His Name was Jesus

OK, I know what you’re thinking.  But it’s not that Jesus.  Seven years ago when we moved here and were homeschooling all of our kids plus oldest granddaughter, we decided to get fish for our classroom.   I did some research and found out that our 5 gallon tank would accomodate 1 inch of fish per gallon.  Five gallons, five inches of fish. 

I took all five kids to Walmart with a ruler and a task covertly related to our math curriculum.  And it is a teensy bit of a challenge to accurately measure live, moving fish.  But as best we could, we sized up 3 fish whose combined length added up to 5 inches and paid .33 each.  Their names:  Mary, Crystal, and Jesus.  I debated the Jesus thing.  But they (the kids) were so sweet.  To them, naming a fish Jesus was the ultimate honor.  They loved him (Jesus) so much that it was really important to name their fish after him.  Sweet.

Mary and Crystal died within a few years, way after the inch per gallon rule was blown.  At some point, the kids decided (without coaching) that having a fish named Jesus might be irreverant, so they changed it to “Justin”.  Justin aka Jesus, grew to be over 5″ himself.  He was a lively thing, especially at feeding time.  Sometimes he jumped out of the water when the top was off for cleaning.  

He grew dimmer and dimmer recently, less concerned with his food.  And then he died.  Seven years is a long time for a goldfish.  He was a good one and we miss him.  We discussed his permanent resting spot.  He was too big to flush.  He might well be dug up in the backyard.  And it was trash day.  Which kind of easily lead to the final solution.  Freddy took him out in a bag, and the city dump truck took him away.

Daisy and Her Red Ball

I woke up this morning at 5:30 by what I thought was Daisy jumping on me and licking my face.  I thought that was really odd because she was supposed to be in her crate.  It took a few moments of serious and collected thinking to realize that I had been dreaming.  Yet it was so real that I was shaken for a good portion of the day.  She seemed happy, excited, and eager to interact.   She didn’t seem the least bit dead.

 

I am going to interpret this as a visit from the Rainbow Bridge to let me know that she was there and ok.  Call me crazy, or wishful, maybe even just hopeful, but I feel a connection was made.  Rest in peace, beautiful creature.  I hope Heaven is full of red balls and strong squeaky toys.  If, by some freaky stroke of luck she is still alive, she was honing in on my brainwaves with some fierce canine telepathy.

 

I would be remiss if I didn’t note the caliber of the human forces fighting to save Daisy.  A lot of people saw tremendous potential in her, and a vision of how things could be different for her.  I was struck by the irony of the deep commitment of wonderful people, and how there are so many (human) children in this country/world that don’t have one hundredth of the resources that she had.  How the world could be different, not just one dog or one cat at a time, but concurrently, one child at a time.

 

Luke and Rufus and the Sauna

LukeOK, Luke and Rufus and the sauna have nothing to do with each other.  The sauna was just a nagging thing this morning at the Y.  General question:  What is the point of opening the sauna door (wide open), inserting your arm and asking “is it hot in there?”.  I always want to say “it WAS”.  But I don’t.  This happens more often then I would like to share.

Rufus is gone.  I brought him last week to the vet and watched him pass over to the other side.  It was sad, I cried, and then it was over.  It cost more to have both dogs cremated then it would for a whole new dog. Ru lived a long and pampered life.  He had beautiful blue eyes that even in their last moments were clear and bright.  It was his spirit that was gone.  Life was a drag, his tumors were festering and moving around was a challenge.  When I finally called the vet (we had been talking of this day since his last exam in August) they told me that he was going away Thursday afternoon until this week.  If I wanted him to do “it”, I would have to come the next morning at 10 am.  OK.Rufus seemed to know.  He pretty much stopped eating and drinking and just looked at us, head on paws.  We took some pictures, Bubbles took the last one on my cell phone which I’ll post in a second, and then I left with him.  I came back alone, with a leash.

So now we are dogless, me, for the first time since 1983.  How odd to have no canines needing my attention this morning.  I brought back the most recent litter of SPCA puppies yesterday, so this is our first full day of doglessness.  Which brings me to…Luke.  That’s not really his name, that’s what we would name him if we get him.  His name is “Lucky #5″ because he is lucky.  Someone put a rubber band on his leg when he was a baby and it had to be amputated.  He is absolutley beautiful and about 17 weeks old.  We have applied to adopt him and drove 3 hours to meet him on Sunday.  Full of spunk and attitude!  A certain cure for doglessness.

This is Chance’s birthday.  We love you. No matter what.  (Not to be confused with endorsing your life right now).

Lily is Back, Sonny is Gone, Rufus is Leaving and the Puppies Peed (Again)

Lily came home in a bag today.  A whole white pig stuffed into a little, itty, bitty drawstring bag imprinted with the words “Until we meet again at the Rainbow Bridge”.  I went to get her after church.  Tom has been bugging me to “find” her since the day they said her remains would be back.

Truth is, I couldn’t bring myself to call them and ask.  Couldn’t choke out the words.  But now as the days are ticking down for Rufus, I realized that I needed closure on one dead dog before I could deal with another one.  I told Tom if he got me the receipt for the cremation with the phone number on it, I would call.  They are only open nights and weekends, so I don’t think of it during the right times.

Finally, in the parking lot at church, he gave me the number, I called and asked.  “George” had the somber voice of an undertaker.  He said “we left a message on your machine on the 29th”.  Um, Nope, you didn’t.  He became a little indignant as he read me the number, “we left the message at 545-5749″.  Oh, well, that explains it George, our number is 545-5149.  Oopsy.  He sounded puzzled, “she must have thought that one was a seven.”   Ya think?

So I called Tom back and said that I would pick up the ashes on my way home.  And he actually said this:  (I am not making this up)  “Do you want to come get Rufus and drop him off when you go?  It would save gas and making an extra trip…”  Did I not say that I needed closure on one dog before dealing with another???

So, to continue with the parallel construction needed for this post as outlined by the title, Sonny is gone again.  We saw him enter the highway on ramp (without benefit of a turn signal) right before the cruisers arrived at his mom’s house.  Haven’t seen him since.  His truck was towed back a few days ago.  Hope he is resting comfortably somewhere taking meds.

Rufus needs to go to the Rainbow Bridge.   He will be happy there.  His wounds are open, draining, yucky and there is nothing that can really be done.  There is a new one on the end of his nose.  It is time.  Now that Lily has returned, I can deal with him.  It was 10 years ago that I knelt with Jennie in the vet’s office for her to go to sleep.  It was peaceful and I know she was grateful.  Even the kids are all on board with this.  Except that will leave us with “zero dogs” as Bubbles says.

We now have 3 demon dog puppies (Anne, Allison and Ari) whose breed apparently stemmed from a mix up between cattle dogs, Corgi’s, and wild dingos.  They are all teeth, like brown, ambulatory pirranhas, and full of pee.  And the pee comes out.  In puddles.  Wherever we just have cleaned.  They actually tell us when the want to go out, it’s just that in the 2 or 3 nanoseconds it takes us to respond, the pee comes out.

They are really, really cute, and have a sweetness that is the only thing that keeps us from bringing them right back to the shelter.  But they are herding dogs who need to be outside on a farm herding things that need to be herded, not old dying dogs.  This morning, as I noticed a forming puddle of pee, I hopped into the kitchen to clean it up. All 3 pounced on my slippers with a ferociousness that scared me.  I looked and noticed a poop pile as I turned, and they jumped and ripped off my eyeglass holder.  Beads went everywhere.  I tried to get the poop, the pee, save my slippers and grab the beads out of their little mouths all at the same time.  It was a fiasco.

Bubbles is sick.  She is not very bubbly.  Her temp has climbed all day.  Last check it was up to 103.8.  I gave her medicine, took away the comforter, put a cloth on her head and let her go back to sleep.  I will wake her in a minute and check the temp again.  I hate it when the kids are sick.

What do You do with a Large, Dead Dog?

The facts:  So Lily is lying under the table.  She is dead.  We are sad.  Now what?  She can’t stay there (obviously).  We are scheduled to have a birthday party in an hour.  The ground is brick-like because of the drought.  It is 80 degrees outside.  It is Sunday.  Our vet who assured us that they would be helpful when the need arose, has a phone that just rings.  No machine, no emergency number.  Just ringing.  Now what?

Ahh, you say to yourself, “Google”.  ‘Cause you can Google anything.  Except, apparently, what to do with large, dead dogs in our area.  (In our last home out in the middle of nowhere, we just dug a large hole in the back yard – no problem- but we are talking city here.) 

I find “Loving Pets Emergency Care” which is only open on weekends and I think they might have a clue.  So I call. 

Me:  Hello, my dog just died and I don’t know what to do with her.

Him:  What kind of dog ma’am?

Me:  A german shepherd.

Him:  What happened?

Me:  (I explain what happened and how she dies).

Him:  (and I swear I am not making this up) If you bring her in we’ll be happy to take a      look at her and see what we can do.

Me:  (taking a moment to digest what he had said) But she’s DEAD! I don’t know what to do with her!

Him:  Oh, I’m so sorry, I misunderstood.  (And then he goes on to explain my options, none of which include bringing her back to life, but rather bringing her to them and getting her back in a small box a week later, which is what we ultimately choose.)

So Tom scooped her up, wrapped in Grace’s old tie dye sheet, bright and cheerful, and I helped him down the steps.  We put her in the back of the van.  Me, wearing my brightly tie dyed shirt.  We match.  It is a beautiful day.

I drove her by myself to the place where they had wanted to help.  Went in to find the guy, and lost it.  I went through my handy pack of tissues like a chain smoker tears into cigarette packs, one after another after another.  They seemed to get what I was saying through my tears because they got a gurney, propped open the doors and went out.  They brought her in and I reached out and touched her one more time.  Out of respect really, and sadness.  My white pig was gone.  They paused, then rolled on.  Through the swinging door, and whoosh, she was gone.

Next, they wanted my plastic; sign here, we’ll call you Monday.  The deal was done.  I got in the car.  Cried some more.  Prayed for peace and comfort, and went home to have a party.