Ohne dich
Friday, August 9th at ten a.m. three dogs lived in my house. By three p.m. there was only one.
I suspect I’m going to cry until I puke while I write this.
Hunter and Gabriel were my boys. I never thought of them as my children, understand this. Children are epically more complicated, for one point and for another these days in this country children are likely to outlive you.
The day Hunter found me was back in 2000. I was washing windows and outside my window sat the most beautifully marked dog I’d seen in my life. He just sat there patiently, his long strip of tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth. I went outside to see what was what and he offered me his paw. He had no collar, no microchip and though I registered him as lost and did all the things one must to ensure the found dog is actually a foundling nobody claimed him. Much later someone told me they saw his former owner open the door of the vehicle then drive off, tires screaming. I hope that piece of human waste winds up in the hell I’ve imagined for them. It’ll be epic and fitting since Hunter suffered from acute separation anxiety for many years.
But not all of his years. No, he outgrew trying to chew through a wall to get to me when I took the trash out. He never outgrew the idea that every meal was his last. Or that everything was potentially edible. He had his issues, that triple coat of his not the least of them. He was not an easy dog.
But he was Hunter. He loved to ride in the car, lay in front of the fan, bark at people who dared to walk or bicycle past his windows and sleep on the bed. He was terrified by thunderstorms. He liked to wear bandanas and positively bloomed when he was told he was a pretty boy, as he was. He liked to be brushed and combed, the most useless of exercises with him as I never once finished without seeing another clump of coat just ready to let go. He liked it when I spoke French to him. “Come here” might or might not get a response but “avec moi” always did.
Hunter was part Chow. This is not a healthy breed of dog. Hunter’s first health issue not to result from the all-things-are-edible idea was his thyroid. He bloated up and all of the hair dropped off his tail. He was so proud of that tail and his mane. He displayed that tail like a flag. When the medication took effect and the tail got wave able again, that was a day. That was a day.
By 2002 I came to the conclusion that Hunter was not meant to be an only dog. He sounded aggressive toward other dogs but I had the idea it was loneliness more than anything else. Or he was just nuts. He was not really a lead-friendly dog and I have scar tissue on both knees to prove this. But the idea of getting a puppy took hold and then there was Gabriel.
Gabriel was an Australian Shepherd, again a somewhat unhealthy breed. The day the puppy came home Hunter was ecstatic until the puppy spotted that great tail, latched on with his teeth and went flying as Hunter ran around the room. I might have intervened earlier but I was laughing too hard. Gabriel was pure Aussie and pure mischief. I still had a bad moment when he could get through the night without being walked and decided it would be way better to sleep in the living room with Hunter.
Because as soon as I saw them, after the decisions were made and the accoutrements bought and they were The Dogs I would cry. Dogs don’t live as long as we do. I am an aged woman and I’ve lost more than a few dogs to disease and age. I knew it, but I loved them anyway.
Gabriel invented the nose beep game. He liked to have his nose beeped and would come to me and extend his head so I would touch my nose to his and say ‘beep’. Then he’d grin. Unlike Hunter he’d never missed a meal or been abandoned. He had more confidence, I think. He could and did adopt Charlie the cat when he arrived in 2004. When Charlie had a problem like the after effects of a vet visit he wanted Gabriel. Gabriel would lie down and let Charlie curl against him. I’m sorry there are no photos of this but as Charlie is pure black and Gabriel had a lot of black hair Charlie would be invisible at those times.
When Gabriel was five years old he developed epilepsy. He was given phenobarbital to keep the seizures in check and it did, for the most part. The seizures came on him sporadically. Most of his days were seizure free and with the exception of the first day he got his meds the stuff didn’t change him at all. Even the vet was bemused that he was so hyper and so Gabriel with that stuff in him. That first day, though, my boy was stoned out of his mind. I kept a close watch on him and played him some Pink Floyd for good measure.
Time passed. My boys aged and slowed down a little. Hunter’s last great escape…this was a thing he did from time to time…came when we’d moved here to the country. In the early years he’d run for hours and I’d cruise behind him in the car rather pitifully asking again and again if he wanted to go for a ride. Hey, sometimes it worked though once it took almost three hours to work. The last time, three years ago, he didn’t get very far. He didn’t get more than two hundred feet from the house and he was willing to get in the car pretty quick though I had to lift him in.
Gabriel’s epilepsy advanced. He began to cycle and you can look that up because I can’t bear to describe it. I didn’t think he could survive a cycle of seizures, they were so awful. But they were rare. He got a little more phenobarb and I had a syringe of valium to shoot up his nose to try to bring him out of the cycle. But remember he had only three cycles in his life and the time between the second and the last was six months. I am very much interested in their quality of life.
Hunter got sick. He was coughing and then he had problems swallowing. That triple coat of his hid swellings at his jaw and the news was not good; lymphoma. I watered his food down to a gruel with homemade stock, kept a chart for his meds as he did not tolerate the primary treatment well and I knew, I knew I was going to lose my boy. Yeah, he was thirteen years old. Yeah, that’s a long life for a Chow mix. It didn’t matter. I just didn’t want him to suffer and as for waiting until I was ready to let him go…hell, that day was never going to come. It was all about him.
I watched Gabriel warily. Gabriel would lie on the floor near Hunter and just stare at him. Gabriel was always a shade too bright for my own good. When he was a wee puppy I would give him a bit of kibble when he peed outside, so he began to fake peeing to get more treats. He never got dumber. Tricking Hunter was his favorite game. If Hunter was being combed or loved on Gabriel would look out the window as if there was something to see then bark. Hunter immediately would run over to join in and Gabriel would move right into Hunter’s place.
They were brothers in a way. “Go find your brother” was always obeyed. Gabriel had Hunter at hand all of his life. I was terrified Gabriel wouldn’t survive Hunter’s death. I swear to you I never dreamed Gabriel and Hunter would die on the same day or that Gabriel would go first.
Gabriel died after a seizure. I had my hand on his neck. I’d cleared his mouth and throat of the epic ropes of mucus he produced during a seizure. I had him covered in his comfort towels, I was telling him he was my very good boy and I realized he wasn’t breathing. I checked him every way I knew how then called the vet to confirm my findings. I couldn’t believe it. My baby puppy. I couldn’t believe it.
Hunter had a vet appointment at 2 p.m. They were going to adjust his meds, maybe, or at least see if there was more to be done that would not traumatize him. I got Gabriel into the trunk of the car. I wouldn’t let Hunter see Gabriel’s body. Silly, maybe, but I wasn’t taking the chance.
It didn’t matter. Halfway to the vet Hunter’s rear legs went out on him. He was still grinning but he couldn’t seem to get his tongue back into his mouth. I had to carry him into the examining room. He was a big boy, German Shepherd sized at least but I carried him with ease. Lymphoma had wasted him no matter how much I fed him.
Then he was in pain. Then he was flailing around to try to get away from the pain. Then it had to end. He was dying and I could not let him suffer anymore. I was there. I held him and told him he’d better hurry up because it was likely Gabriel had already gotten the best treats. And then he was still and I cried and cried and cried.
I miss my boys like you can’t imagine. There are no glad dog faces in the window when I come home. They don’t interrupt my sleep or mess on the floor…aging dogs sometimes lose their housetraining and I miss them for so much including the bother. I may have loved the bother. No, I didn’t mind it because they were my dogs. They were aging which is better than not aging. The opposite of aging is early death.
I have a box shaped like an old fashioned suitcase. It’s covered with paper patterned with peacocks in shades of grey, black and brown on a white background. Both of them were tri-colors and peacock feathers have long been associated with death. Inside there’s a pomegranate sachet. Persephone was made to stay with Hades for a number of months equaling the pomegranate seeds she’d eaten.
In there are clippings of their hair, their harnesses, leads and collars, so much, so much. Not my boys though. They aren’t in the box. It is simply a remembrance, as if I could forget. I think my boys are running wild in the Summerlands with all they could want to eat, plenty of places to sleep and just be without care and with my endless love.
Diego remains. He’s young and though he looked around for Gabriel for a while he seems to have moved on. He didn’t look around for Hunter because my old boy was zero-Diego-tolerant. He has become more tolerant of the cats and that’s weird. Somehow now it’s okay for Charlie to sleep in the living room. Maybe because they both miss Gabriel.
It’s possible that Diego is meant to be an only dog. I have decided not to look for another dog. Not one subsequent dog in my life has replaced another because they’re all individuals. I think on Hunter’s arrival and the arrival of most of my dogs and I’ve decided if a dog finds me, fine. If not, then that’s what it is. Dogs are a gift, a phrase I would sometimes mutter to myself while cleaning up poo.
This is the deal when a pet comes into my life; I will do the best I can for them and I know the day will come when they leave me behind. It is not unfair or cruel, it’s the deal. I don’t much like it but I so love the memories of my dogs. We had us a time. If now I miss having to refill water bowls three times a day, no exaggeration, that’s my problem. It was worth it.
I suspect I’m going to cry until I puke while I write this.
Hunter and Gabriel were my boys. I never thought of them as my children, understand this. Children are epically more complicated, for one point and for another these days in this country children are likely to outlive you.
The day Hunter found me was back in 2000. I was washing windows and outside my window sat the most beautifully marked dog I’d seen in my life. He just sat there patiently, his long strip of tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth. I went outside to see what was what and he offered me his paw. He had no collar, no microchip and though I registered him as lost and did all the things one must to ensure the found dog is actually a foundling nobody claimed him. Much later someone told me they saw his former owner open the door of the vehicle then drive off, tires screaming. I hope that piece of human waste winds up in the hell I’ve imagined for them. It’ll be epic and fitting since Hunter suffered from acute separation anxiety for many years.
But not all of his years. No, he outgrew trying to chew through a wall to get to me when I took the trash out. He never outgrew the idea that every meal was his last. Or that everything was potentially edible. He had his issues, that triple coat of his not the least of them. He was not an easy dog.
But he was Hunter. He loved to ride in the car, lay in front of the fan, bark at people who dared to walk or bicycle past his windows and sleep on the bed. He was terrified by thunderstorms. He liked to wear bandanas and positively bloomed when he was told he was a pretty boy, as he was. He liked to be brushed and combed, the most useless of exercises with him as I never once finished without seeing another clump of coat just ready to let go. He liked it when I spoke French to him. “Come here” might or might not get a response but “avec moi” always did.
Hunter was part Chow. This is not a healthy breed of dog. Hunter’s first health issue not to result from the all-things-are-edible idea was his thyroid. He bloated up and all of the hair dropped off his tail. He was so proud of that tail and his mane. He displayed that tail like a flag. When the medication took effect and the tail got wave able again, that was a day. That was a day.
By 2002 I came to the conclusion that Hunter was not meant to be an only dog. He sounded aggressive toward other dogs but I had the idea it was loneliness more than anything else. Or he was just nuts. He was not really a lead-friendly dog and I have scar tissue on both knees to prove this. But the idea of getting a puppy took hold and then there was Gabriel.
Gabriel was an Australian Shepherd, again a somewhat unhealthy breed. The day the puppy came home Hunter was ecstatic until the puppy spotted that great tail, latched on with his teeth and went flying as Hunter ran around the room. I might have intervened earlier but I was laughing too hard. Gabriel was pure Aussie and pure mischief. I still had a bad moment when he could get through the night without being walked and decided it would be way better to sleep in the living room with Hunter.
Because as soon as I saw them, after the decisions were made and the accoutrements bought and they were The Dogs I would cry. Dogs don’t live as long as we do. I am an aged woman and I’ve lost more than a few dogs to disease and age. I knew it, but I loved them anyway.
Gabriel invented the nose beep game. He liked to have his nose beeped and would come to me and extend his head so I would touch my nose to his and say ‘beep’. Then he’d grin. Unlike Hunter he’d never missed a meal or been abandoned. He had more confidence, I think. He could and did adopt Charlie the cat when he arrived in 2004. When Charlie had a problem like the after effects of a vet visit he wanted Gabriel. Gabriel would lie down and let Charlie curl against him. I’m sorry there are no photos of this but as Charlie is pure black and Gabriel had a lot of black hair Charlie would be invisible at those times.
When Gabriel was five years old he developed epilepsy. He was given phenobarbital to keep the seizures in check and it did, for the most part. The seizures came on him sporadically. Most of his days were seizure free and with the exception of the first day he got his meds the stuff didn’t change him at all. Even the vet was bemused that he was so hyper and so Gabriel with that stuff in him. That first day, though, my boy was stoned out of his mind. I kept a close watch on him and played him some Pink Floyd for good measure.
Time passed. My boys aged and slowed down a little. Hunter’s last great escape…this was a thing he did from time to time…came when we’d moved here to the country. In the early years he’d run for hours and I’d cruise behind him in the car rather pitifully asking again and again if he wanted to go for a ride. Hey, sometimes it worked though once it took almost three hours to work. The last time, three years ago, he didn’t get very far. He didn’t get more than two hundred feet from the house and he was willing to get in the car pretty quick though I had to lift him in.
Gabriel’s epilepsy advanced. He began to cycle and you can look that up because I can’t bear to describe it. I didn’t think he could survive a cycle of seizures, they were so awful. But they were rare. He got a little more phenobarb and I had a syringe of valium to shoot up his nose to try to bring him out of the cycle. But remember he had only three cycles in his life and the time between the second and the last was six months. I am very much interested in their quality of life.
Hunter got sick. He was coughing and then he had problems swallowing. That triple coat of his hid swellings at his jaw and the news was not good; lymphoma. I watered his food down to a gruel with homemade stock, kept a chart for his meds as he did not tolerate the primary treatment well and I knew, I knew I was going to lose my boy. Yeah, he was thirteen years old. Yeah, that’s a long life for a Chow mix. It didn’t matter. I just didn’t want him to suffer and as for waiting until I was ready to let him go…hell, that day was never going to come. It was all about him.
I watched Gabriel warily. Gabriel would lie on the floor near Hunter and just stare at him. Gabriel was always a shade too bright for my own good. When he was a wee puppy I would give him a bit of kibble when he peed outside, so he began to fake peeing to get more treats. He never got dumber. Tricking Hunter was his favorite game. If Hunter was being combed or loved on Gabriel would look out the window as if there was something to see then bark. Hunter immediately would run over to join in and Gabriel would move right into Hunter’s place.
They were brothers in a way. “Go find your brother” was always obeyed. Gabriel had Hunter at hand all of his life. I was terrified Gabriel wouldn’t survive Hunter’s death. I swear to you I never dreamed Gabriel and Hunter would die on the same day or that Gabriel would go first.
Gabriel died after a seizure. I had my hand on his neck. I’d cleared his mouth and throat of the epic ropes of mucus he produced during a seizure. I had him covered in his comfort towels, I was telling him he was my very good boy and I realized he wasn’t breathing. I checked him every way I knew how then called the vet to confirm my findings. I couldn’t believe it. My baby puppy. I couldn’t believe it.
Hunter had a vet appointment at 2 p.m. They were going to adjust his meds, maybe, or at least see if there was more to be done that would not traumatize him. I got Gabriel into the trunk of the car. I wouldn’t let Hunter see Gabriel’s body. Silly, maybe, but I wasn’t taking the chance.
It didn’t matter. Halfway to the vet Hunter’s rear legs went out on him. He was still grinning but he couldn’t seem to get his tongue back into his mouth. I had to carry him into the examining room. He was a big boy, German Shepherd sized at least but I carried him with ease. Lymphoma had wasted him no matter how much I fed him.
Then he was in pain. Then he was flailing around to try to get away from the pain. Then it had to end. He was dying and I could not let him suffer anymore. I was there. I held him and told him he’d better hurry up because it was likely Gabriel had already gotten the best treats. And then he was still and I cried and cried and cried.
I miss my boys like you can’t imagine. There are no glad dog faces in the window when I come home. They don’t interrupt my sleep or mess on the floor…aging dogs sometimes lose their housetraining and I miss them for so much including the bother. I may have loved the bother. No, I didn’t mind it because they were my dogs. They were aging which is better than not aging. The opposite of aging is early death.
I have a box shaped like an old fashioned suitcase. It’s covered with paper patterned with peacocks in shades of grey, black and brown on a white background. Both of them were tri-colors and peacock feathers have long been associated with death. Inside there’s a pomegranate sachet. Persephone was made to stay with Hades for a number of months equaling the pomegranate seeds she’d eaten.
In there are clippings of their hair, their harnesses, leads and collars, so much, so much. Not my boys though. They aren’t in the box. It is simply a remembrance, as if I could forget. I think my boys are running wild in the Summerlands with all they could want to eat, plenty of places to sleep and just be without care and with my endless love.
Diego remains. He’s young and though he looked around for Gabriel for a while he seems to have moved on. He didn’t look around for Hunter because my old boy was zero-Diego-tolerant. He has become more tolerant of the cats and that’s weird. Somehow now it’s okay for Charlie to sleep in the living room. Maybe because they both miss Gabriel.
It’s possible that Diego is meant to be an only dog. I have decided not to look for another dog. Not one subsequent dog in my life has replaced another because they’re all individuals. I think on Hunter’s arrival and the arrival of most of my dogs and I’ve decided if a dog finds me, fine. If not, then that’s what it is. Dogs are a gift, a phrase I would sometimes mutter to myself while cleaning up poo.
This is the deal when a pet comes into my life; I will do the best I can for them and I know the day will come when they leave me behind. It is not unfair or cruel, it’s the deal. I don’t much like it but I so love the memories of my dogs. We had us a time. If now I miss having to refill water bowls three times a day, no exaggeration, that’s my problem. It was worth it.