Dogging my footsteps

After doing my household chores this morning, I now have first-hand experience with the phrase "dogging my footsteps."

I vacuumed the downstairs and Bogie followed behind me every step I took, frequently standing on the electrical cord.

I mopped the floor to remove the muddy footprints and dirt clods left behind by Angel when she dug up a cherished rawhide.  Bogie watched every swipe of the mop, from in front of me.  I kept asking him to move out of the way.  He followed me to the sink every time I rinsed the mop.

I sanded a new window sill on the family room window.  This involved moving the end table and easy chair from in front of the windows.  Not once, but twice, Bogie followed me behind the furniture, getting tangled up in the cords and knocking the stereo speaker off the table.  (To be honest, I knocked it off once myself, whereupon I left it on the floor until I was done.)

Upstairs to mop the bathroom floor.  I rinsed the mop in the bathtub and he stuck his face in the tub to watch.  I tried to open the closet door and he was standing in front of it.  But he moved when prompted.

Every step I took, he was right beside me.  Which is sweet.

And a little annoying.

Rest in Peace, Peanut, my princess

I used to think the hardest thing about owning a pet was taking it to be euthanized.  But I was wrong.  The hardest thing to do is to watch it die. 

Peanut has been sick.  On top of the congestive heart failure she's had for a year, she has been taking antibiotics for an e. coli infection.  She was getting tired of taking the 9 pills a day and was only eating if I bribed her with people food. 

Last night, Angel and I went upstairs to get ready for bed at 9.  Peanut lay on the landing.  I called her upstairs to join us.  I knelt down so she would know I was waiting for her.  She climbed slowly, but no more slowly than in the past few days. 

Her front paws reached the second floor.  I petted her head and stood up to make room for her.  Her eyes widened, her back legs collapsed and she slid down the carpeted stairs to land in a heap on the landing.  I was screaming and trying to grab her all the way down.  She never made a sound or tried to scramble for control.  She stared at me, unblinking. 

In retrospect, I think she died at the top of the stairs. But I was too shocked to realize it.  I raced to the bottom and straightened out her bent legs and cradled her next to me, screaming No, No, No.  

I was sure I could feel her heart beat.  I scrambled to the kitchen to look for the emergency vet number.  The one I wanted I couldn’t find.  I raced upstairs to get my phone which had the main clinic number. Emergency wasn’t one of the phone options. 

I had a magnet from a clinic a little farther away, and called them.  I was sobbing ragged breaths, but managed to ask the guy how I could tell for sure whether she was dead.  He said to put my ear to her chest.  I did and heard nothing.  I put my hand on her chest and felt a slight heartbeat. 

That’s when I realized I had been feeling my own heart beat.  I asked him what should I do.  He said I could bring her to the clinic and they would have her cremated.  I thanked him and hung up. 

I sat on the stairs next to her, petting her, sobbing, for a few minutes.  Then I called my sister.  She said to wait for her, she would be here as soon as she could.  Numbly, I agreed to wait. 

I got a sheet from the linen closet.  I swore I heard Peanut move, and I raced back to the landing, but she was in the exact same position.  I didn’t have the heart to move her. 

 I sat on the stairs, petting her and sobbing for probably half an hour.  Angel would come by every few minutes to give me love, to get petted, and to sniff at Peanut from about 6” away.  She never got any closer.  Although she had to have passed her when she came downstairs from the bedroom. 

By the time I stopped sobbing, Peanut was stiffening.  Any doubt I had about her being dead was gone.  Barb got here about 9:45 and gave me a big hug.  When she saw Peanut, she started to cry and I cried a little more.  Mostly I was drained and numb. 

We decided it would be more dignified to take her to the clinic tonight rather than leave her lying around like discarded trash.  I gathered her limp form into my arms. I wrapped her in the sheet. I placed her carefully in the back seat of my car.  The limpness of her body broke my heart.  We drove her to the clinic.  

They were very respectful.  A man brought a rolling table out to the car.  I gathered her up and laid her on top.  The sheet came away from her face.  I stroked it, close to breaking down again now that I was handing her off to someone else. 

Back home, I took medication for the migraine I had given myself.  Then Angel and I went upstairs to bed - again.  I petted and hugged her a lot.  I don't know if she realizes that Peanut is not coming back. 

Peanut was a princess in every sense of the word - dainty, dignified, gracious, demanding, empathetic, forgiving.  I will miss her greatly.

R.I.P. Peanut, my beloved princess.

Peanut - dainty princess

Peanut is my 9 year old German Shepherd-Dachshund mix. Which seemed possible because, at 3 months, she was small enough to lay diagonally in a 12 inch square tile.

She had tiny, dainty feet. Paw size is supposed to be an indicator of adult size. But her feet grew as she did. She topped out at 40 lbs and 21" high.

She had already had 3 owners. The last had gotten her from the Humane Society. When the large old dog in the household didn't take to her within a week, they decided to get rid of her. A week. My oldest dog wanted nothing to do with her for 3 years.

But Rags was thrilled to have someone to play with and take care of. They chased each other around and through the house, wrestled, and slept side by side. When she grew up, Peanut became dominant over him, but he doesn't seem to care.

I call her Princess because she has this royal, dignified attitude. She does not deign to pant eagerly for treats in the kitchen. She expects hers to be brought to her on the stair landing. Then she daintily takes it from your hand. When she sits, she looks like one of those statues of the Egyptian cats, tall, lean, regal.


Last year, she was diagnosed with a heart murmur, but it hasn't slowed her down. She continues to rule, currently preventing Angel from playing fetch with me.  Peanut growls and Angel stops cold.  And when Angel gets too rowdy, one growl from Peanut settles her down.

Peanut - canine royalty.

Rags - Sweet Survivor

Rags is my 12 year old Lhasa Apso. So many things have gone wrong with this poor dog, it's amazing that he's alive. That he is so lovable is a bonus.

I got him when he was 18 months old. We drove 40 miles to see him based on a newspaper ad. The house was unoccupied, the result of a divorce. The husband met us at the house. There was Rags, a female, and a puppy. Rags came right up to us, tail wagging.

Despite him being a dirty, matted bundle of fur, we bought him and took him home. He was thrilled to be in the car, looking out the window, tail still wagging. But he stank something awful.

First thing, we gave him a bath and cut the mats out of his long hair. That left him nearly bald and exposed not only that he was very underfed, but he had a hernia.

A trip to the vet solved the hernia, and neutering, issues. A trip to the groomer evened out the butchered hair. The underfeeding left him edgy around food and, at first, he put on too much weight to compensate. It took him over a year to realize the self-feeder would not run out.

When he was five, I took him to the vet because of a lump in his stomach. The vet figured it was a fatty tumor and operated to remove it. During the evening at home, the stitches began oozing some yellowish fluid. It was the only time I've ever heard him whine. That called for a trip to the emergency vet, who cleaned and bandaged him up and gave him a shot for the pain.

The tumor biopsy came back cancerous and I was referred to a veterinary oncologist. I didn't even know they existed. It was the 'best' kind of cancer: a MAST cell tumor in an easily removable location. But the first surgery hadn't been extensive enough. Rags had another surgery to remove the edges of the cancer. To this day you can feed the zipper-like scar tissue on his belly from the two surgeries. Surgery was followed by chemotherapy every quarter for a year.

Not long after he finished chemo, his urinary tract was blocked by bladder stones and he had to have emergency surgery. This was followed by a couple of uneventful years for him.

Since then there was the broken tooth that needed to be removed. And while they had him under anesthesia the vet was going to remove a harmless fatty tumor. But the dental x-ray machine broke. Since they had him under anyway, they removed the tumor, which was benign.

I had to take him to the dentist to have the tooth looked at. (Again, who knew there were dentists for dogs?) The dentist said he could cap the tooth instead of pulling it. So now both my dog and I have one crown.

Last year, another hurried trip to the vet when he suddenly shrieked and wouldn't put his back leg on the ground. The vet said it was muscular, like a footballer's knee injury, and prescribed muscle relaxants. I think perhaps Peanut wanted to play and caught Rags unprepared and he twisted his knee.

Next week, back to the dentist. He has more cracked teeth. I'm convinced it's a side effect of the chemo. The vet wanted to pull them, but I want to see if they can be saved like the last one.

No wonder Rags trembles violently when we get to the vet's.