Flying Solo

On the morning of June 26, 2012, we had to say good bye to Belle's big sister, Simba.  She'd had a good and long life, but it never seems long enough.  We let Belle wander in and out of the bedroom as we lay beside Simba on her bed on the floor, waiting for the vet to come deliver her from her pain and discomfort.  She was dying, and we didn't want her to be in pain any longer than she had to.  


Belle seemed to understand something was happening.  Whether she understood it was Simba's final sleep, I don't know, but I'm guessing she did.  She wandered in and out of the room, quietly walking over to gently sniff at Simba and then somberly walking away.  At one point, she sat at my feet, staring out of the room and down the hall, a sentinel to see Simba off on the journey she was about to begin.


I think I may have made a mistake that morning.  When the vet arrived, I put Belle in the back yard and blocked the doggie door.  Since she is so afraid of everyone, I was concerned she would bark and bark and bark at the vet. I didn't want Simba to have to listen to that as she slipped away.  I wanted her death to be as peaceful as possible.  


Unfortunately, I may have spared one dog at the expense of the other.  For the rest of that day and several days after, Belle refused to go outside.  We were only able to coax her out once in the morning for a potty and once in the evening to poop.  I was, of course, greatly relieved when she finally pooped after 24 hours, but she still refused to go outside other than those two times a day.  If we managed to coax her out the door, she refused to leave the porch.  This was not usual for her.  She loved to run circles around the yard, joyously chasing the squirrels and crows. I felt so guilty.  I knew I had really done some emotional damage.  


We consulted with one of our Facebook friends, Kim, who works with dogs.  She gave us a few things to try, and eventually, bit by bit she began to willingly go outside again.  But after two weeks, she still wasn't going out to "sun bathe" in her usual spot by the garden.  Before Simba's death, this had been a daily routine for her.  I think, too, that some our grief hung on her.  You could tell she felt it.  If I started to cry, she ran away.  Again, not normal behavior for her.  


Some of the advice from Kim was to get her back to her normal routine as quickly as possible.  Play with her.  Take her for walks.  Margie and Jose came over and spent an afternoon with her, along with our friend Kim (another Kim) while we were away at a DJ gig we had booked.  As time went on, bit by bit, day by day, she slowly returned to the Belle she once was.  But you can tell she misses her big sister, however adversarial their relationship could occasionally be.  She has become very attached to the green, one-eyed "baby" her Aunt Margie and Cousin Jose brought over for her that afternoon. 


I'm sure she saw Simba's death as yet one more abandonment in her life.  And being blocked outside in Simba's last hours most likely felt like another abandonment and created a new anxiety in her.  Thankfully, with the help and experience of good friends, she has shed most of the anxiety I unintentionally created.  

Although still afraid of most anyone who isn't us, Margie or my mom, she is beginning to develop a new self-confidence that we hope will continue to blossom with time.  More of those "baby steps."  We will eventually foster or adopt another sibling when the time is right, but for now we will help nurture her and show her she is smart and beautiful, and that flying solo is not always such a bad thing, especially when you have a huge net of love to fall into.

Let Her Eat Cake

How can you scold a dog this cute?  Ah, Belle, Naughtiness is Thy Name.  This past weekend, Pete and I attended a 60th birthday party for a friend in NH that brought back memories of St Patrick's Day 2010.  You see, our Little Yellow Dog has a special fondness for cake, especially frosting.

This past weekend, our friend, Howard, turned 60.  They had a party and bonfire in his honor at his home in NH.  Having no one to take care of the dogs, we prevailed upon him (and he was gracious enough) to let us bring Simba and Belle.  Simba would be no problem, having stayed with him three years ago when we went to Arizona for two weeks (although that in itself was a story for another blog on Simba's World some day).  But Belle, being so afraid of anyone who isn't me, Pete, Margie or my mom was going to be be in major stress mode with about 30 guests in a strange environment.  So, with a mild vet-prescribed dose of anti-anxiety med in hand, we set off for NH.

Howard's daughter had gone through travails innumerable, which we won't go into, to get his birthday cake made in time for the party and bonfire.  She barely made it, being in the process of running to the store for additional butter to make extra icing as the recipe didn't make enough to cover the cake (which was delicious).  She left it on the counter at one point later in the evening, prior to the singing of Happy Birthday, and went out to join in the bonfire fun.  As she left, I made sure the cake was tucked way back on the counter, not wanting to repeat the Irish Whiskey Cake Incident of 2010, which I shall go into later in this blog.

She went out.  I was sitting in the recliner in the living room reading, having already had my time at the bonfire and now nursing a chronically arthritic and swollen ankle.  I saw that Simba, aka "Miss Piggy" had snuck into the kitchen and was "scrounging" around for scraps on the floor.  I called her in and thought nothing more of it.  Last I knew, Belle was sleeping at my side on the floor.  About 20  minutes later, Howard's son and daughter came into the living room, stifling laughter.

"Does Belle like cake?" they asked.

OH NO...  I had a feeling what I would see when I went into the kitchen.  And I was right.

Sitting on the counter, well back, where I had pushed it, was the birthday cake.  With one side of the frosting completely eaten off the cake.

 I. Was. Mortified.  I never heard her leave my side.  Yeah.  The Little Yellow Stealth Missile is what I should call her from now on.

Of course, Howard's kids were laughing their heads off.  They are Dog People as am I.  But still.  I mean... really, Belle?  Howard's 60th?  Thirty guests?  And they're going to present a birthday cake to sing "Happy Birthday" to with half of the frosting licked off?   A party planner's worst nightmare.  Right up there with the Thanksgiving Turkey being stolen and devoured by the family dog.  Groan.  And then we just looked at each other, Howard's kids and I.  And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed.

It brought back memories of a St Patrick's day dinner two years ago.  I made a full corned beef and cabbage dinner.  I wanted to do something special for dessert, so I did some research and came up with a recipe for an Irish Whiskey Cake. We had a couple of generous slices, and then I covered the cake on the plate with foil and put it in the refrigerator.

The next day I was working in my office (which was downstairs at the time).  I heard a noise and came upstairs to investigate.  There I found Belle in the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator, whose door she had somehow managed to open.  Still sitting in the refrigerator, right where I had left it, was the cake plate, with the foil domed over it perfectly ... with no cake.  I mean she had eaten the cake, leaving no crumbs, without disturbing the plate or the foil domed over it.

There was 1/4 cup whiskey in the cake, itself, which didn't worry me as the alcohol cooked out of that.  HOWEVER, the glaze also had 1/4 cup of whiskey, which had NOT been cooked.

Simba took an ill-fated step in to try to "scrounge" looking for crumbs on the floor, and Belle attacked her.  Yes, Dear Sweet Belle can be food aggressive with Simba sometimes.  Such an ugly drunk, my Little Yellow Dog.  Anyway, I broke up that spat and called the vet who advised me to induce vomiting, not so much for the whiskey as for all that sugar.  I called my supervisor at work and took the rest of the day off so I could sit outside with Belle until she "purged herself" of the evil spirits.

I sat out in that backyard for over an hour waiting for the peroxide elixir to work it's magic to no avail.  Of course, within five minutes of coming inside, she vomited all over my expensive dining room rug, which I had to throw out.  Sweet Belle.  Ah.  Good thing I love you.

And good thing Howard and his kids love Little Yellow Dogs.

Kisses, Cuddles and Fractured Fingers

Charlie Brown is right.  Happiness is a warm puppy.  And warm puppies turn into 30-pound lap dogs who either aren't aware or don't care how much of your lap they take up.  Actually, for me, it's a phenomenon that brings great joy.  Whether it's 30 pounds or 70, there is just nothing quite like a a content dog sprawled up and down the length of you.  Of course, we don't ordinarily allow Belle on the couch or bed because of the dominance issues she has with Simba, but occasionally we will relent and call her up with us.  I know, not really a good idea, but so far, if we don't let her up all the time, it seems to be working out okay.  Of course, every time we sit on the reclining sofa, she is right there, tail wagging, waif-like eyes begging, "Please?  May I come up with you?" Silly Little Yellow Dog.  You make me smile.  Big Sis, Simba, then has to have equal time in the lap.  Ever have a 60+ pound dog in your lap?  There's nothing quite like it in the world.

Of course, our little yellow dog, usually leaps with such gusto that she more often than not lands on one part of anatomy or another that is a bit painful.  I will let you speculate as to where she lands when jumping onto the bed to to say good morning to Pete each day.  With me, it's my hands.  Over the last year or two, I have developed osteoarthritis.  It's especially severe in my fingers.  Of course every time the little darling jumps up, she lands squarely in the middle of my left hand, which is the worst. This bends my fingers back in a direction nature never intended, sending me into orbit from the pain. I have learned not to yowl too loudly so as not to distress the poor dear. This would only cause her to jump down and run away, thus setting us up to do it all over again when she figures out I'm not mad at her.

I call her Sweet Belle in her less rambunctious times.  When prompted, she gives the sweetest, daintiest little kisses you have ever experienced.  These kisses could melt the heart of even the iciest Christmas Grinch.  Her curly tail makes tiny little puppy wags as the rest of her body wiggles and she washes all your cares away with her pink little puppy tongue.  

Yes, life might have been simpler without our Sweet Belle, but it definitely would have been colder without a warm puppy to fill our laps and our lives.

Dr. Belle-Little Yellow Medicine Dog

For those of you who may not have read the latest Simba's World (and shame on you !), I made reference to staying home from work today with a touch of tummy. I speak of it euphemistically because no one really needs to have their day soured by my recitation of the more moribund symptoms. My wife endured my febrile wimpy whining because she has to. It's in the vows, look it up.  (That doesn't mean I don't appreciate though. I do, honey. Really. I do.)
However, it  really amused and touched me that both dogs were wrought with concern.
Simba made the effort to come lay her head in my lap and commiserate.Belle was a little more proactive.
She whimpered, fret paced and looked at me dolefully with her best "helmet ears". She made several tours around my chair with seated moments of long pensive stares punctuating  her passes. Diagnosing, it seemed.
For, once she made up her mind, she sprang into action. And believe me, she is spring loaded !
Up onto my lap in a single bound, she proceeded to administer just the medicine she knew I needed...
A joyously vigorous and laugh inducing face kissing session.
It may not have exactly healed the body, but all that love surely made the spirit feel like new.
Thank you Dr. Belle-Little Yellow Medicine Dog.

Silly Little Yellow Dog

What do a yellow rubber bone, a squeaky football and a bathing suit top all have in common?  They were all part of Belle's latest game of snatch-n-run.

From the first day she came to live with us, Belle has made our lives a daily contest between bringing us to tears, tearing our hair out in frustration, and making us laugh until our sides hurt.  Of course the laughter  usually wins.  How could a little yellow dog who started out with such a sad, sad story become such a spirited, delightfully naughty little girl?  Her favorite game quickly became what I call "snatch-n-run."  She grabs something she knows she's not supposed to have, runs over in front of you to get your attention and then high-tails it out the door into the backyard with said item.  While this can, at times, be frustrating, by the time you catch up to her (and it is only by her good graces that you would ever be able to catch her), you find yourself laughing, and there is no point in scolding her even if you could.  Many a missing shoe has turned up in the mud after the winter snow melts.  And we won't go into the undergarments she seems to be especially fond of...

Silly Little Yellow Dog.  Our lives might have been much less complicated without you... but they would not have been half as much fun.

Baby Steps

It was brought home to me with a bang (a big one) today how fragile Belle still is emotionally.  I've known since we adopted her how sensitive she is.  Oh, sure, she's a dominant little girl who can occasionally be aggressive with other female dogs, but when it comes to everything else, she is extremely sensitive.  We've worked hard with her over the last couple of years.  Positive reinforcement.  Praising her when she behaves, redirecting and sometimes gently scolding when she's naughty.  But yelling at her has always been something we perceived as counterproductive and a sure way to make her even more fearful than she already is.  If she feels loved, the confidence will come. 

It's easy to forget how fearful she really is deep inside.  Her bossy rough-housing of the cat and sister, Simba, would make her seem to the outsider as one confident little lady. We've come to see that it is, quite to the contrary, a manifestation of her insecurity.  She needs to do this to feel she is in control.

She has come a long way, this little yellow dog, but she is still on a journey.  The road to confidence is long and winding with the occasional detour that, so far, we have been able to steer back on course.

While a year ago she would not willingly approach anyone but Pete or me, she now will go immediately to my mom and to one of our friends (who, coincidentally is mommy to Jose, her best four-foot friend).  Baby steps.

We had over 20 people at our house for three days straight (5 or 6 of them overnight) over Labor Day Weekend.  We initially asked the vet for something to help keep her anxiety as low as possible.  He gave us a couple of low-dose Prozacs.  We used it the first day, and she did so well that we did not feel we needed to give it to her the other two days.  While she tended to avoid the crowds, she would once in a while approach someone who was sitting quietly and ignoring her, usually a woman.  More baby steps.

And then today.  Sigh.  My poor baby girl.  I was stepping over her to leave my office when she decided to jump up.  My foot caught her in the back part of her side hard, and I went flying over her, hitting my side on the edge of the daybed on my way down.  (That would be the big bang I referred to in my opening sentence.)

While it hurt a lot, and I'm sure I will be suffering innumerable stiff and sore muscles tomorrow, I'm more distressed by Belle's reaction.  Amazingly, I never yelled.  Not even as I was going down.  She just sat there and looked at me with distress in her bright eyes.  I think somehow she understood that I was in a lot of pain and that she had something to do with it.  (I should have had far more sense than to try to step over a dog when there is ample room to go around.)  I had to cajole her to come over to me.  I patted her and checked her over to make sure I had not done her any harm when my foot caught her in tummy.  She seemed fine physically.  But she was shaking.  I hugged her and spoke softly.

"It's okay, Belle.  Poor little Boo-Boo.  I know you didn't mean to hurt Mommy."

I finally got up and went to sit down for a moment.  She came in and, with encouragement from me, climbed up into my lap on the recliner.  We sat that way for a few minutes as I continued to speak softly to her and rub her tummy.  Then I had to go back to work.  I noticed later that she was lying in the sun outside and seemed afraid to come to me when I called her.  I finally got her to come.  She is lying at my feet as I write.  She is still bowing her head with her her "helmut ears" and presenting me with her belly whenever I approach her, though.  My poor little Boo. 

By tomorrow morning, hopefully she will have forgotten the whole incident and be her usual exuberant self.  And we will continue to encourage her with gentle words and lots of love.  Even the longest trip can be made with lots and lots of Baby Steps.

The Little Yellow Dog Finds a Home

About two years ago, I saw a face I could not ignore in an e-mail my friend, Margie, had forwarded to me.  It was a golden retriever cross puppy that Golden Huggs was looking to place in a forever home.  That face just completely melted my heart.  Somehow, I knew she was meant to be part of our family. 

To give a little bit of history, I moved to Vermont nine years ago when I married the most wonderful man in the world.  Of course, how I met Pete and how I finally smartened up is another blog in and of itself.  He put his condo up for sale when we became engaged, and we started house hunting because I didn't want to move to Vermont until we had a house with a "big, fenced-in backyard for the dogs."  At that time I had two dogs, a golden retriever named Simba (who is now sister to the little yellow dog) and a golden/terrier/border collie cross named Dickens. We found the house in October.  We were moving Pete's stuff into the new house when I got the sad news from my mom, who I had left the dogs with, that Dickens had died in his sleep.  He was only 8 years old.  It broke my heart that my little "Diggedy-Dog" would never see his new home.  I married Pete in April and Simba and I moved in.  It was always the plan to get another dog to keep Simba company, but somehow, the years went by, but the time, the money, the dogs never seemed quite right.

And then I got the e-mail.

That little puppy stole my heart.  We contacted Golden Huggs and we agreed to foster her for the weekend.  There was no way that little girl was going anywhere after that.  We were told that she had been born with an ectopic ureter, but Golden Huggs had paid for her to have surgery to correct it.  There was no guaranty, but it usually worked and there were medications to augment if the surgery wasn't completely successful. Armed with this information, we decided we loved her and we still wanted to adopt.

The rest is history... and a blog/story for another day.  For now, let's just say that the little yellow dog found a home and family who love her.

-San