Riff Raff
Last week my beautiful Riff Raff was diagnosed with cancer.
He lost a little weight a few weeks back, but seemed well in himself. Then, last Tuesday he didn't want his dinner. He was breathing a little hard, but it was so hot here that I hoped it was just a case of not handling the weather in his old age.
Wednesday morning he had a swollen back leg and didn't want to get out of bed.
A trip to the vet gave us all a huge shock. Riffy is so riddled with cancer that treatment would be pointless. We don't know where it started and we won't find out. Biopsies would be painful and I'm sure he doesn't care where it all began.
So, while he's being spoiled rotten and eating things that he's not usually allowed, I've been reflecting on our time together.
I first saw him in a pet shop. I had gone in to sell them some mice and there was a boy poking the puppies through the cage. There was one little guy up the back giving the boy evil looks and when he turned his head and saw me he wagged his tail. Nothing more, just a wag.
I poked the kid in the ribs and when he swore at me, I said, "Well, do you think puppies like it?" I watched him walk over to his father and rat me out, but Dad poked him, too and said, "You deserved it."
The little red ball of joy came over and stuck his tongue through the bars.
The sign said "Heeler X Boxer Pups $50" and I thought to myself, "Those are going to be some ugly dogs when they grow up." Then I went about my business.
I couldn't stop thinking about that one puppy at the back. He hadn't been snuggled up with the others when I left. He was watching people from his place at the back. He seemed like an old dog in a baby body.
I thought long and hard. I told myself it would be a bad idea to go back for him. I'd not long adopted Bear; a dog with issues that weren't being solved as well as I'd hoped. Bear liked baby everythings, but adult dogs were only good for killing. We were working on it...
Three hours later I phoned the pet shop and asked them to put that pup aside for me.
He inhaled his first feed like he hadn't eaten in weeks. Then the diarrhea set in. There was blood in it, so we headed to the vets. $300 later, I had a sick pup who was actually at least half dingo according to the vet. I told him what the sign had said and he assured me it was wrong. He also told me that I should take Puppy back and demand a refund. I agreed that I should, but for some reason, I was already far too attached to even consider it.
He expressed some dismay that I could feel that way about a critter I'd only met that morning and still hadn't named, and told me to think long and hard, because even if Puppy survived, he was going to be a very difficult dog to keep.
He was right. Over the next week, Riff Raff earned his name. as sick as he was, he continued to scoff his food so that I had to feed him tiny portions and wait until he'd finished before giving the next bit or he'd gulp the whole lot down and vomit. Then he'd try to eat it again.
He was only about 8 weeks old, but he tried to attack The Frog when I introduced them. I gave him a shake and held his muzzle shut while she stroked him and he changed his tune pretty fast, but he took a while to understand that my baby was higher up the food chain than he was.
I'd had him for about a month and he was well, even though his stools were still more like puddles. He had a bed on the floor next to mine and Bear slept on the end of my bed.
One night I woke up to discover Riffy on the bed next to me, lying in a hole he'd chewed in my mattress. Bear must have lifted him up there. I was pretty ticked off, but also bursting to pee. I ran to the toilet and stepped into one of Riffy's "puddles". While I was rinsing my foot off and trying not to respond to the running water I heard a repetitive thumping coming from the lounge room.
I attended to the more pressing issues and then went out to find Riff Raff trying to beak down the door to my china cabinet in an effort to get to some cat figurines. He spent the rest of the night in the bathroom.
Soon after that, Bear proved he was never going to be rehabilitated when he slipped his halter and went after another dog in his obedience class. I tackled him to the grass in time to avert disaster, but the instructor felt that we'd done all we could and nothing was working. He said he'd like it very much if I could borrow a dog so that I could keep attending and I told him about Riffy.
So began Riffy's obedience training. The very first lesson, he drew much attention because he was still a baby, but he soon made it clear that he didn't want cuddles. It was food or get lost. Then he started an impromptu jam session when a fire truck went past with the siren blaring.
This gorgeous little red pup sat down in the middle of a heeling exercise and began to howl along with gay abandon. Soon half the class had joined in and he looked rather pleased with himself the rest of the night.
He was still a dog that couldn't be left alone without being locked up, but he excelled at his training and really loved it. Every Monday night, he'd start pacing and crying half an hour before it was time to go to lessons.
When he was about 6 months old, he decided it was time to challenge me for leadership of the pack. Frog was eating a biscuit and Riffy tried to snatch it out of her hand. A quick shake by the scruff wasn't enough to put him in his place this time and he actually tried to bite me. I rolled him onto his back and held him by the muzzle while I got in his face and growled until he peed. Then I sent him away from us everytime he came near for the rest of the day.
He was suddenly the most loyal, obedient dog you could ask for. He was protective of The Frog and never even begged for food at meal times.
He's done agility work and pulled small sleds with firewood. He's been Bear's constant companion and a great guard dog. He loves cats to unhealthy extremes.
He's only ever run off once. We were walking in the back paddock and a kangaroo pelted past in full flight. He took off after it and didn't even seem to hear me calling him. I tracked them to a sheer drop and then I couldn't find any clue as to where he went.
2 hours later, still calling and looking, I heard his familiar yip, yip, howl. (Riffy has never been able to bark. It's a Dingo thing.) I called and he yipped again. This went on for ages, each time closer. Eventually he came limping up from the opposite direction to the one he left in. He had bloody paws and was exhausted, but unhurt. I cried with relief and Riffy slept all night and half the next day. I can only assume the roo got away, because Riffy hadn't been disemboweled and that roo was taller than me.
On hot days, we'd play fetch and Riffy would dunk his whole head in a bucket of water and run up to shake all over me when he got too warm.
On bush walks he'd pick up small branches and try to get me to throw them for him. They were invariably too heavy and he'd carry them like some kind of prize until an exciting smell distracted him.
He couldn't resist a body of water. No matter the weather, he'd be in there splashing around and running back out to drag me in too. But not the ocean. Waves scarred him.
He'd find dead things and bring them to me for inspection with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. I'd take them and trade them for a treat and he'd leave them alone.
I never taught him these things. They were all his own ideas. So was chewing through my modem cord every night until I finally got smart and hung it along the wall.
By far his most irritating habit is stealing margarine. You can't leave it unattended on the bench for a minute, or he runs off with it and hides it under his blankets. More than once I've thought Husband or Frog must have put it away, only to find Riffy in his bed hours later, licking away at it with a blissed out expression.
Other than his tummy complaint as a pup, he hasn't had a sick day in his life. He's been a perfect companion and family member for nearly 14 years.
Now I'm faced with the horrible task of watching for the point where he's had enough of life. For now the steroids are keeping him bright enough, but he sleeps a lot and doesn't eat much. He doesn't seem to be in pain, but I can't help but think that maybe he is. He kept his illness so well hidden that we had no idea he was sick until it was too late to help him.
I've only just stopped crying every time I cuddle him. I can't imagine life without him and I only hope I'm strong enough to do the right thing when it's time.
He lost a little weight a few weeks back, but seemed well in himself. Then, last Tuesday he didn't want his dinner. He was breathing a little hard, but it was so hot here that I hoped it was just a case of not handling the weather in his old age.
Wednesday morning he had a swollen back leg and didn't want to get out of bed.
A trip to the vet gave us all a huge shock. Riffy is so riddled with cancer that treatment would be pointless. We don't know where it started and we won't find out. Biopsies would be painful and I'm sure he doesn't care where it all began.
So, while he's being spoiled rotten and eating things that he's not usually allowed, I've been reflecting on our time together.
I first saw him in a pet shop. I had gone in to sell them some mice and there was a boy poking the puppies through the cage. There was one little guy up the back giving the boy evil looks and when he turned his head and saw me he wagged his tail. Nothing more, just a wag.
I poked the kid in the ribs and when he swore at me, I said, "Well, do you think puppies like it?" I watched him walk over to his father and rat me out, but Dad poked him, too and said, "You deserved it."
The little red ball of joy came over and stuck his tongue through the bars.
The sign said "Heeler X Boxer Pups $50" and I thought to myself, "Those are going to be some ugly dogs when they grow up." Then I went about my business.
I couldn't stop thinking about that one puppy at the back. He hadn't been snuggled up with the others when I left. He was watching people from his place at the back. He seemed like an old dog in a baby body.
I thought long and hard. I told myself it would be a bad idea to go back for him. I'd not long adopted Bear; a dog with issues that weren't being solved as well as I'd hoped. Bear liked baby everythings, but adult dogs were only good for killing. We were working on it...
Three hours later I phoned the pet shop and asked them to put that pup aside for me.
He inhaled his first feed like he hadn't eaten in weeks. Then the diarrhea set in. There was blood in it, so we headed to the vets. $300 later, I had a sick pup who was actually at least half dingo according to the vet. I told him what the sign had said and he assured me it was wrong. He also told me that I should take Puppy back and demand a refund. I agreed that I should, but for some reason, I was already far too attached to even consider it.
He expressed some dismay that I could feel that way about a critter I'd only met that morning and still hadn't named, and told me to think long and hard, because even if Puppy survived, he was going to be a very difficult dog to keep.
He was right. Over the next week, Riff Raff earned his name. as sick as he was, he continued to scoff his food so that I had to feed him tiny portions and wait until he'd finished before giving the next bit or he'd gulp the whole lot down and vomit. Then he'd try to eat it again.
He was only about 8 weeks old, but he tried to attack The Frog when I introduced them. I gave him a shake and held his muzzle shut while she stroked him and he changed his tune pretty fast, but he took a while to understand that my baby was higher up the food chain than he was.
I'd had him for about a month and he was well, even though his stools were still more like puddles. He had a bed on the floor next to mine and Bear slept on the end of my bed.
One night I woke up to discover Riffy on the bed next to me, lying in a hole he'd chewed in my mattress. Bear must have lifted him up there. I was pretty ticked off, but also bursting to pee. I ran to the toilet and stepped into one of Riffy's "puddles". While I was rinsing my foot off and trying not to respond to the running water I heard a repetitive thumping coming from the lounge room.
I attended to the more pressing issues and then went out to find Riff Raff trying to beak down the door to my china cabinet in an effort to get to some cat figurines. He spent the rest of the night in the bathroom.
Soon after that, Bear proved he was never going to be rehabilitated when he slipped his halter and went after another dog in his obedience class. I tackled him to the grass in time to avert disaster, but the instructor felt that we'd done all we could and nothing was working. He said he'd like it very much if I could borrow a dog so that I could keep attending and I told him about Riffy.
So began Riffy's obedience training. The very first lesson, he drew much attention because he was still a baby, but he soon made it clear that he didn't want cuddles. It was food or get lost. Then he started an impromptu jam session when a fire truck went past with the siren blaring.
This gorgeous little red pup sat down in the middle of a heeling exercise and began to howl along with gay abandon. Soon half the class had joined in and he looked rather pleased with himself the rest of the night.
He was still a dog that couldn't be left alone without being locked up, but he excelled at his training and really loved it. Every Monday night, he'd start pacing and crying half an hour before it was time to go to lessons.
When he was about 6 months old, he decided it was time to challenge me for leadership of the pack. Frog was eating a biscuit and Riffy tried to snatch it out of her hand. A quick shake by the scruff wasn't enough to put him in his place this time and he actually tried to bite me. I rolled him onto his back and held him by the muzzle while I got in his face and growled until he peed. Then I sent him away from us everytime he came near for the rest of the day.
He was suddenly the most loyal, obedient dog you could ask for. He was protective of The Frog and never even begged for food at meal times.
He's done agility work and pulled small sleds with firewood. He's been Bear's constant companion and a great guard dog. He loves cats to unhealthy extremes.
He's only ever run off once. We were walking in the back paddock and a kangaroo pelted past in full flight. He took off after it and didn't even seem to hear me calling him. I tracked them to a sheer drop and then I couldn't find any clue as to where he went.
2 hours later, still calling and looking, I heard his familiar yip, yip, howl. (Riffy has never been able to bark. It's a Dingo thing.) I called and he yipped again. This went on for ages, each time closer. Eventually he came limping up from the opposite direction to the one he left in. He had bloody paws and was exhausted, but unhurt. I cried with relief and Riffy slept all night and half the next day. I can only assume the roo got away, because Riffy hadn't been disemboweled and that roo was taller than me.
On hot days, we'd play fetch and Riffy would dunk his whole head in a bucket of water and run up to shake all over me when he got too warm.
On bush walks he'd pick up small branches and try to get me to throw them for him. They were invariably too heavy and he'd carry them like some kind of prize until an exciting smell distracted him.
He couldn't resist a body of water. No matter the weather, he'd be in there splashing around and running back out to drag me in too. But not the ocean. Waves scarred him.
He'd find dead things and bring them to me for inspection with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. I'd take them and trade them for a treat and he'd leave them alone.
I never taught him these things. They were all his own ideas. So was chewing through my modem cord every night until I finally got smart and hung it along the wall.
By far his most irritating habit is stealing margarine. You can't leave it unattended on the bench for a minute, or he runs off with it and hides it under his blankets. More than once I've thought Husband or Frog must have put it away, only to find Riffy in his bed hours later, licking away at it with a blissed out expression.
Other than his tummy complaint as a pup, he hasn't had a sick day in his life. He's been a perfect companion and family member for nearly 14 years.
Now I'm faced with the horrible task of watching for the point where he's had enough of life. For now the steroids are keeping him bright enough, but he sleeps a lot and doesn't eat much. He doesn't seem to be in pain, but I can't help but think that maybe he is. He kept his illness so well hidden that we had no idea he was sick until it was too late to help him.
I've only just stopped crying every time I cuddle him. I can't imagine life without him and I only hope I'm strong enough to do the right thing when it's time.