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Culture: Tributes
Barking at Squirrels

He died a day ago. There is a sand-fire up North. White flakes of ash fall from the sky like snow. And yet, this is not what alarms me. I stare at our yard. For almost 12 years, Bowie would appear, from the brush, often with a fully blackened snout from digging in fresh fluffy soil, from fitting his favorite stuffed animals for their graves or burying bones that were just too good to be enjoyed all at once.

The next day, at 10am on the dot, I open his doggy door, as that was usually when he was due for a pee. I look out at our yard again. He is still not there, of course. It is windy now, the leaves are starting to fall, and pine needles are raining down like daggers. He would hate this. He used to bark at everything, even the wind. We thought it was something he would outgrow. He never did.

In his absence, the squirrels have become bolder. They dig in the grass, they eat the apples from the apple tree. They get way too close to our house, practically touching our back french doors. I will sprinkle the dog’s ashes all over the yard in hopes the squirrels will smell him and show some damn respect. One day, I bark at them, emulating Bowie’s howling beagle arooo. The squirrels just look at me, confused. So I run at them while howling. It works. For a moment, I am proud. I’m continuing to fight the good fight.

“I’ve been barking at squirrels,” I confess to my husband a few nights later. I feel someone needs to know this information, as I am starting to worry about myself. (Though I’m equal parts terrified he will have me committed.)

“I get it,” my husband says, surprising me. “I still open a can of dog food every morning. Habit, I guess.” Then he starts to cry, resting his head on the pillow between us that the dog claimed over a decade ago in his Oedipal battle for my love.

I don’t tell him that I also sit perched on Bo’s downstairs dog bed waiting for the takeout guy to show up with food. Or that I stalked a raccoon near our garbage cans yesterday. And I chased the mailwoman (because she forgot to pick up my letters for mailing).

Is it possible that in all of my grief, I am becoming a dog? Or have I always been one, deep down? Trans-Species: is that a thing?

I took our daughters to a combination pumpkin patch/ petting zoo yesterday. As they fed chickens, I knelt down and pressed my nose against a goat’s nose and pet the blaze of fur between its eyes, the way I used to with Bo. If I had closed my eyes, it would have felt just like him. But I didn’t, as I quickly became aware of how this looked, a woman paying no attention to her human children running around, instead sitting forehead to forehead with a goat. Eventually my kids came over and pet the goat. Before leaving the parking lot, I texted my husband: “our next dog might be a goat.”

Bo’s favorite delivery man came today, with a package for us and two crunchy bones that he always gave to Bo. I explained to him that our dog was gone, had died, and then I watched as this big burly man’s face crumpled into tears. “It’s okay,” I said feebly, while looking away. He still handed me the bones.

Time heals all wounds, the other humans in my life have been saying. I hope that’s true. For now, I’ll bury his bones in the yard and keep barking at squirrels.

Culture: Tributes
Dixie's Last Post

Fine, Evil, you win. Take this body. This 12 ½ year old shell of the dog I once was. Take it all.  See what it gets you.

Take these eyes. In the end, they were blind to the world and useless to me. I will keep images of every face I have ever loved, ending with Tim holding me as I hopped toward the light and into another world.    

Hey Evil. You want these ears? Take them now, for what they’re worth. For in my mind, I have recorded beautiful harmonies and rhythms of nature that speak to my heart. My soul has embraced words of love and friendship that your essence will never comprehend.

My nose? All yours pal. Like you, it’s dry and shriveled like stale fruit. I’ll keep the scent memories of dew on newborn prairie tallgrass and the titillating stench of a rotting log. I can catalog the bouquet of love and joy, and happiness. I’ve known them all my life.

These legs all bent and paralyzed? Take them. I only have three so I bet you’re feeling short changed. Funny how I never felt that way. What you can never possess is the passion that fueled them. For these legs have elevated me to more mountaintop experiences than you will ever know. I have hiked more miles on flatland trails and city sidewalks than you can count.  My legs have run, weaved, and tunneled their way to 18 agility titles. This single front leg has enabled people to see that we are all greater than the sum of our parts.

Last is my heart. The grand prize. Bet you think you’ve won the lottery with that one. But it rests silently in my chest and will soon be reduced to ashes. The essence of my heart that lived and loved and pumped blood through my body so I could climb mountains and wow agility audiences remains with me in a place that your cancerous tentacles will never penetrate.

You are a hideous mass that took my life. Damn you. I wasn’t ready to go just yet. Tim still needed me. But I am still here because death doesn’t end relationships. I have legions of beings that have loved me and will continue to do so.

Most of all, I love you, Tim, and I always will.  And I will be waiting for you on the other side. 

Culture: Tributes
Welcoming Meadow

Arriving home at 4am with the ghost
weight of my dog gone flaccid in my arms
after I said Yes to the needle, ending twelve hours
of seizure, eleven years of companionship,
just as I had said Yes to the nurse who removed
the lone breathing tube keeping my mother alive,
I drank myself to sleep, dreamed my dog crossed
a meadow, smooth grassy stalks swaying lightly,
seed heads anointing the ridge line of her back.
In the sparkle of dawn, vague gray forms,
her pack, rustled the underbrush around her.
She raised her head, mouth parted in dog-smile,
tongue flopping, turned from my gaze to bound off
through the swishing wildflowers.

This is what I need – belief that everyone
I have betrayed still runs gracefully
through a wilderness kinder than the one
I offered, that the pulse of love is released
into a welcoming meadow. When the wren chirps
my name, both syllables, and the morning dove soothes
its blue coo through my bedroom screen, I want to believe
there is something beyond grief over where I failed
to save the ones I loved in my life.

Culture: Tributes
Tribute to Rocky

Poochie, my companion and best friend, came to me as a frisky, sweet and gentle eight years old dog.  He had a mind of his own and found a way to let me know what he wanted, needed and when.  Poochie would patiently wait by the couch for me to come and sit with him.  Maybe he would get a belly rub if he were lucky.  If it took too long for me to come, he would become vocal.  We had our ways to communicate.  The love ran deep between us and there was a bond not to be broken.

Culture: Stories & Lit
Royness: The Love and Healing of a Dog
Roy

On September 1, 2001, I peered into Afghanistan from the very small corridor that touches the Chinese border. Working for a student travel company, this trip along the Chinese portion of the ancient Silk Road had reached its westernmost point.   Tomorrow we would retrace our path back eastward to Beijing, to board our plane back to the States on September 11. Life was following its trajectory to extreme and far flung adventure. I had been out of the country on various assignments for nearly two months – time to come home.

The next month would unfold into events far from anyone’s control. On the evening of September 11, I was packing my bags in the Beijing hotel preparing for my flight. With the time difference, we were in horror of what was happening back home on the morning of 9/11.  It took another two weeks before I had finally finagled my way back to Boulder after being stranded in Beijing following the terrorist attacks and the chaotic cancelation of international flights. The following week, I was glued to the TV watching anthrax scares after all the employees at my student travel organization were laid off. The director could see the writing on the wall. 

Out of all the possible ways to stay sane during those uncertain and CNN-watching times, I chose puppies. I wandered out of my house in the crisp October and into a pet store. 

“How many puppies can I have with me in the puppy meeting room at one time?”

“Three”

“I’ll take a Beagle, a Dalmatian and Golden Retriever, please.”

I sat cross-legged in a sterile 6 X 6 room as they were brought in one by one. They wrestled and tumbled the anxiety right out of me. 

Two days later, Roy came home with me from the Humane Society. The dog I named Roy was a three-month-old Bloodhound / Sharpei mix. Yep, try to picture what that looks like. I had no idea what I was doing with my life, but I knew I needed some levity and grounding. I purchased a leash, a food bowl, and a clicker for training at the Boulder Humane Society store. The woman behind the counter said with a knowing smile, “Watch out. When you settle down enough to have a dog, a husband and kids are not far behind. You’re sending a message to the universe - I see it all the time.” It seemed a bit overreaching for the volunteer cashier, but I thought at 31 years old, with some serious curve balls thrown into my career as a travel guide, that a husband and kids might be cool. 

“Roy” is a slang word in the Southern Thai dialect (where I had been a Peace Corps Volunteer) that means everything good. Food was roy, clothes were roy, even the weather or a new pickup truck. And my caramel-colored Roy with a wrinkled forehead got me away from the news reel and out of my slump. Like all puppies, he chewed my shoes, needed to be let out to pee two or three times a night and demanded my attention through exercise and socialization – all really good training if you are going to have children one day.

This optimistic, enthusiastic companion bore witness to my next 13+ years: finding the love of my life, three moves, three children and my own wrinkled forehead. He protected me from the fed-ex man and things that go bump in the night, licked the tears of miscarriages away, slept in the bed next to me when my husband traveled or when I had 68 days of pregnancy bed rest. He even kept my feet warm when I was up through the wee hours nursing and soothing my infants and stood guard next to their cribs and infant carriers. Roy is their godfather, after helping me send my message to the universe, my harbinger of life’s gifts.

For the first 3 years we were together, he was my baby. We hiked, I obsessed over his possible ailments on the internet and kept a folder with all his report cards from puppy preschool to adult behavior training. When he was two, Will and I lived in Austin. On the weekends I took him running through the wildness of Barton Creek. He ran three miles for every mile I did - looping ahead and behind, patrolling my perimeter and stopping to hump the smaller dogs he passed. Running, humping, drinking from the fresh creek: good days to be a dog. When we came back to Colorado, we lived on ten acres in Nederland and he chased the huge mule deer and roamed free without a fence. As life progressed, other human babies cornered my attention, we moved to a fenced yard three thousand feet below and I would often look over to him with guilt. I’d love a run too, I thought.  How many mornings was I trying to get my three kids to school on time without losing my shit, that I didn’t even turn around to meet his watchful eyes? I’m sorry, buddy. 

In two day’s time I have scheduled to have Roy euthanized in our home. I wonder at the tears that lay centimeters below the surface as I go about my day as usual – It’s the logical thing to do. He’s almost 14. He’s lived a great life. He’s suffering. He can’t stand up on his own any more. The drugs have left him a sleepy shell of his former self. Yet, today as I return from the grocery store, his tail thwaps against his dog bed to see me enter. I eat with him in his dog bed. He gets smoked salmon from Whole Foods - all he can eat. I eat my sushi. He sighs his long yogi-ujay breath. I cry.

When someone you love is dying, all the refrigerator magnet platitudes suddenly feel profound. No one else has been such an intimate witness to my life, a bridge through my chapters and cheerleader and non-judgmental friend through my craziness. There’s always some editing to what I show – to even my husband or best friends. Roy has witnessed me trying to squeeze into the too-tight jeans, lip-synching Aretha with a hairbrush, blubbering sad, saying what I wish I’d said to the bathroom mirror and the Madmen evening marathons that I explain away as being really swamped with life. He knows.

My ten-year-old daughter asks me why dogs don’t live as long as we do, why they live seven times faster. Maybe another gift from our pets is to remember that life is brief. We get to witness their silly infancy, their wild and confident teen years and finally the old age that we all might be lucky to face ourselves. All of this happens for them in a decade or so of our own life. Our time here is just a blip – don’t take anything for granted - they remind us.

I hold Roy’s white muzzle in my cupped hands and look into his clouded eyes. I am looking for a message, permission, my further life instructions.   I can insert anything I want: “my message to you is _________________. “ A) Yes, I need your help to go. B) Thanks for doing the right thing because I’m hurting. C) You’ve got this, Anni. You don’t need me any more.  Or even D) Please remember to wear sunscreen. Instead I just see his goodness, his Royness and maybe that’s all the life instruction I need: remember the goodness.

Culture: Tributes
Sweet Slayer

Slayer was attacked by two large dogs in a moments notice, and he didn’t make it. We buried him earlier this morning. 

He was the first person to ever teach me about unconditional love. He would cry if we went in the bathroom and shut the door. He had to be with us no matter what. This dog would hug us. He would lean his two front paws on our shoulders, rub his face against ours, and genuinely embrace us. There’s no denying it for me - dogs are human. They can shut down just like humans do in the face of torture or become as sweet and loving as their owner.  

He was a cuddle bug. Mornings we would wake to Slay biting my hair, his soft fur tickling my forehead. If we didn't arise at a time of his liking, he would climb under the covers and jokingly bite our toes! He would come get me when newborn Lars made a peep after we brought him home from the hospital. 

But Slay hated not being the baby anymore. When Lars moved into our bed, Slay pouted but eventually found a comfy spot on the side of Daddy instead of on my head. Elongated and now facing our feet, he would keep a vigilant night watch of the bedroom door. 

On days when I would try to write at the kitchen desk, Slayer would make the sweetest short bark as he commanded me to give him treats - after all, I was in the kitchen - didn’t that mean it was feeding time?! I spoiled him. I feed him chicken on top of his super expensive no-grain, uber-organic dog food. I gave him cheese, I gave him scraps, I gave him gourmet meals, I gave him everything. And it still feels right. 

He came to us a little black fluff ball - he became Mike’s military squadron dog. All the VFA-32 boys knew him. He was always a guardian. Always a little “mayor” who loved everyone. 

I will forever be grateful I loved this dog and knew the wholehearted love he bestowed to me and my family.  He survived eye cancer only to be taken away from us in this violent way.  I fought for him. My arm tells that story. I don’t want the bruises to go away. I want scars. It means I tried to do my job even though I didn’t. Once they fade, Slay’s memory might too. 

The tears come in waves. Our family is shaken in a way we luckily have yet to experience. Larsen asked if he will die one day too. 

As we came together today to bury my best friend and first born, my heart is heavy, my heart is broken. Of course we will be satisfied with the life we gave him. Yet, we are greedy. We wanted more hugs, more cuddles, more love from this little guy. 

How does one write an obituary for a dog? 

You just sit down, rub his gray fur, hold his paw for one last time, and let the tears fall into the dirt that you throw on his small white casket, hoping your hurt and love cradles his grave. You remind yourself this is the messy side of life, and you aren’t special enough to avoid it. You graciously accept the ways your son tries to “make you happy again.” You zone out a lot, almost in hopes of deceiving yourself you are living your normal life again and he is just around the corner as you walk in. You leave his bowl out on the counter. It hurts, but it feels like the right thing to do. 

You shut the blinds so you can’t see the spot where it happened. You lie in bed a lot. Your friend brings you dirty martinis and croissant sandwiches. You finally face it. You sit in a dark, cold room, drinking hard booze while clutching his collar and clinging to the good times. 

You take in the hurt and happiness, swallowing gulps of air after the intense crying, and you tell yourself it will get easier each day. You plan your escape route. You remember how you repeated “He’s a fighter” a zillion times at the emergency vet, with the prospects that positive thinking and words really do create reality. You take in the love that family and friends provide. You tell yourself it’s okay to keep grieving, even if its over a dog-eat-dog world. 

He’s been with us since a few days after we were married. Nine years we’ve known his love. It’s funny how we found him. He was named “Teddy” and was in a Hawaiian shirt. He seemed just as laid back as us in that photograph. I imagine taking him to dog beach in San Diego one last time, letting him people watch and catch the ball in the waves. 

He will be forever missed. 

Culture: Tributes
Golden Tribute
For Quinn

She was their baby in the beginning.
Big, sweet, pale blond, Golden dog baby.
They walked her twice a day,
took her to the dog park beach.

She was calm, laid back,
easy going, even as a puppy.
Ben said he valued sweetness
over intelligence in a dog.

And then the human puppies were born.
She quickly became just a dog.

She didn’t seem to mind the missed walks.
She wore a little dog trail to her allotted
poop spot at the far edge
of the new fenced yard.

One of the grandfathers took her
on long, long walks down to the canal
whenever he visited.

The other grandfather brought her
to Brown County for country vacations
when her nuclear family traveled.

Grandmothers bought her new collars
and made sure to give her lots of pats
and scritches under her collar on visits.

All the grandparents slipped her treats
when others weren’t watching.
She was loved.

When the human babies were learning
to stand, she could knock them down
with a wide, slow swish of her big, fluffy tail.
She seemed content and she remained gentle as the children grew,
even if sometimes (when they were very little)
they hit or pushed her for being in their way.

She was so calm, laid back,
easy going.
She was not demanding.

When I spent the night at her house,
I would wake in the night
to find her standing by my bed,
wagging her tail and looking
at me silently.
Wanting attention, but not demanding.

Her sweetness broke my heart.

She had knee surgery a year and a half ago.
It went badly.
She was never the same.

And yesterday, Ben called to tell me
she apparently had gone
into heart failure. 

The vet came to the house.

Surrounded by the people
she had gently and patiently loved,
while the children kissed and patted her,
she was ushered peacefully from her life.

Oh, you sweet dog.
Sweetest dog in the world.
Best dog, Quinn.
Goodbye, patient, loving soul.
Goodbye Quinny.

Dog's Life: Lifestyle
Love, Loss and the Gift of Old Dogs
Dillon abandoned dog
Its been a rough few months around here with a great deal of loss. I remember in January and February sitting with the dogs one evening after work and knowing that 4 of them were likely not going to be around much longer. Three of the four were past ten with a variety of age related issues. Tyra was the youngest at only about 6 but Great Danes have one of the shortest lifespans of any breed and she suffered from wobblers disease and other serious issues common in the breed.    The first to go was our dear old German shepherd Dillon who we took in with another dog, Molly, when their home burned in the Valley fires. Dillon was old and frail when he came to us. He was in liver failure, heartworm positive and had advanced hip dysplasia. He had 5 good months with us before his issues took a toll and we had to say good bye.  Exactly one week later, 13 year old blind pit bull Patty had declined to the point we couldn’t keep her comfortable and our hearts broke again. Patty came to us at age eleven as part of a felony cruelty case and we had 2 ½ wonderful years with her. Patty was perfection in dog form. She had a gentleness, presence and wisdom I had rarely seen even with 30 plus years of working with dogs.       I was feeling incredibly fragile when Paul and I got home from the vet after letting Patty go. Two dogs in one week was heartbreaking and overwhelming. We walked in the door and our sweet Tyra was down and in distress. She had been failing for months and in fact several times it had seemed as if she would be the first to go. Tyra had wobblers disease, common in Great Danes and we had been having to help her up for months. She had nerve damage, intermittent incontinence, weakness and other ongoing  issues. I was usually able to help Tyra get up but at 120 pounds it wasn’t easy and that time I couldn’t get her up at all. After trying several times with no success I knelt beside her and took her big beautiful head in my hands.  I knew it wasn’t fair but I couldn’t help it. I’ve never been one to prolong the inevitable for my own needs but I was crushed with sadness and I struggled to breathe as I looked into her sweet brown eyes. “Sweetheart, I can’t do this. Please give me more time. You have to hold on a little longer for me. Just a week,” I begged her. ”Please, I just need a week to pull myself together”. We held each others gaze for a moment and then with Paul’s help we were able to get her up and moving.      Tyra actually rallied for several months and it was a daily struggle but she still had a lot of joy in that time. We monitored her quality of life on a daily and often hourly basis, constantly weighing her comfort and happiness against the inevitable. We kept in touch with her vet, tried acupuncture, pain meds, anti-inflammatorys and more. In the past week it finally came to the point that her bad days outweighed the good and we knew we had to let her go. The vet came to the house and she slipped away in her own bed surrounded by those who loved her.    The pain is still sharp and raw and the tears are quick to spill but that is the price of love. The greater the love, the greater the pain. And dogs are so worth it. So incredibly, amazingly worth it. I could have easily spared myself the agony of loss by just not taking them in. But how much richer my life was by knowing them. How sweet was the time I spent with them. And not only did they bring such precious love and joy to my life but what would have happened to them had I not taken them? Certainly there are worse things than a humane end in the arms of caring shelter staff, but how much better to be embraced by someone who loves you deeply and fully. Every dog deserves to take that last breath in the arms of someone who loves them so much that the tears flow but the sobs are held back until the last heartbeat to spare them the worry of seeing your grief.   
Culture: Tributes
Goodbye, My Friend

The happiness, the laughs,
his barks, the baths
all he took with him.

The sorrow, the pain,
the tears, like rain,
left our hearts dull, lives dim.

The smiling eyes, the golden fur
tail wagging, heart pure
forever we remember him.

Culture: Tributes
Beau: Through every season, he was there

He died peacefully cradled in my arms, the last sound he heard being my voice speaking to him softly: “It’s okay, buddy, it’s okay…” We had been inseparable for almost 20 years and in those years experienced a lifetime together.

Like so many good things often do, he came into my life unexpectedly. Arriving home from work one day, my wife announced she had something she wanted to show me. From the car she produced a small black furry bundle and sat it down in the floor. The bundle, a black puppy.  She told me she had found him that afternoon wandering outside the school where she taught. “He was running around with some other stray adult dogs, just like he was one of them,” she said hopefully. Unsure if I was ready for another dog, I watched dubiously as the energetic pup set about inspecting the place, sniffing legs of chairs and peering into the kitchen. When he came over to inspect my shoe, I reached down and shook him playfully; he immediately latched onto my pant leg and began to pull vigorously. “OK”, I thought to myself, all doubts immediately swept aside, “I guess you’ll do.” 
      
Thus began a new, sometimes stormy chapter in our lives as a family. Beau would be a house dog by necessity, spending a great deal of time indoors. This took some adjustment. Not liking to be left alone, he frequently took his revenge by attacking various inanimate objects in the house. Always an inveterate hater of stuffed toy animals – the mere sight of them brought blood to his eyes - he once decapitated the head of a large decorative fabric rabbit belonging to my wife, ghoulishly arranging the ears and eyes around the living room floor. Mostly, though, he went after my things. Having already eaten several of my sweaters that first year, he decided one day to go straight for the jugular by dragging out a box of my favorite paperbacks, ripping it open, and vigorously chewing up several volumes, presumably those titles he most disliked. Gave a whole new meaning to “dog-eared.” Weighing less than 15 pounds and no bigger than a breadbox, he was nonetheless always up for a fight, regardless the opponent’s size. As such, I was forced on more than one occasion to quite literally drag him from the field of battle before being mauled to death.  On another occasion, I had to pull his head out of a hole as he attempted to follow a rodent into its den, his jaws snapping and a crazed look on his clay smeared face.

With all that said, I now come to what I really wanted to say at the start. Never was there a more faithful companion or better friend than this little mixed breed terrier we called Beau. Through the many years we spent together, through the ups and downs of living, the illnesses, the accidents, the happy times and the sad, he was always there for me. Regardless of my mood or the season, blind to the vicissitudes of my sometimes selfish and thoughtless behavior, he remained steadfastly committed to me, seeing me through every crisis and every disappointment. Days when things weren’t going well, his antics, like the black birds in the Robert Frost poem, had a way of lifting my spirits and so “has given my heart/A change of mood/And saved some part/Of a day I had rued.”  That was my dog Beau, always coming to my rescue, far more than I ever came to his. In providing him a home and shelter, he returned the favor a thousand times over through his devotion, his patience, and, above all, his good company. After all this time I still miss him and sometimes dream we are together again walking in some green open space. Humorist Will Rogers once said that if dogs don’t go to heaven, then he wanted to go where they do. Oh yes. Yes.    

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