A Dogs Life

 A Dogs Life                  1/3/17

Diana, has been my wife for 35 years

And I love her, 

Maybe not every minute of everyday,

But well over 90% of the time.

Rose had been part of the family for years

Between Homer, Rose and Doobie

We’ve had at least one dog,

For the last 25 years…until today.

None of those friends was perfect,

But all of them added to our lives.

Homer was first and surely the most handsome.

A tall 85-pound brown/white Dalmatian,

He understood his nightly trip to the backyard.

Peeing was mandatory. But if the well were dry

He would lift his back left leg and pretend.

That was enough to gain him reentry. 

Rose lived 15 years, and was a 40 pound black runner.

She could accommodate upwards of a 10-dog chase.

She was always the target,

With long legs and excellent eyesight she could hunt squirrels,

Never successfully, from over 200 feet away.

For years she shared our bed, always as family, never as guest.

She had 2 female buddies, both substantially larger.

Her German Sheppard buddy discouraged any interest from males.

Doobie was 9 when we adopted him. 

A quiet fat mutt with legs designed for a 5 pound body.

He weighed upwards of 17 pounds, would bark whenever he was

Hungry, and was always hungry.

He was not designed for, nor interested in,

Playing with Rose, or any other dog.

In his last month Doobie’s walk

Was transformed into a daily stroller ride.

He never asked out of a chauffeured tour.

Do we get another dog?  There are many dogs that need a home, and we are not accustomed to a house with out an occasional bark.

Will see

  

Our New Resident

Rudy is only 80% housebroken.

On the other hand he loves our bed

And we’re allowed to share the big blanket.

Unlike Rudy, we don’t necessarily bounce off the mattress

Or use our teeth to rearrange the pillows.

After evening calisthenics Rudy will settle

All 12 pounds against Diana, mess his share

Of the cover, curl into a tight circle,

With just a bit of head visible.

He is not a loud dreamer, and won’t wake before dawn,

Some time before the sunrise I awake,

Check my arms for dog scratches,

And carry Rudy to the backyard,

Giving him no choice as to where

He should take care of business.

Rose In The Wind

Fourteen years ago Rose was special.

She would race any dog

Encountered on the beach.

Her advantage was a built in move machine.

She was capable of using any leg as a pivot.

When the game was “catch” Rose

Whether chased by one or six dogs,

Would invariably double back,

Leap one of her pursuers and create utter chaos.

A five or ten second reorganization

Was followed by another attempt

To put the long-legged black mutt

In the “gotcha” column.

Now that mutt has arthritis,

Moments of lost orientation

And cannot walk more than two blocks

Except when the wind is hollering.

That calls her back to 360 degree leaps,

And a need for speed.

It matters not who holds the leash

That person is part of the game

And can expect to be strongly prompted

To counter a chest leap.

This morning our sleepy,

Somewhat deaf, fifteen year old Rose

Heard, saw and felt the call

Of a forty mile-an-hour gale.

It was her time to dance and fly…

A sight I shall remember.

Rosie

It’s 15 years since we buried Homer

And adopted you, Rosie.

We’ve both moved on.

My aging is not all that subtle

But you, my baby, are very old.

Hearings gone, legs unstable

And your lost focus sobers me.

All your buddies have died,

There are no pregame attack postures

Or recognition barks.

You had the best double shift and run moves

And I recall six dogs in chase, utterly confused.

We taught you few commands

And curb crossings required no approval.

Today we will hold you for the last time

Then retain your ashes until ours are mixed

And waved into a welcoming sea.

Rose And Me

She is older then me

And I am not her primary caregiver,

But we share a certain state of life.

We look to our next move

Without a clear idea of how, why or where.

We have traveled and still are loved

We have our differences:

I can climb stairs with little difficulty,

She has arthritis, and needs to engage reluctant legs.

Rose sleeps more than I

And eats when hungry, not when served.

We can both expect a more sedentary future

With further personal limitations.

Diana or I need to assist

If she is to sleep in our bed,

Something she has been doing for 15 years.

Slowing Done

It was now an illegal event,

Rose and I on the “no dogs allowed” beach.

She had moves… I mean MOVES!

Cut and double back at full speed.

On the adjacent dogs permitted section,

Where once she was a prime mover,

And upwards of 10 miscreants

Gave chase to my darting black mutt,

There were only two of us, both aging.

My job was to keep watch for beach cops.

Her job was to feel the sand

That, instantly, sparked recall of an earlier time,

And demanded she jump and spin.

Rose was not as fast or graceful as in years passed.

Nor could she persist beyond two rotations

Of my watch’s minute hand.

Still, my heart would swell,

With each light stride that the beach demanded

As payment for her joyful presence.

A House For Doobie

A small dog can’t jump very high,

At least our mutt can’t.

His head and legs are very short and skinny,

While his ears confirm Chihuahua in his blood.

Trouble is there is another breed, at least one,

That is long, fat and unable to run.

Doobie, that’s our dog’s name,

Prefers to rest on our living room couch,

but can’t without a little help from his friends.

We got Doobs a small 3-step ladder.

Of course that did not resolve other problems.

It’s a long couch and Doobs has trouble

navigating the length of the soft cushions.

This problem was addressed by the placement of

A series of small doggie beds, one on each cushion.

Now Doobs can walk up the ladder and consider

Which itty bitty bed he would prefer that day.

He may sample all three, before deciding.

Most likely this is both his mental and physical

Exercise for the day.

Lucky Pup

I preferred to think "Homer"

Was named after the great poet

Rather then the TV cartoon icon.

It offered me a little status.

His walking stride 

Called to mind a child's toy rabbit.

Uncoordinated steps that allowed for limited forward progress,

Changed abruptly when he ran.

Stretching his elegant long body,

Pushing off his powerfully muscled legs,

Homer gained a grace that stopped self-absorbed strollers,

Who found themselves transformed into this blissful, handsome    creature.

Nor was speed and grace all.

Racing along the water's edge,

Experiencing the disruption of the bay's surface,

There was a joy and self affirmation that knew no species limit.

From molecule to Blue Whale

A message was understood.

An unbounded freedom

Was being expressed in a universal language.

Power On The Home Front

It was slow developing, fiendishly planned,

And altogether unstoppable when executed.

We’ve dealt with their kind before,

But had never met with such subtlety.

Harmless little suggestions,

An occasional cute case of overreach,

Easily attributed to a mistaken belief  

We might be saved a possible inconvenience,

Or something far worse, like a frontal attack

By vicious people or killer animals.

It is sad, very sad that we have allowed

Our lives to be trashed by these upstarts.

To have a ten and thirteen-year–old

Take over our lives has been our ruination.

I offer this warning:

Never, never allow two yapping dogs to gain control.

Walking The Dogs

 It's not nearly as tough as herding cats.

But two older dogs can be a chore.

One is not interested in leaving her piece of carpet,

The other complains with the voice of a crow, loud and off key.

         

With protests duly noted we advance to the sidewalk.

After covering six feet, it’s time for an inspection.

Rose, my older mutt, wants to remain at this tree.

No doubt several dogs have watered this tree recently.

Doobie thinks it safe to proceed, but with caution.

Another three feet brings us to another inspection site.

In the course of ten minutes we cover twenty feet,

And Doobie calls it quits.  

He has done his toilette and wants to go home.

We negotiate, Rose is indifferent, busy with a scent,

But Doob’s wont move. Maybe a treat would work?

It’s never worked before, but maybe this time?

Five minutes later, little has changed,

That miserable dog hasn’t moved,

I’m sitting on the grass, and out of treats.

I know! Lets retrace those twenty feet.

Maggie and me

Her vet has suggested it is, perhaps, time.

She's a big dog, and with aging her difficulties mount.

She is incontinent, with serious hip problems.

On occasion we babysit her and two siblings

We share certain traits.

While I am more talkative,

She communicates with equal,

If not greater, understanding.

 Long gone is her need to lead

And ward-off any alien (male) dog.

Now Maggie spends her time splayed

On a convenient carpet or couch.

In conversation with neighbors or friends

I invariably touch a shoulder or an arm.

When being petted, Maggie will look

To put a paw on whoever is proffering friendship.

Unlike me, Maggie has a sanguine view of humanity.

Anyone who get their face close enough

Will be rewarded with a tongue massage.

Did I tell you she is a beautiful creature?

Good Fortune

I'm dog sitting Wilma, Rose and Dooby,

Reflecting on the ease of showing up.

It's not a problem to help a friend

When the task consists of giving dogs treats.

Taking Alan to lunch was work.

Maneuvering his wheelchair around tables,

In and out of the car, and up stairs

Was often a challenge.

I heard an ex Navy pilot

Speak about his extraordinary satisfaction

When, as a suicide phone counselor,

He talked a man off a bridge.

Watching a dog is not quite the same

As talking a soldier off a bridge’s railing.

What they have in common is the very good fortune
Of being in a time and place to help.

Sharing the Bed

Rose has settled.

No doubt she will change her mind,

or at least her posture,

and move to the middle of the bed, by dawn.

We share what once was my slice

of the right hand portion,

which allowed for easy access

and room to maneuver.

It is not pleasant, in fact it’s a pain,

Coming back from a two o’clock pee

To find you no longer have first dibs

On the spot you recently vacated.

A hard, hard choice confronts me.

Push Rose to center, or balance on the edge of the bed.

You’d think a grown man could handle this.

Well, surely not for the first time, you’re wrong.

Life Is For the Dogs

Eliza is for the dogs.

In the middle of a successful career in education,

Replete with Ph.D. and love for the children that she served,

Eliza quit her job.

Half way through her second doctoral program,

Eliza will soon be a Veterinary Surgeon.

She has moved from internecine warfare

To a place where results are less ambiguous.

Eliza’s choice speaks to the human spirit.

Away from voices mouthing different agendas:

Teachers, administrators and government agencies

Will have far less influence.

What is best for the animal is paramount,

Sometimes that includes life-ending treatment.

Yes, it is not without financial considerations,

But hopefully, it does not require committees.

Dog

Bobby and I adopted Dog

About the same time he adopted us.

We were with my folks

Who had rented a bungalow for the weekend.

We walked to the pier,

Thinking about crabbing.

This German Shepard decided we were friendly

And started walking with us.

No license, no collar

We took him back to the bungalow

Where my mother ordered our dog “Out”.

Taking umbrage Dog, Bobby and I went.

For three days we were thick, really thick.

Dog watched us play ball,

Walked on our rope leash

To the hot-dog  stand and shared our feast.

Last day of Memorial weekend we left

For the city with Dog,

At least that’s what I thought would happen.

Instead we watched Dog through the back window,

As he tried to overtake our disappearing car.

Mine

How much do I love Wilma?

Enough to make money no consideration

As she struggles, under the Vet’s care,

To survive and return to us.

I feel sorry for the man on the phone.

He is losing the argument with his wife.

She doesn’t want to pay the $200

For the xray the vet needs to take.

If their dog needs surgery,

There is no money to pay.

Why waste money on the xray

When we can’t follow through she asks?

At least that way we will know, he responds.

I can’t hear her next comment

But it clearly closes the matter.

Blackie, or Spot, or whatever, may not make it.

And I, $20,000 + into Wilma’s treatment,

Think how fortunate that I have the money.

How unfortunate the guy on the phone is.

And how many others would have to let their Wilma go.

I could give the guy the $200 for the xray.

Of course, I can’t take care of every dog

And I support many animal programs.

But this guy is here... now.

How deep does my rationalization reach?

There’s no abstraction to the look on his face

And I can help, but where will it end?

Or am I back justifying a perfectly reasonable act?

I don’t know the guy,

There is no tax deduction,

It’s not like a charitable contribution, right?

He’s not my problem...right?