A Sad Farewell

I never really allowed myself to believe that my dog might die one day. Wensley always looked like a puppy, so even when he started limping from arthritis and sleeping most of the day I thought we would still have years together. I was wrong.

Wensleydale Danger McDoggiepants, my partner in crime and Netflix binging, passed away on Sunday. No, that’s a lie. I called a veterinarian and asked him to come to my house to give my dog a life ending shot and he died. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Maybe the hardest.

The only kindness in this is that it happened so fast. He lost interest in eating so I made an appointment with the vet. Last Wednesday I got the diagnosis: Chronic Kidney Disease. I read several articles on the internet and thought, “Okay, this is bad, but I don’t know what phase of the disease he is in. We are just learning about it so maybe it is early?”

Nope. I put him in an animal hospital and they tried to flush the toxins that his kidneys were no longer dealing with, but he didn’t respond to treatment. We brought him home on Friday and made him as comfortable as possible. On Saturday he rested but could still walk around outside and even ate a little. But on Sunday he threw up everything he ate the day before and couldn’t even stand when I took him outside. He was shaking as if he were freezing but when I wrapped and spooned him it didn’t let up, which meant that he wasn’t cold, he was in pain. The moment I knew it was over when when I got up to get some pain medication for him and his eyes didn’t follow me as I walked across the room. Matt’s Dad always joked that Wensley was “my shadow” because he padded after me everywhere, and even if he was to tired or sore to follow me on foot he followed me with his eyes.

I’ll spare you the rest. Or rather, I’ll spare myself having to write down the rest. I’m sure you can imagine.

Wensley was a small dog. (Only twelve pounds for most of his life, but significantly less by the last day.) And yet, the hole he has left is unfathomable to me. I’ve always said that we were codependent, but it was more true than I realized. This entire week I’ve been struggling just to feel like I’m still myself without him. I feel pain at every meal because I don’t have the soundtrack of whimpering at my feet, begging for a bite, that I have had at every meal for nearly fifteen years. I don’t have anyone putting their paws on my leg in the morning reminding me to make breakfast because he knew I’d let him lick the bowl of oatmeal glue when I was done. I always remembered to give Wensley his pills, even though I could never remember to take my own.  So we took them together. I haven’t had breakfast or my meds all week. Every time I come home, there is no wagging tail or urgent whine of a dog needing to go out to pee. I don’t have a first order of business any more, so I just stand in the kitchen not sure what to do.

Then there is everything else. By which I mean, the crazy thoughts. Like the fact that I feel cheated every time my neighbor’s dog barks because why does she get to be alive? And how is it possible that everything that has eyes reminds me of Wensley? People, birds, stuffed animals – in person or in a two dimensional image – all of it hurts me because I can never gaze in those deep brown eyes again. He would sit at the top of the stairs and I would lay on the steps so we could be eye to eye and we would stare at each other. It made me feel so calm and connected. Everyone, stop having eyes! And then there is the guilt for every bit of human food I gave him. I should never have done that! And also all the guilt for everything – all the Cheetos and fries – I denied him. I should have given him everything he ever asked for!

God fucking damn this hurts. I now understand why people go straight out and buy another dog after a loss like this. The void is crushing. Only I don’t want a new dog. I want a new house. One that doesn’t remind me of Wensley everywhere I look. Part of me keeps waiting for him to walk into every room I am in, his black nails clattering on the wood floor.

I’m not going to buy a new house. If I were obscenely rich, I might not be able to stop myself. Is that why rich people have so many houses? One for every beloved pet they have lost? I wonder.

There is nothing to do but let it hurt. I need to give myself time to grieve, and time to build some post-Wensley memories in this new house. It’s unbearable to think of still, but that is what has to happen.

I’m sure I sound like a crazy person, but Wensley was a once in a lifetime dog. He was with me through the most difficult years of my life. I was only 26 when I got him; it’s crazy to think of that! He was there through a divorce, multiple moves, countless loses and heartbreaks, and stressful shake-ups at work. For more than ten years, it was just Wensley and me, and he got me through. He was a the life raft that delivered me safely through the dangers and into the hands of my new family, Matt and Ethan.

They have been amazingly supportive, by the way. (All of my friends and family have been.) I broke down doing dishes the other night because there was a little chunk of celery left on someone’s plate that Wensley would have LOVED and I couldn’t give it to him. Ethan (who is seven) jumped up from his homework and ran over and wrapped his arms around my waist, telling me how much he loved me and how glad he is that we are a family. That made me cry harder but with gratitude.

I guess that is where I start. There is one new memory I have made in this “after Wensley” period. I guess I’m creating another one right now, as I’m writing in my too quiet house, and I’m feeling grief and gratitude at the same time, and I’m having a big sloppy cry as I get through this entry. Baby steps.

There are few things that have been running through my mind all week.  One is this song by Holcombe Waller called Hardliners. Maybe listen, but don’t watch? It’s not a terrible video but I worry that the cheesiness distracts from the lyrics. I’m trying to figure out why it keeps popping into my head, other than the line that goes, “you’re so sad you just might die” which feels apt. I think it is because I need to be reminded that I have permission to feel all of this grief that is washing over me, but I don’t have permission to stop loving. It’s been exhausting to be a member of my family this week when I really wanted to be in bed with the blinds drawn, but my life raft didn’t get me all this way just so I could throw myself back in the rapids and go under.

This is the other brain worm that has been whispering in my ear. It’s a quote from Jamie Anderson (who according to the internet wrote Dr. Who).

Grief-no-place-to-go.

That is so spot on, I think. Grief and love are just two sides of the same doggie biscuit, or similar.

This morning I dropped Ethan off and school and turned the car back toward home. My first thought was about going to a Starbucks that I know of near that area, but with a sharp sting I decided not to, because it is so close to Wensley’s Veterinarian’s office.  My second thought was about Ethan. I started thinking about his breakfast routine and wondering if he is getting enough protein. I have a few ideas about what he might like, but I want to talk to Matt about it.  Then I realized with a smile that I’m transferring my grief for my dog into anxiety for my stepson. Where else is all that worry going to go? So I suppose the healing has begun. Which is painful, but natural.

I don’t have a great ending and I’ve reached that point where I might start singing “The Circle of Life,” and no one needs that. Instead, here are a few favorite pics of Wensley, including one of both of us from 2005 when he was about five months old.

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Animal Encounters

Wensleydale has had a rough time this winter. His arthritis is acting up. He had some teeth pulled. And once the snow came he started peeing in a corner of the kitchen rather than asking to go out in the cold.

He’ll be 16 years old in March, which for Yorkshire terriers (the internet tells me), is the equivalent of 80 human years. The site only went up to 17 which made my heart stutter. I had to google “oldest Yorkie” to get some sense of what I could hope for. I found this article about a 26 year old Yorkie who died in a dog attack, which was helpful but distressing at the same time. 26 years is a lot, even for a natural death. I decided to focus on that fact and not the grizzly details of his demise.

We spent the holidays in California with Matt’s family. It worked out that a friend needed a house and pet sitter for our exact days, and they agreed to give us the keys in exchange for keeping their three-legged chihuahua with broken ribs and nerve damage alive. They also have a parakeet-like bird (technically, he is a green cheeked conure) and a half-dozen chickens.

We drove from Utah to California (a 12 hour drive) with Wensley in tow. He’s usually a pretty good traveler, but this time he struggled. Here he is resting comfortably early on in the trip.

Later in the day, he seemed like he couldn’t stay still for mor that a minute or two. He was on my lap as we traversed Donner’s Pass (location of the infamous Donner Party disaster) when Wensley emptied the contents of his bladder directly into my crotch. He peed on me several more times before we reached our destination outside Sacramento. Once I got him inside and he peed on the light tiled floor (and not on my dark jeans) I saw that he was peeing blood. I got him back in the car and rushed him to a 24 hour pet hospital, making an already long day insanely longer.

Wensley had a mild urinary tract infection and the veterinarian gave us antibiotics, but it was well after midnight when we finally went to bed. I changed clothes and went to sleep, leaving the pee soaked laundry in a pile for later.

I stayed behind the next morning when Matt and Ethan joined up with the fam for holiday bonding. I started the washer, gave Wensley a bath, and tried to get the chihuahua to eat something without success. I put the clothes in the drier and turned my attention to the bird, who was shrieking for attention.

I was told I could let him out of his cage and, while he couldn’t fly, he could climb to the top of the cage and see what the people were up to. I decided to try that and it did quiet him. Then I thought I might befriend him with food, even if it didn’t work on the chihuahua who seemed to hate me with an unnatural fire. I cut up a pear and offered a small bite to the little green bird, but instead of taking it, he hopped on my hand, ran up my arm and disappeared in my freshly washed hair. I reached up to move him back to his perch, but every time my fingers got close to him he bit me. Hard.

I took a selfie and sent it to Matt, explaining what happened. “I can’t get him off so I guess he lives here now.”

Not sure what else to do, I sat on the couch and waited for the drier to buzz. I pulled up a podcast and tried to forget that I had allowed my body to become a bird house and tree combo. Once I settled on the couch, however, the bird decided to explore my branches.

He ran back and forth across my clavicle a few times. Then he stepped down onto my right breast and, after a cautious few steps, began to bounce on it, like it was a double mattress at a Motel 6. I reached up to make him stop and he bit me and ran back into my hair.

“Asshole,” I said. “I just got #metooed by a goddamn parrot. Worst. Christmas. Ever!”

The clothes finished and Matt came back to rescue me. Together we got the mean little bird back in his cage and I was free. The rest of the pet sitting part of the trip was uneventful. I gave the animals their space and they gave me mine. Wensley didn’t befriend anyone, either. But he has completely recovered from his UTI.

That’s really the end of the story, but just for fun here are some photos I took from a separate animal encounter, back in Utah, shortly after New Year’s. It was Owl Day at the Bear River Bird Refuge and I got to meet these two cuties.

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Then we took a drive around the refuge and I took pictures of hawks. These two turned out the best.

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I have always loved raptors and have a fantasy of getting into falconry some day, maybe when I’m retired. I’m sure having a bird of prey would be completely different than having a flightless conure or parakeet, but this one experience has left me less excited about my fantasy. After all, if a red tail hawk decided to trampoline my tits, I might bleed to death!

Might be best to invest in a longer lens and stick with photography. That way I can stay in my car, where it is safe.

He is Pretty Orange

Wensleydale got a shot at the vet this morning. When I brought him home I tried to make him a special treat by combining his two favorite things: peanut butter and carrots. Only something weird happened.

Maybe I’m just watching too much political coverage these days, but do you see what I see?

I swear, I cannot get away from that man!

Wensleydale did not notice. He is now napping with his lobster, Pinchy.

Meanwhile, the carrot is currently being impeached in Wensley’s stomach. He will convict sometime tomorrow.

Netflix & Chill

This is a prescription that my chiropractor wrote.  It says, “Ice 20 on 20 off / Netflix.”

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If you are a chiropractor and you wonder why people refuse to think of you as a real doctor, this might be something to bring up at the next convention.

Yes, I threw out my back early in the week. I was dusting and straightening my nightstand when I picked up… wait for it… a tube of lip balm. BAM! Pain, starting from my lower spine, shot down my left leg and I was stuck in place unable to move. Obviously I did manage to get in to get my back cracked and I’m doing better today. But I woke up this morning with a bad head cold, and I’m wishing I hadn’t just gone back to work after leaving the chiropractors office.  I should have taken the Netflix advice. Sometimes, your body wants you to slow down and chill out. You can ignore it, but then it will remind you who is really in charge.

BTW I do know that this is not what the “chill” in “Netflix and chill” means.  I’m old (as evidenced by the damage a one ounce object can do to my spine), but I watch TV.

The funny thing is, this would have been great news a few weeks ago. I was furiously trying to finish the throw that I was making for my baby sister’s (gasp) fortieth birthday, and I was behind. Where were you when I needed you, sciatica?! We could have done Knitflex for a week and I would have made my deadline! But, as it happens, I got the package in the mail the day before my lip balm related baccident. Here are a few photos of how it turned out.

I was trying to do *artful staging,* something I realized successful bloggers do at the conference I attended two weeks ago. I put the throw on this chair and took several pictures, trying to figure out what was missing.

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Then Wensley hopped up there because apparently if you are in this chair you get my attention, and I realized what was missing.  Cuteness!

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This is a free pattern from Lion Brand called “Lovers Knot.”  I’ve made it a few times.  It is complex but fun. I especially like the XOXO cable. I didn’t use Lion Brand wool, however. I have developed this addiction to Malabrigo yarn; I can’t work with anything else these days.  It’s pricey, but I don’t care. I’m not going to spend 80 hours of my life on something and use cheapo shit yarn. No way. I’ll eat in August, it will be fine.

Here is the a little more information on the specific weight (Rastita) and color (Solis). It just happens to match the book I am reading perfectly.  Also, I added my mala beads because I do *artful staging* now.

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When I got up this morning and realized I had a cold, one of my first thoughts was, “but I just finished a project and I haven’t started another one, yet!”

My very first thought was a question. “You know that statistic that says the average American gets six colds a year? I used to think that was high, but now I know it is because when you have a child living with you, you get twenty colds a year and spend the rest of your life evening out your average.”

So I got up and went shopping for orange juice and yarn, but I didn’t design this planet so I had to go to two stores. The amazing thing is that I went to see my crack dealer… er… local yarn store (Blazing Needles), and only bought yarn for a new project!  That is a first! Except for that time I went in, saw several things I wanted, only bought the yarn I needed for a baby blanket, then rewarded myself by going back the next day and buying the other things. I’m telling you: yarn is crack.

Here is my idea for my new project. I’m going to start a basic hat – brim first with an entrelac cable pattern – but then (here’s the crazy part), instead of reducing I just keep going until it is the length of a scarf, and then add a second brim / edge. So the scarf is like a long tube with no “wrong side.” Plus it would be doubly cozy, right? Is this crazy? I’m going to try it; the crazy will out itself in due time. I will have to post pictures, especially if it goes all sorts of wrong. Those are the best projects, at least when they happen to someone else, who is everyone but me in this case. And I am happy to share.

Here is what I picked out. It’s three more skeins of the Malabrigo (of course). The weight is Mechita and the color is Impressionist Sky. Blazing Needles always winds your yarn and wraps it up like a gift. Or like illicit drugs… it’s just occurring to me.

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And here is the artfully staged photo of my new blue yarn… But keep in mind, I’m new at this and I’ve taken a lot of Day Quill.

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I’ll keep working on it.

Shabby Chic

Wensley had to get a haircut last week.  I try to avoid cutting his hair in January and February because it is so dang cold, and he doesn’t deal well with the snow.  It couldn’t wait, however.  He was getting a bit of a Rastafarian situation on his back end, and it was time.

I brought him home from the groomer and dug through the winter accessories to dig out his sweater.  I knitted this for him a few years ago.  (There is no pattern to share; I just knitted a rectangle and fashioned it around his body and then sewed it up.)  Unfortunately, when I pulled it over his little body, I realized the moths had been at it.

Obviously, Wensley doesn’t care.  He doesn’t love wearing sweaters and would be happy to feed the whole thing to the moths of the world.  But he stopped shivering once he had it on, and that was the important thing.

I was reminded of a story that David Sedaris wrote in When you Are Engulfed in Flames, where he buys a $400 cashmere sweater but finds it is too nice to wear.  He pays a professional designer to “distress” it.  Extremely distressed.  He writes, “Ordinarily I avoid things that have been distressed, but this sweater had been taken a step further and ruined.  Having been destroyed, it is now indestructible, meaning I can wear it without worry.”

This is not a cashmere sweater, but it was handmade.  That took a little time.  I never felt it was too nice for the dog, clearly.  But I used to take it off before I sent him outside to pee.  Not anymore!  Now Wensley can keep it on and stave off the shivers even while making yellow snow, sweater be damned!

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Dog and Mouse

Wensley whimpered in his sleep this morning. Then he woke with a start and clambered to cuddle with me, pushing his way on to my chest and nuzzling his nose in under my chin. I realized he was shaking and I tried to reassure him. 

He has been acting strangely all morning and won’t stray from my side. I finally put his bed next to my monitor so I could get some work done. That wasn’t close enough, however. 

It’s kind of endearing , but it’s worrying also. He’s never acted like this before. What could he have dreamt about that put him in this state, even hours later?

I had a dream that Trump was elected and I woke up wanting to climb in someone’s pocket. Maybe it was a canine version of that nightmare. 

Snowballs

I need someone to do some research on why it is impossible to get snow off of a terrier. I finally gave up and put him in the tub to thaw like a 12 pound turkey. 

   
   

My Handsome Hound

They say that dogs don’t have the ability to recognize themselves in a mirror, but I’ve caught my pooch gazing at his reflection so often, I am convinced he gets it. I am also convinced he is just a little vain. 

But look at this darling mug. Can you blame him?

 

This…

is what throw pillows are for.  



And one from the side…