Paw Prints in Time

Indy sleeps a lot. His legs twitch and I wonder if he's dreaming of the days when he used to chase tennis balls and go for long walks around the lake. Now he stumbles when he walks and sometimes stands perfectly still in the middle of a room as though bewildered over just where he could be.

He turned 15 years old in March and I know our time together is growing short. Maybe I've been selfish letting him go on as long as I have, but every time I consider making The Call, he perks up and I see a trace of him from his puppy days.

Last weekend I bought some clay, worked it out nice and flat, and then pressed Indy's paw down into the surface. It wasn't the best impression ever made. Indy didn't much care for the process and I hate to overly annoy an old guy who wants nothing more than to nap in a warm sunny spot. Before baking the clay, I put a hole in the top of the piece so it can be hung as an ornament or in a window. 

I figured as long as I had the clay, I might as well do an impression for Bogey, too. Capturing his print wasn't any more popular.

Maybe I'll try again another day. Or maybe not. Who needs perfect?

I suppose my clay pieces are a lot like real life, filled with bumps, irregularities, and occasional wishes for a do-over. But there's something sweet about them, too. The clay is a reminder it doesn't matter what life throws at me. When I see the face of a child, bask in the beauty of a cloudless day, or hold on to the endless love and loyalty of a dear old friend, I get a rare privilege. That's when I understand, just a tiny bit, what it must be like to glimpse heaven. 

What Boomers Want

Recently a national news station did a segment on baby boomers that interested me. Apparently many companies are gearing their products toward the formidable buying power of a generation that is re-fashioning the idea of what it's like to be a "senior" citizen. Exactly what do baby boomers want? Since I fit in that category, I feel qualified to answer.

We want to be active. We want to feel good. We want to look attractive. Thus a large segment of current product marketing is now geared toward those who have reached the fearless fifties and above.

It's about time.

Seems like everything has been geared toward the young. Clothes, makeup, movies, you name it. Isn't it fair that we more mature, experienced, and seasoned people get our due? We may have shrinking incomes and dubious future social "security" benefits, but we still manage to spend some pretty significant money.

It costs me more now to buy special face cream, maintenance body care products, and for that trip to the hair salon. I  visit the dermatologist regularly to have my skin burned or a growth excised due to years of sitting in the sun. I take prescriptions that help keep everything in decent working order. It all costs money. But that's okay.

We can't slow down time. And while I try not to obsess about aging, I don't plan to roll over and let Father Time whack me upside the head, either. I don't think I'm different from most people my age. Who doesn't want to be at their best?

And regardless of age, I think most anyone would agree that a little primping and pampering not only makes us look better, it just plain makes us feel good, too.

Even my old Indy boy struts and prances after a visit to the groomer. As you can see, he seemed quite happy after his appointment on Saturday.

Before:

After:

 Spiffed and polished, Indy ran zoomies around the house once he got home. That indicates a happy dog.

And for the record, at my last doctor appointment, the (young) nurse practitoner looked at my chart and said, "Not that you're old or anything, but you look a lot younger than you are."

That day, I ran a few zoomies myself.

Canine Memories

One of my very talented writer friends is Linda O'Connell. She's been published in more venues than I can count, and her work is always a joy to read.

I particularly like her essays. They often evoke a tear, a smile, or both. Recently Linda did a blog post recalling the dogs in her life. It seemed like perfect subject matter for Critter Alley readers.

So if you'd like to take a walk down memory lane, check out her post called "Doggone It".

It just might bring back the image of a four-footed friend of your own whose memory now rests gently within your heart.

Looking Good...

What's this? A dog that I thought was at death's door a few short weeks ago is happy, playing with his toys, and aggravating his pal, Bogey. He even got a new haircut that did not result in any major negative after-effects.

I don't know if it's the regime he's on now (his regular homemade chicken, rice, and carrot diet; 400 IU of vitamin E daily, a large tablespoon of low fat cottage cheese daily, a daily teaspoon of high protein low fat yogurt, one quarter tablet of Metoclopramide before each meal, and one 225 mg tablet of Denosyl one hour before his evening meal), or sheer will to live, but he sure seems to be perkier and feeling fine. Better yet, he's maintained this improvement over several weeks.

Not to say that he doesn't have times when it's apparent he's not up to par, but then again, so do I.

I'm not foolish enough to believe he's cured, and I know that at some point his impaired liver function will catch up with him. But until then, I'm grateful for each extra joyful day my little old guy gets.

And isn't that all any of us can ask for in life?

Update Number 2

Thanks so much to all of you for extending get well wishes to Indy. We have such wonderful blogger pals!

As best I can tell, Indy's doing pretty well. He appears to feel fine and has regained his appetite. No more vomiting or diaharrea (knocking wood superstitiously). While not 100% his old self, I'm pleased. He continues to get his homemade diet of chicken, rice, and carrots. I've added cottage cheese and extra vitamin E, as I've read that these are helpful for dogs with liver disease. He's still on antibiotics, and I'm also giving him Denosyl (a type of the supplement, SAM-E) once daily. This supplement is also reported to help dogs with impaired liver function. Apparently nothing will restore what he's lost, we're simply trying to maintain what he has left. And so far, so good!

In regard to NaNo, I'm not nearly as far along as last year at this time. My goal is 2,000 words per day, and right now I'm only at just over 20,000. If I was on top of my game I'd be at 28,000 before today ended. Of course, today hasn't ended yet so, who knows? : )

Hope all of you are doing well! I feel very out of the loop, so I'm looking forward to visiting your blogs soon!

Blemie's Will

Eugene O'Neill and Blemie from the Eugene O'Neill Foundation


When it comes time to say good-bye to a beloved pet, it doesn't matter if we're an ordinary citizen or a person who has achieved fame, fortune, or notoriety. It hurts.

Many have written on the subject of pet loss. Perhaps my favorite essay is a piece written by American playwright and Nobel Prize winner, Eugene O'Neill. It has often been reprinted in various collections related to the topic of dogs. O'Neill even published a book by the same title.

As the story goes, O'Neill had a much loved Dalmatian named Blemie. When the dog reached old age, O'Neill wrote a last will and testament from Blemie's point of view as a way to comfort his wife for what was to come. I love the touch of gentle humor and wise words. And the final paragraph never fails to evoke a few tears.

In honor of blogger buddies whose four footed friends have in recent weeks left for the Rainbow Bridge, here is Blemie's Last Will and Testament as envisioned by Eugene O'Neill:


"I, Silverdene Emblem O'Neill (familiarly known to my family, friends and acquaintances as Blemie), because the burden of my years is heavy upon me, and I realize the end of my life is near, do hereby bury my last will and testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is there until I am dead. Then, remembering me in his loneliness, he will suddenly know of this testament, and I ask him then to inscribe it as a memorial to me.

 I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are wiser than men. They do not set great store upon things. They do not waste their time hoarding property. They do not ruin their sleep worrying about objects they have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing of value I have to bequeath except my love and my faith. These I leave to those who have loved me, to my Master and Mistress, who I know will mourn me most, to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn and Roy and Willie and Naomi and — but if I should list all those who have loved me it would force my Master to write a book. Perhaps it is in vain of me to boast when I am so near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust, but I have always been an extremely lovable dog.

 I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to grieve for me too long. In my life I have tried to be a comfort to them in time of sorrow, and a reason for added joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think that even in death I should cause them pain. Let them remember that while no dog has ever had a happier life (and this I owe to their love and care for me), now that I have grown blind and deaf and lame, and even my sense of smell fails me so that a rabbit could be right under my nose and I might not know, my pride has sunk to a sick, bewildered humiliation. I feel life is taunting me with having over lingered my welcome. It is time I said good-by, before I become too sick a burden on myself and on those who love me.

 It will be sorrow to leave them, but not a sorrow to die. Dogs do not fear death as men do. We accept it as part of life, not as something alien and terrible which destroys life. What may come after death, who knows? I would like to believe with those of my fellow Dalmatians who are devout Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise where one is always young and full-bladdered; here all the day one dillies and dallies with an amorous multitude of houris, beautifully spotted; where jack-rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful hour is mealtime; where in long evenings there are a million fireplaces with logs forever burning and one curls oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams, remembering the old brave days on earth, and the love of one's Master and Mistress.

 I am afraid this is too much for even such a dog as I am to expect. But peace, at least, is certain. Peace and long rest for weary old heart and head and limbs, and eternal sleeps in the earth I have loved so well. Perhaps, after all, this is best.

 One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say, "When Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could never love another one." Now I would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again. What I would not like to feel is that, having once had me in the family, now she cannot live without a dog! I have never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always held that most dogs are good (and one cat, the black one I have permitted to share the living-room rug during the evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit, and in rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a trifle). Some dogs, of course, are better than others. Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone knows, are best.

So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as well bred, or as well mannered or as distinguished and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must not ask the impossible. But he will do his best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by comparison to keep my memory green. To him I bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat, made to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around the Place Vendome, or later along Park Avenue, all eyes fixed on me in admiration; but again I am sure he will do his utmost not to appear a mere gauche provincial dog. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself quite worthy of comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume, come closer to jackrabbits than I have been able to in recent years. And, for all his faults, I hereby wish him the happiness I know will be his in my old home.

 One last word of farewell, Dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also with happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my long happy life with you: "here lies one who loved us and whom we loved." No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail."

Eugene O'Neill had it right. I can see my own dogs that are no longer with me nodding their heads in agreement.

Can you?

Practically Good as New

As you may recall, on Monday Indy had a scheduled follow up for a minor procedure that turned into a major ordeal primarily due to the medication he was given afterward. I couldn't decide whether to take him back for the appointment or not.

All my angst over the decision was wasted. Due to snowy, slippery roads, we canceled the appointment anyway. Haven't rescheduled it either. His eyelid looks fine to me. He's been to the regular vet twice since the surgery and has finally recovered from the never-to-be-taken-again meds. I have a new philosophy about the whole thing.

If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

My New Old Dog

Hooray! Someone's feeling so much better that he's playing with the tennis ball again. It's good to see Indy back to normal. But how long will he stay that way?

On Monday we return to the vet who performed eye surgery on him for a follow up visit. I'm tempted to cancel in superstitious fear of upsetting the applecart (or should I say the schnauzer) once more.

I'll think about things over the weekend and decide last minute Monday morning what to do.

Should we go...or not?

A Gentleman

Indy boy is aging, and growing quite mellow in the process. In my experience it usually takes a dog about 5 years to start slowing down from the frantic puppy pace. Indy will be 10 in March. Other than a few health issue flare-ups and an occasional bladder problem (aging bladders...unfortunately I can relate), he's laid back and a pleasure to have around.

Even my husband, who doesn't generally make many comments about the household critters (unless it's to laugh at some weird behavior or complain about a particularly annoying one) commented on Indy. After a recent visit from the two grand-dogs (a.k.a. the wild ones), hubby reminded me of what a good boy Indy really is when he announced..."I like him better all the time. He's a gentleman".

He is, indeed.

And the Winner Is...

AP/Reuters Photo

You can almost always count on Westminster for drama. First, Tuesday night's group winners were crowned:

Sporting Group-Sussex Spaniel
Working Group-Giant Schnauzer
Toy Group-Brussels Griffon

Then the most unlikely dog of all, the Sussex Spaniel, was chosen Best in Show. As "Stump", pranced the victory circle with his handler, the crowd went wild. And why was Stump the unlikely winner? Retired from the dog show circuit in 2004, Stump nearly died of a serious illness. His survival was described as miraculous. In December, Stump turned 10 (that's 70 in people years), and one week before Westminster, his owner decided to give him a final opportunity to compete in the prestigious show. Stump blew away everyone by taking best of breed, best of group, and then best of show. He becomes the oldest Westminster best in show winner, and the first Sussex Spaniel ever to take the title. Way to go, Stump!

I guess there's hope for "old dogs" after all!