Hold My Ladder

 

Ladder Holders

One spring day, I had some work to do around our old house.  I had to climb up to the second story to do a bit of work on a window.  This window faced the back of the house.  There was a very narrow ledge for me to stand on beneath the window.

 

I put the ladder against the ledge but did not extend the ladder very far past the ledge.  I climbed the ladder got off onto the ledge and did my repair. 

 

When I turned around to get down, the ledge suddenly shrunk.  It was much smaller than when I had climbed up.  And the ladder was too short.  I didn’t have room to lean over to grasp the ladder.  It was a lightweight aluminum ladder.  And the ground was uneven.  And the wind had come up, threatening to blow me and the ladder to the ground.

 

I simply did not think that I could get down the ladder by myself.  I needed someone at the other end to hold the ladder for me.

 

I looked into the backyard.  Henry was laying under a tree chewing on a stick.  PD was sniffing around the back yard to see what critters had been visiting.

 

I called for Kathy.  No answer.  I called again, a bit louder.  No response.  I may have called a few more times.  And my voice got louder, with a bit of panic in it.  Kathy was deep in the house and could not hear me.

 

I thought.  I knew it was crazy.  All those Lassie movies?  No dog really would go running off to find a family member if you fell in the well.  Would they?  Well, nothing else was working.

 

So, I called out “PD! Henry!”  PD looked over and ran toward the ladder.  Henry continued to be involved with his stick.  PD looked up at me, with his head cocked to one side, and his ears pricked forward. 

“Go get momma!” I said, in desperation.  “Go get mamma!” I repeated.  PD ran over to the back door and ….

and ….

 

… he barked!  PD started barking and barking.  Kathy could not hear my voice when she was in the house.  But she DID hear PD’s bark.  Kathy came to the back door to see what PD was barking at. 

 

Finally!  Kathy was at the door and she was close enough to hear me.  I called down to her and asked her to help me get down, which she did. PD, the brilliant dog that he was, managed to get just the help I needed.

With Kathy holding onto the ladder, I felt safe stepping off of the ledge and climbing down.  I had never before realized how important a ladder holder is.

Kathy has helped me go up and down a lot of ladders since then.  She always warns me that she is not strong enough to hold the ladder if it starts to fall.  But that’s not the point.  The point is that she adds that sense of security, that sense of stability, and that sense of safety that I need in order to do whatever job it is that needs to get done.

Your ladder holder may complain that they are too weak or believe that they did very little to help you.  But the truth is, they have the most important job.

Ladder holders are important in this world.  They are the unsung heroes that help people do the scary, dangerous jobs at the top of the ladder.  They are the support that we need to accomplish our goals in life.  We all dream of doing something that is just beyond our reach.  And we all need that one person, no matter how small, no matter how weak, to just hold the ladder while we reach out and achieve what we could not have achieved without them.

There is currently a phrase that foretells someone is about to do something stupid by themselves: “Hold my beer.” 

I think that there should be a new phrase to indicate someone is about to do something brave and that reflects the presence of a loving relationship: “Hold my ladder.”

I just want to say thank you to Kathy, my main ladder holder, and thank you to all of the other people in my life who have held ladders for me.  Everyone of you are special, important people in my life.

Lap Time

I had a long, troublesome day on campus.  The students were fine, it was the technology that was frustrating as was trying to get lessons pulled together in a meaningful way that the students could access.

PD was getting older, and had recently had problems with his back.  He had just come back from the vet's office with a good report.

From my journal on December 1, 2014:
"I sit here with PD on my lap.  This is an old ritual that goes back 10 years.  I think it is probably as comforting to me as it is to him.  Not just the ritual, but the essential reliability of knowing that there is this time together and this (in)activity that we share.  My lap is always here and always available to him.  His silent companionship and gentle warmth on my legs is a constant for me.  Those evenings or times that he chooses my lap over Kathy's is always a joy.  To be worthy of his close companionship is to know that someone sees you as special."

Once again, PD reminded me that physical contact and unconditional love are more important than PowerPoint presentations to students, grading papers, and going to work.

POST #47: THE LAST DOG BLOG (more to come)

So far, my 30 Plus years of dog ownership have taught me that I always have more to learn.  I should never be complacent in thinking I know the right way to do things.

 

I have learned that dogs can fly.

 

I have learned about trust and I have learned about the value of being dependable.

I have learned about silent companionship.

 

I have learned about forgiveness.

 

I have learned about jealousy.

 

I have learned how to be a better neighbor.

I have learned the importance of a good veterinarian.

 

I have learned about aging gracefully and acceptance of the physical changes that come with age.

 

I have learned about showing respect.

 

I have learned to never underestimate a dog’s loyalty.  Do not ever underestimate his or her ability to be protective of the pack.

 

I have learned that dogs can climb trees.  But that they need help coming back down.

 

I have learned that sleeping with dogs is not such a bad thing.  Unless it is in the summer and you have no air conditioning.

 

I have learned how to be brave even when facing an unknown threat.

I have learned the value of teamwork when facing down a threat.

 

I have learned how to step in and help or to take charge when others are scared.

I have learned a lot about unconditional love.  Loving someone and being loyal to them is possible even when you have been neglected and left outside to fend for yourself.

I have learned about the depth of grief for the loss of a loved one, and the sense of powerlessness when you watch the loved one die, or the guilt over feeling that you haven’t done everything in your power to stop the loss.

 

I have learned that sometimes you really can’t undo your past.  All you can do is learn from your mistakes and go forward.  I have learned that mistakes hurt.  But, if you pay attention you really do become a better person.

Living with dogs has helped me grow in my own capacities for human emotions.  Many folks say that a dog is an animal, and animals do not have the capacity for emotion.  A dog’s place was outside according to my grandparents.  They were part of the livestock, and they had a job to do: protect the other livestock. I’ve had friends tell me they would never allow a dog into their house because they are messy and dirty. 

I got mixed messages from my parents while growing up.  Sometimes our dogs would be allowed inside, but my parents’ attitude still seemed to be one of “they are only animals.”

I shared that opinion when we got our first dog, Spike, and continued with our second dog, Katie.  We wouldn’t let them in the house, except on rare occasions.  We treated them more like animals than family members. 

Opening our home to PD, and then Henry, and then Frank has really changed my mind about a dog’s capacity for emotion.  These dogs, pets, family members have changed my mind about my capacity to learn of my own humanity and emotional attachments.

They’ve also changed my mind about dirt.  I mean really, is dirt that evil?  People lived on dirt floors for centuries, and it brushes right off.  Surely it isn’t healthy for you to avoid contact with all dirt.

Whether they were outdoors dogs or inside dogs, they have all helped me learn about unconditional love, and all of the emotions that come along with that kind of love.

My dogs will continue to amaze me and to amuse me.  And I am sure there are new lessons out there for me to learn from PD and Frank.  But for now, it is time to say goodbye to those of you who have been reading along with me.  It is time to put these musing about living with dogs aside.  I have enjoyed writing these memories.  The writings have helped to examine my own thoughts, feelings and behavior, and have helped me gain some self-insight.  Hopefully, these have been of interest to you, the reader, as well.

Thank you Spike.  Thank you Katie, Thank you Henry.  Thank you PD and Frank for the lessons you have taught me.

And thank you, Reader, for following along as I’ve relived the adventures I have shared with these wonderful family members.  

Post # 39: Memorial Day Tributes

Frank had a chance to settle in and begin to feel like he was home once we got back from our Mother’s day camping trip.  One of PD’s favorite games was “chicken.”  We had a rubber chicken that I would throw in the back yard, and PD would fetch the chicken.  Sometimes he would bring it back to me.  Sometimes he would sit down at the far end of the yard with chicken and look at me expectantly.  I think Wife taught him the “sit, wait!” part of the game in order to encourage me to get more exercise.  I would walk over to PD pick up Chicken and throw it to another part of the yard.

PD was very possessive of Chicken.  When Frank tried to play, there would be raising of hackles and growling.  So, Frank learned to play with Bone.  I would throw chicken first to get PD going in one direction, and then I’d throw a squeaky Bone in another direction.  Frank would run off to the other side of the yard.

Then I would walk over to PD and pick up Chicken.  Frank learned from PD that he was supposed to wait with his toy.  So I’d have to walk over to Frank and pick up Bone.  Frank was still learning, and interested in making up his own rules.  So sometimes Pig turned into a game of “chase me.”  Once I had both Chicken and Bone in my possession, the games would start again.

Memorial Day arrived, and we honored our World War II veterans at church.  I thought about my father who had died recently and who served near the end of the war in the Philippines.  

George and William Hamilton

I thought about Wife's father and uncle, who also served.

Bill Allen

Don Allen

Bill, Gus (their father) and Don Allen

And I thought about my brother who died shortly after his services as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam.

Kirby Hamilton

Kirby Hamilton

I spent the afternoon digging up memories of loved ones.

Frank spent the afternoon trying to dig up Henry.

Wife looked out the window and told me that Frank was digging up Henry’s grave.  I had buried Henry pretty deep, and so I wasn’t too worried.  Henry was probably three or three and a half feet down.

I casually went outside to see what Frank was doing.  All I could see of Frank was part of his butt and his tail.  He was about half-way down to Henry and digging fast!

I took Frank inside and filled in the hole.  I put a couple of cinder blocks and bricks on top of the soft dirt.  Then we let Frank back outside.

Wife and I have really fond memories of Henry, and we miss him a lot.  But we did not want to see Henry again!

Did I mention that Frank was persistent?

I pulled Frank out of the hole again, and put a large #2 wash tub over one end of the site, and placed the concrete bird bath over the middle.

Frank finally gave up on his Memorial Day tribute to Henry.

I feel bad for Henry, though.  One of his pleasures was keeping the birds out of our yard.  And now, all of the birds would be coming to splash and play right over his head.

Post #38: Mother’s Day and Blessings of Grandchildren

It was 6:30 in the evening.  It was a Sunday.  It was Mother’s Day.  And we were in a campground, far from home, locked out of our trailer.  We should be roasting wieners (not our dogs) and marshmallows over a fire by now.

Instead, I was on the phone, talking to an RV repairman, explaining that the lock to our fifth wheel was broken, and we couldn’t get in.

Amazingly, he agreed to come out that night to help us!  Who does that?  Only an awesomely kind man who likes to help people.

The repairman showed up with a 14 year old grandson in tow.  He looked at the door.  Yes, the lock was broken.  He attempted to take it off from the outside, but could not. 

Then he asked if we had a laundry shoot in our Fifth Wheel.  If you are not familiar with Fifth Wheels, then you may not know that they have a “basement.”  The front of the fifth wheel is raised up so that you can back the bed of your pickup under it.  This is where the king pin is, that attaches to the hitch in the bed of the pickup.  The space over the bed of the pickup is where an extra room (usually the bedroom and bathroom) is.  Since a bit of ramping is involved in the construction, there is space under part of the floor which is used for storage.  Since it sits below the room, it is called the basement.  Some Fifth Wheels have a hole under the bathroom sink that can be used as a laundry shoot.  It may sound big, but trust me, it is not. 

“Yes,” I told him, “we do have a laundry shoot.”  We walked around to the side of the trailer where the laundry shoot was, and I opened the door to the basement.  We took turns sticking our heads in and looking up.  It was a mighty small hole.  An adult could not crawl through that hole.

But, maybe a seven year old girl would fit?  We just happened to have one of those.  Kathy took the truck, drove down to Jason’s campsite and kidnapped the girls.  Jason and Melissa were still working on setting up camp, and didn’t know that we now had plans for their daughters.

We brought Allie, our seven year old granddaughter over and showed her the hole. Did she think she could crawl up there for us?  She was a little nervous about crawling up into the trailer.  It was starting to get dark.  But she agreed to do it.

The repairman told Allie what he wanted her to do:  Crawl through the laundry shoot, push open the cabinet door, crawl out into the bathroom, go out into the hall and down the stairs, and then turn the deadbolt lock and open the door.  Allie did as told.  But the lock still wouldn’t open.  I started thinking about finding a dog-friendly hotel again.

The repairman had another plan.

There are two emergency exits in a Fifth wheel.  These are windows that unlatch from the inside, and are big enough for an adult to crawl out of.  In our trailer, one is upstairs in the bedroom, and requires a significant drop to get out.  The other is in the dining area, and is closer to the ground.  The dining table sits in front of this window.

The repairman asked Allie to crawl on top of the table, and described for her how to release the latches.  Allie did this promptly.

By this time, Jason and Melissa had arrived to find out what we were doing with their daughters.  And, it was time for dinner.  Of course, no dinner could be made.  Hot dogs and S’mores were supposed to be on the menu.  No dinner could be made until we could get into the trailer.

Now the window was open, but it was too high for old men like myself or the repairman to crawl through.  And then there was that dining table that had to be crawled across.

Fortunately, we had a 14 year old boy nearby, the repairman’s grandson.  We called him into action.  We boosted the young teen up through the window with a pocket full of tools.  He was able to disassemble the lock with his grandfather’s guidance.  At last, the door was open.

Kathy prepared dinner while the repairman installed a new deadbolt.

Allie was glad to be free of that trailer, which had quickly become dark.  Rachel (our four year old granddaughter) insisted that she be allowed to crawl through the laundry shoot.  With lights turned on, the girls made a game of going into and out of the trailer using their own private entrance.    

There is a follow-up to this story.

Three years later, Kathy and I stayed in an RV park in San Marcos, about an hour south of the other campground.  The water heater quit on us during this stay.  Not a big emergency, but an inconvenience.  Like all inconveniences, this one happened on a Sunday, when the usual places are closed.  I had noticed earlier that an RV repairman lived in one of the RV’s across the road from us, in the same park.  He had his name and phone number on the side of his truck.  I called his number and explained the problem.  I told him we would be OK until Monday, but I’d like to be put on his service call list.  The man came over right away, anyway.  How nice that I was able to find someone willing to work on a Sunday.  I thanked him profusely. 

I made small talk with him while he was making the repair.  I commented on how grateful we were that he was willing to come over and take care of this for us on a Sunday.  Then I launched into my story about getting locked out several years earlier, and how fortunate we were to find someone willing to work on Mother’s day.  He said the lock problem must happen a lot.  And then he began telling the rest of my story back to me!  We figured out that he was the same guy who helped me before. 

You meet a lot of nice people when you travel.

And sometimes, you get to meet the same nice person twice.

Post #37: Frank's First Trip with his New Pack!

It is probably not a good idea to take a new dog and start to travel with him before he has had a chance to settle into the routine of your home.  However, Mother’s Day was coming up and we had planned a trip to go camping with our Fifth Wheel at Canyon Lake before we met Frank.  Our oldest son and his family would meet us at the campground.  Since our son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughters were involved, we couldn’t just cancel the trip.

So, just a couple of days after Frank arrived, we loaded up the Fifth Wheel and took off for Canyon Lake.

Fortunately, Frank is a very good traveler.  He took his cue from PD, and settled onto Wife’s lap for the ride.  The trip was uneventful and we arrived at the campground in good spirits.  We pulled into a nice shady spot and set up camp.  

I don’t think Frank knew what to make of our trip or the trailer.  After we got the RV set up, we walked the dogs, and then went inside the trailer.  Frank was extremely nervous, and started showing some “billy goat” tendencies.  He jumped up on a chair, and from the chair he jumped on to the kitchen cabinet.  He walked up and down the cabinet a while, then jumped down onto the chair, across to another chair, on the floor, onto the couch and then up onto the table.  I knew that he had managed to climb our baby gate at home, but I had no idea he was such a jumper! 

I would have been amazed, if I hadn’t been so afraid that Frank would hurt himself.  We couldn’t stand losing another dog to a ruptured disc so soon after Henry.

We decided we had better put Frank in a crate.  Frank was not happy about the crate.  After all, crates were what dogs lived in when they lived in that noisy, lonely animal shelter.  He didn’t want to go back to the shelter.  We put him in, anyway.  It was sad for him, and sad for us, but at least Frank was safe.  And so was our trailer.

Son1 and his family arrived a short time later.

Wife and I got Frank out of the crate, locked up the trailer and took the dogs on a walk around the campground.We watched Son1 and Daughter In Law start the procedure of setting up their tents, then visited some with our granddaughters.

Wife took the girls and walked them back to the fifth wheel so that they could use the facilities.  I waited a bit with the dogs, watching the tent construction.  And then I started back for the RV, too.

When I got to our trailer, I found a frustrated wife and two anxious girls.  Wife’s key would not work on the deadbolt.  I tried my key, confident that Wife just wasn’t doing something right (guy attitude!).

Well, my key didn’t work, either.  I pushed, pulled, and lifted.  I couldn’t get the door open.  Wife left with the girls in search of the park’s restroom.  After taking care of the necessities, Wife took the girls back to their parents while I tried to figure out how to break into the trailer.

I called the office.  This was a Sunday afternoon, around 4:00 p.m.  And it was Mother’s Day!  No one answered the phone.  I used the search function on my phone to hunt down locksmiths in the area.  I found a locksmith referral site and found that the nearest locksmith was about two hours away.  I called anyway.  No answer. 

I was beginning to think that we may have to find a dog-friendly hotel nearby, and wait until Monday to get help.

Then I spotted one of the park workers driving by on a golf cart, and flagged him down.  He gave me the name of an RV repairman that he knew, and who did work in the park.  By this time, it was 6:30 in the evening.  I was pretty sure that the repairman would ask us to wait until Monday, but maybe at least he would come early enough that the entire trip wouldn’t be wasted.

Was the trip a bust?  I’ll elaborate next week when I write about how I learned some of the little known blessings of grandchildren.

Post #33: Wiener Dog Races

Before the wild roller coaster that made up Henry’s last few days, we had arranged to go to Buda, Texas with some friends.  The Buda Lion’s club sponsors Wiener Dog races every April (Buda Lions Club Wiener Races).  Wife and I had never gone to the races, but we had seen some of the videos on YouTube.  We thought the races looked like a lot of fun, and we had promised ourselves that we would go one day.  When our friends invited us to join them, we decided that was a perfect opportunity to see the races in person.

Now, however, we were grieving over the loss of Henry.  We talked about whether we should go.  Would it be too painful to see all of those other dachshunds?  Would our depression keep our friends from enjoying the festival?  We decided that going to Buda and hanging around a lot of other dachshund lovers would probably be restorative.  So, we loaded up PD, hooked onto our Fifth Wheel, and headed North.

Buda is a really nice town.  How could it not be?  Cabela’s has one of their giant stores in Buda.  Buda also has crowded streets when the Wiener Dog festival is taking place.  People arrive from all over the US to participate and watch.  We set up camp in an RV park the afternoon before the races.  The next morning we followed the traffic to the race grounds.  We managed to find a parking spot not too far from the campground, and walked with PD onto the grounds.

There were rows and rows of tents with vendors on the grounds.  So, along with the races, you could meander through the crowds and buy nearly anything imaginable that was related to dachshunds or dogs, including dachshunds.  There were one or two rescue shelters that had brought in homeless dachshunds for adoption.

We found that there are more dachshund-related trinkets, T-Shirts, and must-haves than we had ever imagined.  We wandered from tent to tent, looking at all of the cool doxie-items.  Wife came away with a pair of dachshund earrings.

Everything was dog-friendly, of course.  There were water dishes at nearly every vendor’s tent.  A few vendors even had kiddie pools.  And there were dogs taking full advantage of the cool water.  Even though this was a wiener dog race, the Lions were diversity-minded.  Other breeds were allowed onto the grounds.  There were some doxie-wannabies mixing with the dachshunds.  At least one Lab claimed that he “identified as” a dachshund.  But when he got near a pool, genetics took over, and he clambered in, dunking himself in the cool water, and then giving himself a hearty shake.  All of the people standing around were understanding, since they were "dog people."  And some of us actually enjoyed the spray as it was a hot day and the mist flying off the dog was cooling.

The races?  Oh yeah.  We did go and watch the wiener dog races.  We did not enter PD.  I felt like we would have needed to at least practice with him before sitting him down in front of a large group of people and asking him to run a straight line.

We watched several heats, and the racing dogs were a joy to see.  The race track had stands on one side, and an earthen bank on the other.  We were in the stands, and could see the folks on the other side sitting on their blankets, or standing against the fence next to the race track.

The race was held on a straight grassy track, with white lines to designate each dog’s lane.  On one side of the field were the starting gates.  On the other end were the motivators.  The dog’s owners were standing behind the finish line holding out squeaky toys and yelling for their dogs to come to them.  There were women and burly men shouting out in baby talk, giving encouragement, clicking clickers, and squeaking toys.  They could use anything they thought would motivate their dogs down the field, except for food.  No treats were allowed.

People were lined up along the sidelines on both sides, some hanging over the fences, ready to cheer along their favorite dachshund. 

The dogs were placed in the starting gates.  The crowd got quiet.  The announcer readied the runners.  At last the signal was given and the race was started.  The signal was a verbal “Go!” since a gun being fired may have frightened some of the dogs into running the other way, or just cowering in the starting box.  The gates opened and the dogs raced out onto the course.

Well, most of them did.  A couple decided it was too hot, so they just lay down in the shade of the starting gate.

People in the stands and along the sidelines began cheering for their favorite runners, or for all of the dogs in general.  Some of the dogs thought the cheering meant they should go over and pay a visit.  So, instead of running straight ahead, they wandered off to the side to say hello to all of their fans.

Then there were a couple who thought they had found new playmates.  So these dachshunds would start up a game of chase.  Running as fast as you can was the idea of the race, so that part was OK.  But chasing each other in circles didn't work too well for running a race.

Above the crowd’s noise you could hear the dachshund trainers and owners shouting their baby talk, trying to get their dog’s attention: “Come on sweetie-pie <squeak, squeak>” “come here sugar-wugar” “that’s my witto baby <squeak, squeak>.”  These noises and gestures were coming from both the women and the men.  Somehow, the women looked more natural doing the baby-talk, squeaky-toy thing than the men did.

Yes, most of the dogs did make it to the finish line, and there were First, Second, and Third place Wieners.

But if all of the dogs had behaved themselves and acted like true racing hounds, the Buda Wiener Dog Races would not be nearly as much fun!

 

Post #32: Henry's Back Again

Henry turned seven, and the memories of his back injury were fading, but still in place.  We had installed ramps everywhere we could think of.  We were 80% successful in getting Henry to use the ramps.  Unfortunately, 80% was 20% too little.

We saw the jump when it happened.  But there was nothing we could do to stop him.

He jumped off the couch, and Henry had trouble using his hind legs.

We gave him his anti-inflammatory pain medication and put him in his crate.

The next morning we took Henry to the vet.  We explained that Henry went down on his back.  We had followed the procedures we’d been instructed too, but Henry wasn’t any better.

We had seen this coming on.  Henry had been less active, and he looked like he was in pain.  When the big jump happened, we knew he had done significant damage.

Henry got an injection and we went back home, placing Henry back in his crate.  The next day, he still wasn’t walking and his hind feet were “knuckling under.”

We went back to the vet’s office. 

The vet examined Henry and put him on the floor.  Henry made a liar out of us by walking.

Relieved, we took Henry home again, and put him back in his crate.  Maybe he would survive another back injury, after all!

I carried Henry outside later that day so he could take care of business.  Henry could not stand.  I supported his back end with a towel and helped him get relief.  But I was worried.  He was supposed to be getting better, not worse.

Henry did not like sleeping thin the kitchen by himself, so I brought his crate into our bedroom.  He still was not happy with the sleeping arrangements, but at least he was close to us.

During the night, Henry wet his bed.  He no longer had control over his bladder.  He had no feeling.  No control of anything that happened below the waist.  Henry tried to lick clean the mess he made, which really made us sad.

He cleaned up Henry and his bed.  Wife and I had a long talk.  Our lifestyle and house were not conducive to a wheelchair dog.  Wife’s back problems prevented her from being able to carrying Henry outside.  I had started a new job and was commuting to my new work, often staying away two to three nights a week.  I would be no help.  At this point, we could not afford another back surgery.  And Henry seemed to be more impaired than he had been the first time.  Was it time to ask the vet to put Henry down?  We didn’t know.  We needed to talk to the vet.

We called the vet and let him know what was happening.

We picked up Henry and a towel and took him back to the vet’s office.  Wife and I held it together pretty well on the drive over.  We did pretty well in the waiting room.

The vet invited us to the back, and we carried Henry to one of the examining tables.  The vet took time to explain what he was going to do and what would happen as the injection took effect.  We were asked if we would like to stay, or if we would rather wait in the waiting area.  We chose to stay with Henry.

The vet prepared the syringe and tried to find a vein in Henry’s front paw.  Henry lifted his paw away.  He tried again, and Henry avoided the needle again.

The vet explained that he would make the injection in Henry’s rear paw.  It would take a little longer, but Henry would not be aware of the injection, since he had no feeling in that part of his body.

I held Henry in a hug as the needle went into his hind paw.  Almost immediately I felt Henry slip away.  His warm body just kind of melted away, and I lay him on the table.

Henry was gone.

And our tears arrived in buckets.  Wife and I were both overcome with grief.  We couldn’t hold our tears back, or our sobs. 

This was perhaps the hardest thing either of us had ever had to do.  I have no doubt that others in the waiting room heard us.

The vet verified that Henry was dead.  Then he wrapped him in our towel and handed Henry to me.

Once we got home, I buried Henry under the overhanging branches of the mulberry tree.

This was his favorite spot during the spring.  He would spend hours here eating mulberries.  I felt this was a fitting spot for Henry’s remains, allowing him to rest forever under the one spot I tried so hard to deny to him.

Wife and I were devastated.  We both continue to feel sad every time we think about Henry.  Because he was a dog and not a child, we had to make a terrible decision.  One based on practicality, not desire.  Wife lacked the strength to carry him in and out of the house. I was away in Victoria several days a week.  Our house was built in such a way that Henry could not have had access to the yard he loved without our help.

Wife and I grieved over Henry’s loss.

When I brought Henry into the backyard to bury him, we let PD spend some time sniffing the body.  I think he understood that his brother was gone.  I’m not sure that he mourned Henry’s loss.  We didn’t notice a difference in his behavior.

I’m sure PD did notice, however, that he was getting a lot more attention.

RIP, Henry

2004 - 2011

Post #28 Fearful Henry

I started a game of fetch with PD before Henry came into our family.  We played with a Rubber Chicken, rather than a ball or stick.  I’d throw “Chicken” and PD would run after it and bring it back.  … Or not.  

Sometimes, PD thought it was only fair to sit and wait for me to walk over to him, and then throw Chicken back across to where we started.  I was never sure which rules we were going to play by, but PD always knew.  The fun part of “Chicken” was that we could play in the house, or we could go outside and play in the yard.  We could even play in our travel trailer, if we happened to be going somewhere.

The first time Henry saw me throw Chicken was the first time I began to wonder if Henry had been hit in his previous home.  Henry cowed and walked as far away from me as he could when I raised my arm to throw Chicken.  This little game that brought so much joy to PD instilled fear and dread in Henry.  We learned of other things that scared Henry as well.

Smoke was another fear that Henry had.  The first time we started a backyard barbecue, Henry ran into the house and hid under the covers on the couch.  We took the dogs with us when we went camping.  Our normal routine was to walk the dogs around the park several times a day.  I learned that I had to steer clear of campfires and barbecues.  Henry would cower, shiver, or just stop and refuse to move once he caught the scent of smoke.  This fear lasted for several years.  We eventually were able to get Henry used to the campfire smoke.  Henry was able to walk past other campers grilling hamburgers or just burning wood without a problem.

Cats. 

Oh, Henry would act brave when he smelled and then spotted a cat.  He would bark his deepest manliest bark at the cat.  His hair would raise up in a ridge down his back, and then he would charge.  All would go as planned as long as the cat retreated from his back yard.  Or, in the case where I was walking the dogs, as long as I was able to firmly grasp the leash in my hand. 

The first time was late one evening, and I was standing in the front yard, waiting for PD and Henry to take care of their business.  Before the first instance of getting free from my leash, I did my best to protect the local cats from Henry.

Henry and PD both noticed the cat, and Henry started his deep ferocious barking routine.  Then he rushed the cat, and caught me off guard.  Henry managed to pull the leash out of my hand.

Henry raced across the street barking loudly and viciously in hot pursuit of the cat.  The cat retreated to a row of bushes by the neighbor’s house, and then turned.  The cat decided he did not want to run anymore.  He arched his back, puffed out his fur and hissed, swiping his paw at Henry.

Henry’s deep ferocious bark turned into a high pitched girly squeal as he turned around and raced back to the safety of his own yard.  He yelped and squealed all the way home, managing to run even faster in retreat than he did for the attack.  Henry really was a brave dog when possums and skunks were involved.  But cats?  Not so much.

I did my best to protect Henry from cats after that.

Post #27: Skunked!

I was in the kitchen late one evening, putting some things away when Henry streaked through the room like his tail was on fire.

Our house is arranged such that one can stand on the back porch and look out into the back yard.  Coming in from the porch, you would enter the back door into a mud room, which in turn opens into the kitchen. 

On the other side of the kitchen is a doorway that opens into the dining room, and another door that opens onto the stairwell and hallway.  The dining room is between the Study, on the left, and the living room on the right.  From the living room you can go back down the aforementioned hallway and turn either right back into the kitchen, or left into the master suite, complete with a bedroom, bathroom, dressing area, and walk-in closet.

Henry visited every one of these rooms during this particular journey through our house.  And he managed this tour in less than a minute on this summer evening.  Henry not only visited these rooms, but he managed to jump on every sofa, loveseat and chair that these rooms contained.

I had heard some barking earlier, followed by a high pitched squeal just moments before I saw the black streak flash through the kitchen.  I had time to turn and watch Henry leave the dining room and enter the study before I got slammed.

It hit me like a wall of odor.  Henry had just been skunked!  And it was powerful.  It felt like a physical force pressing me back against the kitchen cabinet.

“Stop him! Stop him!” I screamed at Wife.  Of course she had no idea why I was yelling, or what I was yelling about.

Henry had jumped up onto the love seat where Wife and I spent most of our time in the evening, watching television.  He rolled on his back and did his best to wipe the skunk off of him.

By the time the odor wall hit Wife, he had already rocketed into the living room.  He jumped onto one chair, then the next, and then the couch, desperately trying to find something that would get the smell off of him.

Wife and I were in hot pursuit.  Yelling at Henry, yelling at each other, not sure we really wanted to pick up this skunky dog.  We just wanted the smell to go away.  We wanted to turn back the clock for five minutes, and call Henry inside.  We wanted Henry to go out onto the porch.  We didn’t want Henry spreading his scent all over the house.

We were just two steps behind him when he headed for the bedroom.  He rolled on the rug, then headed back for our walk – in closet!  The good news?  This is where we were at last able to corner Henry.  The bad news?  This is where all of our clothes were hanging!

I carried Henry out onto the front porch, and closed him off from the rest of the house.  Then we opened the door, ran the air conditioner, turned on ceiling fans and exhaust fans, and opened any windows that weren’t painted shut.

 

It was already 11:00 when Henry first blew through the house.  We really didn’t want to stay up washing the dog, but we also didn’t want to leave poor Henry out on the front porch all night.  So, I hit the computer looking for a magic anti-skunk solution.  The word on the internet was that tomato sauce and ketchup don’t really work.  The magic formula I found involved hydrogen peroxide (quart), Baking Soda (1/4 cup), and 1 – 2 teaspoons of liquid soap.  Mix, rub on stinky dog, wait 15 minutes, rinse, repeat.

We had hydrogen peroxide, but not a quart of it.  So our first task was to run to the local grocery store which, thankfully, was open all night.

We washed poor Henry three times, and he still smelled like skunk.

The next morning we put our skunky dog in the bathtub and washed him with a dog shampoo we’d had for years.  He smelled much better.  The skunk smell was still faintly on him, but there was a great improvement.

The next time Henry met the tail end of a skunk, yes, there was a next time … we went straight to the dog shampoo.  It only took two applications, and it worked much better than the secret formula given above.

Henry didn’t learn to stay away from skunks.  But we learned how to deal with him when he forgot his lesson.

Oh, our clothes?  Wife and I smelled a little skunky for about six months, but the smell eventually left.  It was always interesting reaching in and pulling something out we hadn’t worn in a while.  Memories of that warm summer evening returned, along with the faint odor of skunk.