House of Hair

SUMMARY: Furniture and dogs: Defensive maneuvers.

When we were kids, the family dog slept downstairs in the laundry room. That's just the way it was. The dog also wasn't allowed on the furniture, even in the car (dogs on floor, you know). Being as how we were kids and the dog was a dog, we occasionally sneakily let her onto our beds at bedtime, and repeatedly tried the plaintive, "But she's LONEly down there!" and "Just ONE night? PLEEEEEZZZZZZE?" But, no, dog did not sleep with people and did not get onto the furniture.

My mom was also a good housekeeper. She'd probably beg to differ, but I always thought her house was (and still is) pretty darned clean. We never had to worry about there being huge clumps of dog hair in the corner that would scuttle across the room every time the furnace came on, or trying to find a clean seat when visitors dropped by in their black wool skirts.

When I was in Junior High School, I got this crazy idea to go offer my services at a local dog breeder's house so that I could play with other dogs. They had thousands of dogs! Well--compared to our one--I don't think I even knew anyone who had more than one dog the whole time I was growing up--it seemed like thousands. Probably half a dozen borzois, a couple Salukis, some beagles, and a couple litters of puppies.

I went into their house, and it was a nice, comfortable, welcoming place to be, except that there was dog. hair. EVERY. where. There were throws on the furniture in the living room, and THOSE were covered with dog hair. I didn't say anything, but I made a vow right then that my house would not look like that when I grew up and had thousands of dogs of my own.

So now I have a mere two dogs (at times seems like thousands) and there is dog. hair. every. where. EXCEPT not on the furniture. Well, except for the bed, where I sleep among dogs and their associated hairs every night despite rollers and sponges and sticky sheets and vacuums. My living room has a baby gate across the entrance to keep the dogs out [except when I'm in there with them and can monitor furniture encroachments] because, damnit, when visitors drop by in their black wool skirts, they WILL have a place to sit that is free from dog hair.

(That is, if they can get past the frenzy of dogs in the front hallway unscathed, and assuming that no wafting dog hairs have settled on the furniture since the last time I vacuumed the cushions, in, oh, I'm sure it's been since 2005.)

Which brings us to an agiliter's* facebook status this morning: "My papasan chair has become a dog bed."

Now, I happen to have a papasan chair, and I know that it is perfectly shaped like a dog bed with a better, elevated view of the surrounding neighborhood, and it happens to be right in the middle of my office where dogs have free access and have been known to eye it lasciviously and even to place tentative paws upon it. BUT.

I refuse to let my papasan chair become a dog bed. To protect it, it now is permanent home to two computers, an old green recycling bin, a couple of useful magazine issues, two space heaters, a pink-flowered crocheted afghan, some shopping bags from disneyland, and a large dragon in a box that I got as a gift many months ago and haven't made a space for yet. Let's see them get any dog hairs past THAT.

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* I made this up on the spot. "Person who does agility." Tired of saying the whole thing.

Photos of Holidays Past and Present

SUMMARY: Those were the days, my friend--and so are these.

1970

2009

(The one in the middle here is on the left in the preceding photo.)

1966 - Sam still puppyish

(Me in long blonde hair. Dad in blue plaid shirt.)

1978 - Amber comes home

(Me in long blonde hair.)

1983 - Sheba and Amber

2001 - A rare three-dog Christmas (Jake, Tika, Remington)

2009 - The Merle Girls

1969

(Mom in green, Dad in back.)

2009

(Mom in white, Dad in blue plaid shirt (some things NEVER change!). And these are the sisters and the cousins and they number up by dozens and the aunts!)

Old Age. It's Not for the Faint of Heart.

SUMMARY: A scare, sadness, and relief.

Over the last week, I've been talking to my first sister a bit about her 13-year old Lab mix who has been in declining health. But the dog still loved to go for walks, even if she could barely stand. Incontinent. Maybe a little senile, a little hard to tell. When was the right time to let her go? Would she make it easy by slipping away quietly some night in her bed?

No, she leaped down a couple of steps into the carpeted living room yesterday--the dog who could barely walk, needed a towel under her belly held by her human caretakers to help her stand, wanted to leap down the step--fell, and couldn't get up again. Her front legs were as strong as ever, but her back and hind legs had given up, couldn't hold her up. Had she damaged something, or was this just progressive deterioration? Could she feel anything in her rear legs? Could it be fixed? Guessing not--

My mother has had some serious health issues lately. She's still SO much "Mom"; no sign of the mental deterioration that she had so feared because all of her female relatives succumbed to it, but at 80, some other things have come up in rapid succession, landing her in the hospital or emergency room several times in the last half year. We've had some scares. I don't know whether she or we are more scared each time.

She's had some procedures last week to try to stabilize her heartbeat. Thought it was successful. Then problems, and to the emergency room. Then OK and home again. It's her heart, for goodness sakes; these aren't minor things. She's always been so strong, or seemed like it to me. Very active and healthy, mentally and physically and socially.

Last night I told my sister to call me if she decided to put the dog to sleep and needed company, someone other than her own daughters, whom she'd have to take care of more than they could take care of her at such a difficult time.

I've heard nothing all day. Headed out for an evening with my Master Composters group around 6:00. Home a bit after 9, and there are 4 messages blinking on my answering machine. Given that I usually have about one once or twice a week, and given the way things have been going, that couldn't be good.

The messages were from my dad, saying that he was taking mom to the emergency room again. From my first sister saying that she put the dog to sleep and shortly thereafter got the call about my mom and was now at the hospital with my parents. Two from my out-of-state fourth sister wanting reassurance, feeling outside of everything.

OK, that's not so bad--given that there were no additional follow-up calls.

I called my first sister for an update. Mom's back and legs seemed to be giving out, wouldn't hold her up, she fell or was afraid of falling (not clear on this), couldn't feel one leg. Couldn't get up. So they'd gone to the hospital.

The doctors had ruled out heart attack and stroke and were progressing through a variety of other tests. Mom was perfectly capable of chatting and being--well--just the same mom as always, just with a body that's not willing to play the same games the same way any more. Turns out that it's just a (probably) minor infection, and she'll spend the night there so they can keep an eye on her to be sure that the treatment is taking rapid effect.

I am greatly relieved.

But meanwhile the hospital can't find a copy of mom's Advance Directive. What does the directive say? If she falls down the steps into the living room and can't get up, what do we do? She's not a dog, not senile, still going to contribute a lot to her family and the world--we expect--and she's only 80, for crying out loud, that's not old enough to be frail. Is it? Isn't 80 the new 60? And 60's the new 40?

It's all so much really out of our control. We have to rely on the expertise of others, and we have no good way of knowing whether they actually have any idea of what they're talking about. We like to hope so. We have to hope so.

Because I expect mom and dad to still be around when I hit 100. That's just the way it's supposed to work. And by then, I'll have lost how many dogs to the Big Milkbone in the Sky? Four so far, two more on their way--Tika's 8, Boost's 4. Ten years from now, I don't expect that they'll still be with me. Some other young and bouncy and crazy and loving dog will most likely be in my life. It won't be the same as any of my previous dogs. It won't be as good as they were. And, in other ways, it will be better.

Not so easy to adopt a replacement parent from the local parent shelter; their screening requirements are REALLY tough. So I'll have to keep the ones I've got. And meanwhile my sister's dog is gone. In peace. But so hard for the ones left behind.

I have no clever line to wrap this up. Because the story really has no end. So I guess I'll go to bed.

Howl!

SUMMARY: Various dogs sing for various reasons.

The late, great Frankie, thinking about his glory days as a torch singer.

The late, great Remington singing.

My sister Sharon had an Australian Shepherd, Frankie, who used to throw his head back and howl (sing) whenever anyone sang "Happy Birthday To You!" It was a great trick for calling family (of which Sharon and her then-spouse had huge quantities of) long-distance on their birthdays, just something a little different.

My old pal Remington used to move into a different world when sirens sounded; as though taken over by the spirits of his wolf ancestors, he'd raise his nose to the heavens and a long, thin howl from the depths of his soul emerged as though civilization and his family had vanished from around him, unnoticed. He also howled (sang) but in a more conscious way when he was very happy, and he did it more and more over time as we encouraged him by trying to get him to sing on command.

I have three dogs now who are useless as singers because they just never naturally howl and I know of no way to teach them to "sing" if they don't do it on their own. The only time I've ever heard Tika howl is when she's dreaming (very spooky, wild sound, thin and deep, pulled from an ancient memory, in the depth of the dark night).

The only time I ever heard Jake try to howl was when Remington used to howl at fire engines, and even then he couldn't quite figure it out--he'd put his head back in the right position but then make just really sharp, painfully high-pitched yelp-barks. Since no one else around here howls, I've never seen him try again, the little copy-cat who likes to believe he's really the leader of the pack.

And I've never seen any hint of howling or singing from Boost, although she does often do a little short "oww!" of happiness sometimes when she first gets out of her crate in the morning. Hmmm, something to think about trying to capture--