Two months later, almost. The pain of loss is never gone but it fades...like old photos or newsprint, the images are never fresh like they were. And time, and more dogs, heal more wounds.
We have a new foster, named Angel. He came in as Diablo, with virtually no hair, and about 50 pounds underweight. For the first weekend we had him he *would not eat* and a dog at half the appropriate weight cannot afford not to eat. We tried everything: chicken and rice, meatballs, turkey. Another death under my care would mean nothing short of the looney bin for me, and so after 2 days of not eating the techs on-site at APA saw him. He got digestive antibiotics, upper respiratory antibiotics, and of course probiotics.
On the way home, we stopped at people's pharmacy to pick him up some pet probiotics. And they have gluten free carrot cake, so I got myself a slice and took it into the car. Angel, who had not eaten anything in days, practically jumped into the front seat to get some carrot cake. So...what do you do? Of course you give up your carrot cake to the guy who hasn't found anything appetizing in days.
He's eating a lot more now, he's even slumming on kibble. But he still clearly has a hefty sweet tooth.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
and...
I thought tonight would be better. I guess that's what's weird about grief, and healing...things come in waves. Yesterday evening I walked my dogs and felt a sense of lightness and almost peace at sunset, and here I am again at 3 A.M. bawling again over the stupid keyboard.
I don't remember my dreams lately. On saturday night, the night before Clyde died, I dreamt my mom died. She was standing in her kitchen, and she kicked at the air because she was pissed, and then she had a heart attack. Perhaps I had this dream because Saturday it really set in for me that Clyde's situation was precarious. Still, I thought, or I think I thought, that as long as we did everyting "right" that Clyde would be ok.
I am aware I have moved onto that state where I often make the choice to think about Clyde, and that perhaps it isn't the healthiest choice, The first day or so, there was no choice...every waking moment was spent thinking, or actively trying not to think about him. Now, I can "redirect" myself, and think about other things, without too much effort. Sometimes.
For example, I am aware that most of my statements begin with I, and can remind myself it is about what we did for him, not what he did for us, and that lets face it, whereever he is now, even if its just one big hush, is better than where he probably was for those last few minutes. I can honestly think that and it isn't just some words I put on a shelf to look at later.
Still, at the risk of seeming self-indulgent or melodramatic, I believe Clyde's death must serve some more meaningful purpose though. Otherwise, its easy to give up on the fair and just side of life.
p.s.: I'm sure there are some wonder how on earth I could ever even place a foster dog I had for a month or so in the same league as my family, and to those individuals, in the immortal words of George Carlin, I say: "go fuck yourself."
I don't remember my dreams lately. On saturday night, the night before Clyde died, I dreamt my mom died. She was standing in her kitchen, and she kicked at the air because she was pissed, and then she had a heart attack. Perhaps I had this dream because Saturday it really set in for me that Clyde's situation was precarious. Still, I thought, or I think I thought, that as long as we did everyting "right" that Clyde would be ok.
I am aware I have moved onto that state where I often make the choice to think about Clyde, and that perhaps it isn't the healthiest choice, The first day or so, there was no choice...every waking moment was spent thinking, or actively trying not to think about him. Now, I can "redirect" myself, and think about other things, without too much effort. Sometimes.
For example, I am aware that most of my statements begin with I, and can remind myself it is about what we did for him, not what he did for us, and that lets face it, whereever he is now, even if its just one big hush, is better than where he probably was for those last few minutes. I can honestly think that and it isn't just some words I put on a shelf to look at later.
Still, at the risk of seeming self-indulgent or melodramatic, I believe Clyde's death must serve some more meaningful purpose though. Otherwise, its easy to give up on the fair and just side of life.
p.s.: I'm sure there are some wonder how on earth I could ever even place a foster dog I had for a month or so in the same league as my family, and to those individuals, in the immortal words of George Carlin, I say: "go fuck yourself."
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Some things to build a dream on...
Here are some of the thoughts we hope Clyde took with him when he dreamt the big dream...
His squeaky spiky ice cream cone. He'd carry it around for hours.
Stealing the extra fuzzy woobie from the couch and laying on it (and mouthing on it just a wee bit).
The view from his favorite spot on the deck.
His big bed, also on the deck (he loved being on the deck and watching inside through his "window"). He came in sometimes for...
Poppy, his gal pal (the black girl).
Quincy (the redhead above) and the kitties, who didn't love his slobbery attention (did you see that head? that was one big mouth!) quite as much as Poppy.
All the awesome APA counselors and volunteers who loved him (yea, you think he was going to tell us who he picked as his favorite? yea, ok. actually he didn't tell us)
Spending love time with Robin- we liked to spoon, and he loved his massages (thanks Skillful paws!)
\
Monday, March 14, 2011
Day 2
Its been about 13 hours now since Clyde died. Its that first night after a tragic event where sleep comes fitfully and you must awake again and again to the painful reality of the event, and when neither sleep nor waking really feels desirable, or even possible.
It of course would not be a complete night without its own tragic theme song, and while Clyde's "song" was "Kiss to Build a Dream On", what I woke up to tonight was Heaven and Earth" by Blitzen Trapper, a much more somber, appropriate song whose refrain reads: "Heaven and Earth are Mine Tonight, Heaven and Earth are Mine Tonight." (I know better than to listen to sad songs when I feel like this, but I have little control over what runs on repeat on the 45 in my head.)
In hindsight Clyde was shutting down for days. We learned last year when my greyhound was dying what the end of life signs were: progressively reduced input, progressively reduced output. Clyde's input had slowed for days: since his first dose of antibiotic weeks earlier, he'd been picky, but once he got his HW treatment his appetite took a real nosedive. We resorted to anything we could: hand-feeding chicken, cheese, and when that didn't work, we finally took the last step: alpo, the mcdonalds of dog food. He'd barely eaten two cups of food in his last 48 hours. Yesterday morning we both commented that we hadn't seen him poop in days.
Sometimes I wondered, and I wonder even more now, if Clyde's previous family ever even thinks about him, and if they care. I know little about Clyde's past except that he was found tied to a median on I-35 before he went to TLAC and was pulled by APA. I'd like to think that his famiy was great except for the fact that they didn't give him HW preventative, didn't treat him for pnemonia, and tied him to a median on an interstate, but I have my doubts. The best part of his life probably started the day someone less than human tied him to a median on one of the busiest interstates in the country, and sped off.
Oh thank goodness. Heaven and Earth is gone, replaced by "The Trapeze Swinger" by Iron and Wine. Much better. ;P I really need to stop crying already, or I am not going to be able to work tomorrow.
It of course would not be a complete night without its own tragic theme song, and while Clyde's "song" was "Kiss to Build a Dream On", what I woke up to tonight was Heaven and Earth" by Blitzen Trapper, a much more somber, appropriate song whose refrain reads: "Heaven and Earth are Mine Tonight, Heaven and Earth are Mine Tonight." (I know better than to listen to sad songs when I feel like this, but I have little control over what runs on repeat on the 45 in my head.)
In hindsight Clyde was shutting down for days. We learned last year when my greyhound was dying what the end of life signs were: progressively reduced input, progressively reduced output. Clyde's input had slowed for days: since his first dose of antibiotic weeks earlier, he'd been picky, but once he got his HW treatment his appetite took a real nosedive. We resorted to anything we could: hand-feeding chicken, cheese, and when that didn't work, we finally took the last step: alpo, the mcdonalds of dog food. He'd barely eaten two cups of food in his last 48 hours. Yesterday morning we both commented that we hadn't seen him poop in days.
Sometimes I wondered, and I wonder even more now, if Clyde's previous family ever even thinks about him, and if they care. I know little about Clyde's past except that he was found tied to a median on I-35 before he went to TLAC and was pulled by APA. I'd like to think that his famiy was great except for the fact that they didn't give him HW preventative, didn't treat him for pnemonia, and tied him to a median on an interstate, but I have my doubts. The best part of his life probably started the day someone less than human tied him to a median on one of the busiest interstates in the country, and sped off.
Oh thank goodness. Heaven and Earth is gone, replaced by "The Trapeze Swinger" by Iron and Wine. Much better. ;P I really need to stop crying already, or I am not going to be able to work tomorrow.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Goodbye Clyde
I've spent the past four hours, which seem like an absolute eternity, trying to find a comfortable place in my mind for Clyde's death.
Its not as if we haven't lost pets before, or lost fosters before. But in each case in the past, I felt I could make some sense of it all, or I found that somehow, the death had a place in the universe. A runt kitten we fostered last spring died as a sad, but normal part of nature's way of balancing the litter. Our senior greyhound who passed last year served as a beautiful breed ambassador, living well into his twelfth year before he passed peacefully while we hugged him and said goodbye.
I can't find that place for Clyde's death, and this lack of sense of rightness leaves me with a rollicking, nauseating emotion that feels a little bit like a hangover and a lot like motion sickness.
Clyde's death was violent, sudden, tragic, and wholly unjust. Just four days after his first heartworm treatment, Clyde stood up to get a drink, stumbled into his water bowl, fell over, urinated, and went glassy-eyed and stiff. My husband and I stood momentarily in shock over him lying on our living room floor, and then in a fit of panic rolled him onto his gurney blanket. He gasped once or twice while carried his large body to our car, and sped off to APA, knowing the terrible reality even before we dialed the phone and spoke with the nurse. Clyde's breath, heavy and raspy for months, was suddenly silent. His heart, which had beat so madly just to keep his ravaged body alive, had stopped. I drove like a maniac, horn-blaring, barreling through red lights. Danny sat silently, tearfully over Clyde's body. We arrived at APA and be greeted with hugs, and tears, from so many other volunteers who also loved this gentle giant who now lay so very still in the back of our car.
Clyde died not because he had lived a long, great, life, or because of nature's culling, but because his former owner was unable or unwilling to give him monthly heartworm preventative that costs about what you might pay for lunch, and unable or unwilling to provide him necessary medical care when he had severe pneumonia. Clyde died despite our best efforts to feed and comfort him, despite APA's ongoing medical care, and despite all the love we and so many other APA volunteers showered on him. He died because everything he got was simply too late.
He stole my heart the moment I saw his head poking out of run number seven, and he was the best valentine's day present ever. I am forever changed by him. I hope if nothing else, his curtailed life serves to help educate others that the rather inexpensive heartworm preventative you can get from your vet is worth its weight in gold.
In loving memory of Clyde (the Dude) Poohbear Rottie
Its not as if we haven't lost pets before, or lost fosters before. But in each case in the past, I felt I could make some sense of it all, or I found that somehow, the death had a place in the universe. A runt kitten we fostered last spring died as a sad, but normal part of nature's way of balancing the litter. Our senior greyhound who passed last year served as a beautiful breed ambassador, living well into his twelfth year before he passed peacefully while we hugged him and said goodbye.
I can't find that place for Clyde's death, and this lack of sense of rightness leaves me with a rollicking, nauseating emotion that feels a little bit like a hangover and a lot like motion sickness.
Clyde's death was violent, sudden, tragic, and wholly unjust. Just four days after his first heartworm treatment, Clyde stood up to get a drink, stumbled into his water bowl, fell over, urinated, and went glassy-eyed and stiff. My husband and I stood momentarily in shock over him lying on our living room floor, and then in a fit of panic rolled him onto his gurney blanket. He gasped once or twice while carried his large body to our car, and sped off to APA, knowing the terrible reality even before we dialed the phone and spoke with the nurse. Clyde's breath, heavy and raspy for months, was suddenly silent. His heart, which had beat so madly just to keep his ravaged body alive, had stopped. I drove like a maniac, horn-blaring, barreling through red lights. Danny sat silently, tearfully over Clyde's body. We arrived at APA and be greeted with hugs, and tears, from so many other volunteers who also loved this gentle giant who now lay so very still in the back of our car.
Clyde died not because he had lived a long, great, life, or because of nature's culling, but because his former owner was unable or unwilling to give him monthly heartworm preventative that costs about what you might pay for lunch, and unable or unwilling to provide him necessary medical care when he had severe pneumonia. Clyde died despite our best efforts to feed and comfort him, despite APA's ongoing medical care, and despite all the love we and so many other APA volunteers showered on him. He died because everything he got was simply too late.
He stole my heart the moment I saw his head poking out of run number seven, and he was the best valentine's day present ever. I am forever changed by him. I hope if nothing else, his curtailed life serves to help educate others that the rather inexpensive heartworm preventative you can get from your vet is worth its weight in gold.
In loving memory of Clyde (the Dude) Poohbear Rottie
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