implemented to keep the boys from having any interaction. This meant having to think about who was where at all times and carefully planning for trips in or out. Gus now eats upstairs, the other two dogs eat downstairs. Being a reluctant strategist made me grouchy and made my brain hurt, not to mention that I was constantly living with pet strife.
Gus healed, both physically and emotionally. He also got neutered. Zip-zip, just like that, Gus went from a show dog to non show dog. I was seriously bummed, but the alternatives weren’t good. Hazer was neutered at 16 months because he was starting to pick fights with one of my older dogs and now I was neutering Gus because Hazer was targeting him. This so sucked. For about a week I felt like I was living in some endless version of pet hell. Since all my dogs want to be with me, one of them is always whining or yipping or acting out their misery in whatever room I’m not in. All the trainer’s I’ve ever known have told me that if you ignore their noise and nonsense they’ll eventually give up and quit. They’ve never met Hazer. He’s in the living room right now, where he’s been whining for several hours. Pet hell.
Slowly, we’ve started going outside together as a group. I keep the dogs busy playing ball and Frisbee for a bit and then everyone seems pretty content to mind their own business. I have 6+ acres so nobody needs to be right on top of one another. It still requires management, but it’s pretty doable and I’ll take any improvement I can get. Inside we’re still a work in progress. I’ve had the boys “mingle” a little because if I keep them apart for too long they’ll start to think something’s wrong if they’re suddenly together. Better to give them small, heavily supervised doses of togetherness and mix things up to keep them guessing. I want them focused on me, not each other when they’re in the same room. But they can’t be together unless I’m able to have my full attention on them. When the weather permits, I try to hike Hazer, then he and Neena do several hours in the outside pen. Gus hangs out with me. Some days I feel like my whole existence revolves around managing the dogs, but I have hopes that this situation won’t last forever and eventually we’ll return to a more normal routine. I’ll never trust Hazer around Gus, but as more time goes by without any further issues, the better it bodes for all. Although Gus seems to be letting go of any angst he had about the fight, I’m sure he doesn’t trust Hazer. Who would? Gus gives Hazer a pretty wide berth. For now, that’s the new order of things around here. We’ll see how it goes.
(Click for best resolution)
Yes, it’s winter and yes, it’s been a cold one. While we haven’t had as much snow as we did the year this photo was taken, we’ve had more than I like. But worse than the snow is the bitter cold; it’s worn me thin. The constant parade of various layers of clothes and trying to whip through barn chores as quickly as possible has made this winter seem like one big, long tedious task. I have so many extra pairs of gloves and socks in my car that it looks a bit like I’m living there. I’m counting the days until it warms up, but until then any day that hits the low 30’s feels like a treat!
This is the face of a very happy dog! Nothing can make this boy smile like doing the job he was bred to do.
Gus, enjoying his version of a Halloween treat.
Nothing says “Try” like the expression on a puppy’s face!
I never wanted to be a writer. As much as I’m a voracious reader, it’s not like I ever once thought I’d sit down and write my own stories or share my opinions in writing. Instead, my writing grew from an insufferable state of loneliness that grew so intolerable, I was willing to learn how to type and use a computer to communicate with others.
To say I’m verbose would be an understatement. Although I can quiet, even shy if I don’t know someone, give me an audience and a topic I know well, and I can hold my own. And then some. Back in the late 90’s I met a man who was instrumental in helping me get published. I wasn’t looking to write weight training articles, but I’d been an active member of an Internet weight lifting community for several months when this man tapped me as a reliable source for a couple of different venues. I was flabbergasted and flattered. I mean, handing out training advice online was one thing, but actually getting published on respectable sites and magazines was huge.
I didn’t think I had the goods, but that idea was quickly put to bed when I got a phone call from one of the parties interested in my work. For once in my life I was pretty speechless, but before I hung up he extracted a promise to think about his offer, after which I Immediately phoned my friend.
“What am I gonna write about? “
“I dunno, Zo. Just write about the kind of stuff you talk about all the time online.”
“Really? Really? Do you think that’s what he wants?”
“Yes. Just do it.”
My friend had had numerous weightlifting articles published in the proceeding months and years and while he’d made it sound easy, I knew it wasn’t. I sat down and stared at my computer, racking my brain for ideas. I felt blank. Finally, I just started writing. I wrote about how I found my way into weightlifting in the early ’80s and what a challenge that was for a woman to do back then. Once I got started things began to flow and before I knew it, I had written several pages. I re-read what I’d written several times, making a few changes here and there before I got the nerve to send it off to my friend for a critique. I waited several hours, giddy with anticipation. Finally the phone rang.
“Zo, that was horrible.”
“Zo? You there?
“Zo, don’t tell me that was your best effort because it wasn’t. I know you and you can do better. A lot better!”
“Look, I’m not trying to offend you, but nobody cares about your personal experience with the Iron Game. Unless you’re famous or on T.V. nobody cares! That’s just the way it is! Write something that will educate your readers. Say something they can relate to, but don’t make it all about yourself!”
I was shattered. I mean, I hadn’t gone looking to write an article for anyone. They’d approached me! Now that I’d finally caved and written something … something that I thought was pretty darn good … I was being told it was junk? The hell with them! They can find someone else to write articles for their damn magazine.
I stewed on that for a couple of days, getting madder and madder at myself and the whole situation. On the third day I sat down at my computer and wrote what turned out to be the best article I’d ever write. And no, it wasn’t about me. It got rave reviews and it’s become the bar I use to compare everything I’ve ever written, against. It was that good. Sometimes good advice may sting or sound harsh, but if you trust the source then it can be life-altering.