Lukas

 

Oh my boy, my sweet, sweet boy.  

I found this unpublished when I came here today.  He died on July 31, 2020 and I swear that it is as  painful today as it was then.  It is honestly better that his sister is with him; he was always lost wihout her.  But sitting here with my feelings today, I started to think of him and his toys, almost an outline for a children's book.  I thought of him full of life, teaching love and trust.  Those dogs were so much more than they seemed. We were so blessed to have them in our lives.  I just to share this little thought that I wrote back then.

You were the most loyal little guy that ever lived and you must never think that you were any less loved than your sister.  You were our playful guy, the one who knew the name of every toy that had ever come your way.  Your most beloved Foxy was with you for playtimes up until the day you died, you, hardly able to walk, standing behind that toy, asking me to throw it for you.  I am so honored that you spent your last two weeks wanting to be safe in your pouch, or on a lap, sleeping the day and night through, always touching us, trusting us.  I carry you with me in my heart, caring for your sister who will join you soon, being the pure, joyul spirits that you always have been, no longer trapped in these old limited bodies.  

When I look up at the stars, I know that you are there somewhere, chasing falling stars, maybe, and watching over us the way you always have.  Thank you for loving us.  We will never, ever forget you; we will never stop loving you.

Finnegan Chases the Light

 

He was only ours for about 10 days.  I took about 100 pictures, took him to the vet, bought toys and clothes and walked him religiously.  And then he couldn't be ours anymore.  We weren't ready.  It wasn't the right time.  I loved him almost immediately.  He was almost perfect...and then he wasn't, and he had to leave.  It kind of broke my heart again.  

This is what I wrote about him that 1st week:

He came to us as Finn.  He immediately became Finnegan Waddington McMaster.  This is the first moment he came into his new house, wearing his new Hufflepuff hoodie.

We weren't ready.  

I still carry the loss of Lukas and Zuza like a carefully bandaged wound.  Most of the time, the bleeding is controlled and the pain muted, and then something rips off the Band-Aid and I feel like I am hemorrhaging grief.  Carolyn, too, is struck with days when the grief simply will not let her go.  Yet, for both of us, there are mostly good days, where we remember the incredible joy that our babies brought us.

We weren't ready.

It's 1 degree out today.  Real dogs need to be walked.  My hands won't close to a fist.

He was a lover, had some really odd quirks that were funny and incredibly cute.  He was obsessed with light--like the reflection from a watch that moved around, or a laser pointer, and he pounced on them like a cat!  It was adorable!  Zuza and Lukas did the same thing with the laser, but they were a third of the size of our smallest cat.  It looked different on them.  We have a projector that puts dots on the  living room ceiling which are sometimes still, and at other times, move.  He would sit, staring, transfixed by these mysterious, untouchable bits of light.  

And he had a flaw that, as Not Really a Dog Person, I didn't recognize in time, didn't know how to fix, and frankly, scared the crap out of me.  If Carolyn wouldn't have been preparing for a total shoulder replacement which would knock her out of being able to train him, it might have worked, but she was.  She was in constant pain.  He was 30 freaking pounds and pulled like a Malamute.  And he bit me twice, Carolyn once, and failed in his last attempt when he lunged for my face but, miraculously, I leapt back in time.  He did resource guarding, which I get, but I had no idea what he was guarding.  It turned out sometimes to be bags of recycling that weren't immediately near him, but in the same small area, and I just couldn't read the signs in time.

After that, every time he pressed forward to express his undying love by licking my whole face, including my eyes, which was often, I flinched and leaned back.   He was a light chaser, something I need in my life to keep the darkness at bay, but I couldn't let him in anymore.

I wasn't fixable.  And I wept when I let him go.  

He lives with someone who loves him and can train him out of that behavior, and I am so happy that he is loved as much as he deserves.  He has a job visiting people in a nursing home.

I miss him.  

My Precious Zuza

I have sat staring at this blank page, day after day after day.   It seems that there is nothing more likely to cause writer's block than grief.  Of course, it could be tied to the fact that I have to stop and find tissues...or maybe just that I am not willing to say goodbye to her yet.  Yet, it is something that I must do, I think.  And I do want to share the wonder of my little dogs with the world.

I wrote those words almost 10 months ago.  I have some handwritten essays/journal entries that I've written this year...but I have found myself unable to do more.  With her death an entire era of my life ended.  I feel like I have lost a part of my soul.  Sometimes, like now, I forget to breathe, I forget how to breathe.  I forget why I should keep breathing.  And it isn't like there is nothing else in my life that is important, or that I love.  My wife, my sister, my brother(in-law), my friends, my music, even my work, however disjointed that has become since I hover between Covid and retirement--all of these are rich, passionate relationships.  But Zuza lived for almost 15 years as a part of me.  My sister said that Zuza lived just on the other side of my heart.  She was right. There Zuza sat, for hours every day, perched on my left arm, my heart beating beneath her, both of us, in our union, protected from all the dangers of the universe.  I was my best, bravest self with the help of a crippled three and a half pound dog who felt that there was nothing that she could not do. Amazing. She was a Force. 

I feel the emptiness there now.  It is cold without her warmth, without her little head tucked under my chin.  

Zuza lived from February 2, 2006 until January 21, 2021.  I truly believe that she is alive now, with four sound legs, two bright eyes that sparkle with intelligence, and the ability to speak whatever language it is we will use in the afterlife,  

She's waiting for me.  

Mind Boggling

I published this story on July 24, and then, the next day I realized that there were a couple of typos.  Augh!! I quickly pulled it back to fix them.  And in the cruel way cyberspace sometimes acts, it erased the whole first paragraph and refused to give it back.  It took me almost two weeks to come back and fix it.  But it's important to have this little snapshot of my sweet boy at this time in his life.

At 14 years and 5 months Lukas is sliding quickly away from us.  Most of the time, he walks slowly and stiffly, hips and knees not cooperating.   He sleeps a great deal and most of the time, he prefers a small bed near the table where both Carolyn and I sit to work on our computers.  He can be pretty crabby, especially in the morning, which is absolutely the opposite of who he is.  He has always been the sweetest dog, an incredible drama queen, definitely a lover, not a fighter unless it was to defend his sister from all perceived dangers.  But now his mind is....boggled.  He is off in some other land and seems lost

Most heartbreakingly, it appears that he sometimes doesn't know his beloved sister.  She has been his protector, his safe place, his happiest moments all of his life.  Every day when Zuza and I would return from work, he would come alive, greeting her hysterically, wanting to play, dashing around in absolute glee.  (She, of course, would look at him with a certain alpha dog disdain.  "Yeah, whatever.") But she then would spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning his ears, washing his face, being the Mom, all the while cuddling with him.  Now he growls and lunges at her, often enough that we seldom leave them together unsupervised.  It is most heartbreaking that it really scares her.  She's completely blind now, so she can't tell if he is growling at her or at the cats and it is much harder to protect herself, so she tries to hide.  The most unnerving thing that he does, however, is that he hallucinates.  He snarls and growls at invisible things.  Sometimes he lunges. It honestly shakes me to the core.  

Then he gets his medication, which is mostly for pain, arthritis and otherwise, and an appetite stimulant.  Then he's back!!  Our old Lukey!  He wants to play with his favorite toy, Foxy; he's hungry, he's hopping up and down!!  He's funny and happy and wants to be with me every second.

And now he wanders.  If he was a human, we would be locking the doors and making all of the cabinets impossible to open.  He has forgotten how to back up, so if he runs into an obstacle he gets stuck there.  Yesterday, in the house, he walked into teeny little places from which there was no return, squeezed between a piece of furniture and the wall.  One time, I was just outside disinfecting the mail--yes, I still do that--and he was in the living room between a box of record albums and a wooden dog crate, and he just started screaming at the top of his lungs.  I'm outside yelling--because he's really deaf now, "I'm coming Lukey!  It's okay!  You're all right!" as I dash back in.   The next time, I was in the kitchen and heard very loud rustling and crunching noises.  He was in a space that was perhaps an inch and a half wide, behind a wooden chest where an egg carton, (waiting to be filled by our chickens), had slipped.  Once again, there was no reason for him to be there.  And once again he was completely foiled by the obstacle.  I spent the rest of the day with him in a pouch, strapped to me.  The new normal.  And how long will this normal last?  I don't know.

Living with loved ones who are slowly sliding down the path of dementia is an excruciating business.  We learned this lesson thanks to our friend, Susan.  In the end, she made her own decisions about how and when she wanted to die.  With Lukas, this decision, like most of the others in his life, lies with us and the forces of the universe.  I hope that I can be strong enough to bear the weight of the life of this waif, my boy, my little man

Fireworks 2019

Last night I saw the best fireworks show ever. Our neighbors do this every year, but we usually have to go home before it starts because it has always made Lukas insane. He could still hear it at home, but it would be quieter and, of course, his barking and shrieking would only bother us, not the entire neighborhood. Zuza would just take it in stride, the way she always has.

This year was different, because they are both different.  Lukas has lost a lot of his hearing. It's harder because he can't hear the quiet praise and soothing sounds we make when he's upset. On the other hand, noise is much less of a problem. Innocent hikers walking by the house are finally safe from maniacal barking, and some trucks pass unnoticed. Woo hoo! Zuza's changes are harder to bear. She had to have an eye removed in January because of an abscess. The cataract in her remaining eye has destroyed her vision. This journey I'll detail in another post, but for the purpose of fireworks, her condition has made loud noise really scary.  She flinches every time there is an unexpected, sharp noise--hammering on the house, a dropped pan, a door slam.  The funny thing is that TV noises don't bother her. All kinds of mayhem can go on and she sleeps right through it. So, we left them home with a TV western blaring on the TV, and they were happy to sleep under a blanket in their best bed. And yes, they have a "best" bed.

So all that to say, amazing fireworks, right around the corner from our house, blossoming right over us.  Incredible colors. Incredible noise, including that sharp whistling that is usually followed by a soldier shouting, "Incoming!"

And suddenly I was a little girl, nestled up against my Dad, on the shore of Lake Winnebago at Lakeside Park in Fond du Lac.  We were talking about which of the fireworks we liked and which ones we didn't. Neither of us liked the "duds", ones that shot up and then, no colors, just an earth rocking BANG!

And who protected who in those moments?  My Dad came home from WWII shell-shocked--that term that became PTSD--and didn't go to the fireworks in my earliest years. I only learned the reasons after his death, in a random conversation with my Mom.  When he came home, she learned not to serve him coffee in a cup and saucer because his hands shook too much. At night he would cry out, and jump, and thrash. She said that she knew it would embarrass him, so she never mentioned it.

All those years, all those memories buried deep inside him.  No one ever let him talk out any of that fear, any of the revulsion he had felt at the destruction he saw.  He never told war stories. To my knowledge, he never wrote to the men with whom he served.  He said that he never wanted to return to the cities he had seen intact...and then torn up.  He never returned to London where he had grow up; he never saw Italy or France again.  And, I believe, he never appreciated the fireworks that I thought were so magical, if a bit unnecessarily loud.

This year, he would have been happier holding my nearly deaf dog on his lap in the quiet of my house, watching a western on TV.  I can't even begin to tell you how much I would love to have that be true.  The little girl I was still misses cuddling up to her Dad, listening to him explain magic.

Playing for Change, an Explanation

I found Playing For Change and linked it to my blog in 2014.  I couldn't figure out how to write on the page; it just didn't let me, so it sat as a draft for the next 6 years.  You can tell that it's not done today since all of the people are outside, surrounded by others an sitting really close to each other.  Remember hugging ? 

I looked at it again today and thought about how amazing it was that technology existed 6 years ago could let people who had never met and were all around the world sing together.  It still completely confounds me, even though I know today that it is still really hard to do.  Well, at least that's what I've heard.  

I still can't figure out how to write on the page, so I just published it and am offering this as a sort of postscript.  (Do only people who are old know what a "postscript" is?  For that matter, do only old people know what a semicolon is?)  Leaning on others seems to be a lesson we really need in today's world, as much, if not more, than we needed it 6 years ago.  So I offer it as an old/new lesson and a bit of comfort in this world filled with the anguish of another Black man's death at the hands of a cop, the indifference of government leaders in multiple countries, and the random acts of kindness in a troubled world.  Lean on me, and please, let me lean on you.

Lean On Me | Playing For Change | Song Around The World

Zuza, 2013

I found this on my blog list as a draft.  I don't know why I never published it; I suppose that I thought that there was something unfinished about it.  I can't imagine what that was, but I was still seeing myself in the not always complimentary light of working at Briar Patch, so perhaps that was it.

Zuza discovers a Bailey's glass

It was a little more than seven years ago.  Seven years!  Unbelievable that it could be that long ago.  This is a picture from about that same time, sleek coat, two eyes--doesn't feel like I'm asking too much, really.  Zuza had suddenly produced a large mass-like swelling on her belly which scared the crap out of me.  She seemed unconcerned, so it might not have hurt at all, but with her, you never know, she really didn't complain much about anything when she was a bit more mobile and closer to the Spring Chicken time of her life. She still doesn't complain much, but she has fewer ways to do things by herself now, so is required to ask for more help.

So here is my Spring, 2013 entry.  It was entitled, "Zuza, Today"

Zuza, brave little soldier that she is, is doing fine.  The unknown mass turned out to be an inguinal hernia which was easily repaired by our extremely talented surgeon.  Our other two doctors were there for consultation and dental cleaning--no kidding, they stitched her up so fast that they had time to clean her teeth.  Carolyn and I left the building while the surgery was happening.  On one hand, I do believe that there is some degree of consciousness that remains when they are sedated.  On the other hand, as she slipped under sedation and began looking not really very alive...I started to cry and figured if she could tune into me under sedation I better not be looking at her as a limp little creature. I am truly impressed with the quality of the team we now have.  She woke up quickly and, I am told, started looking for us right away.  And since it is Briar Patch and not some giant, impersonal place--and this is the bosses' kid--she went from one person's arms to mine instead of to a cage.  She kissed and kissed both of us and we held her wrapped in a blanket until I took her to work with me in the afternoon. 

Poor Lukas was incredibly worried, kept trying to squeeze as close to her as possible, and tried to clean her incision at any moment he could get in close enough.  She, in her generous way with her brother, growled at him every time he tried, even when she was too tired to lift her head.  Head down, grrrrrrrrrrrrrr, like a little gargle.

When we got home she slept in their bed by the fire with Lukas on guard in their chair next to her.  When any of the cats walked near them, he would lunge out, fiercely warning them away.  Okay, he's 4 pounds and not a rottweiler, but he can sound very, very fierce.  Unless he is frightened by scary stuff.  Like Velcro.  Or unexpected dry grass under his foot.  Or just walking around outside for too long.  Sometimes pooping scares him.  BUT, when he appoints himself a protector, it brings out all of his best self.  When we adopted Tenzing and Eddie, Lukas kept them safe when any of the big cats approached them.  He will still stop any of the cats from hissing or fighting.  And when Tenzing was sick last summer, Luke slept next to his cage and warned even Zuza away from him.

So, right now both of my canines are curled into little packages next to me on the chair.  She has a couple of ugly bruises and a tidy incision, (and me); he has his stuffed fox and a blanket, (and me).  And we're all happy.