This is a story about a dog. What you’re about to read actually happened. It will require you to put aside your reason and open your mind. Perhaps you’ll think the facts are all happenstance. Perhaps you’ll think the story is fantasy. Whatever you decide, hopefully it will make you think more deeply about the bond between humans and their dogs.
"He is your friend, your partner, your defender.
You are his life, his love, his leader.
He will be yours until the last beat of his heart.
You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion."
Anonymous
Chapter One: Home
My story begins in West Virginia with a dog named Bear. I lived in a tiny one bedroom efficiency apartment that barely had room for my 22 gallon fish tank containing an Oscar named Cronkite, or my three Zebra Finches, Kenya, Cairo and their female offspring China. While the fish and birds were wonderful pets, they weren't companions and frankly, I missed having a dog.
I was always a sensitive kid to things that were unexplainable. I seem to have an uncanny intuition and often get a sense of things before they happen. So I knew when Ziesie only had a few months left with us. In late summer of 1980 she quickly became sick and on August 25th, her tenth birthday, the vet called to tell us she died. I was thirteen years old and she was the first "family" death I experienced. Supposedly she had Leukemia. I'll never know. I cried for two weeks straight.
The morning after she died, I awoke in that half awake, half sleep state. Zieskite used to sleep on my bed between my legs. In her senior years she lost the spring in her legs and could no longer jump up on the bed, so she would get on her hind legs and lean into the bed until I picked her up.
Side Note: Before Zieskite died, my parents bought a Maltese puppy named Jaime. The breeder named her. Jaime was a great dog because Ziesie trained her. However I was becoming a teenager and soon heading off to college so I wasn't as close to her as my father had become. She was his dog. After my mother left him, Jaime was the only thing he had left. She truly was his best friend and lifeline. She died in his arms when she was 13.
Chapter two: Bear
Now let's get back to West Virginia. Remember the Oscar fish, Cronkite? Occasionally he liked to eat live goldfish. I hated this about him because I felt so guilty sending these fish to their doom. But nature is nature and Cronkite deserved to have fresh fish every so often. I would get the fish from this tiny pet store in a shopping center off the Bridgeport exit.
The pet store owner told me the puppy wasn't for sale. He had purchased him for himself and was going to use him to draw in business. I told him he would need to find another dog. This one was going to be mine. I walked out of the pet store with the puppy, supplies and a receipt for $500. A total impulse buy that probably wasn't the wisest investment considering I was only making $11,000 a year. There was just something about that dog. He and I were meant to be together.
He was a pure bred Samoyed with a smiling face, deep brown eyes, and a little bit of biscuit coloring on his ears. I always had a thing for Polar Bears, so I named him Bear. I took him back to my tiny apartment (that didn't allow pets) and became acquainted. He was a very well behaved puppy. The only thing he did was chew on the leg of my dresser. At first, the pet store owner agreed to "pet sit" the dog while I was at work. That was the plan for about a week.
When I told my boyfriend about the dog, he ordered me to return him to the pet store. Then he called back a couple hours later to make sure I hadn't done that. (As if!) But reality was settling in and I knew there was no way Bear would be able to live in my tiny apartment, so my boyfriend agreed to care for him at his home in Pittsburgh. He still lived with his Mom at the time. She was the one we had to convince. She had just lost her dog a few months earlier and was devastated. A new puppy was the last thing she wanted in her house. So we didn't tell her about him.
Bear and I got into my car and made the two hour drive to Pittsburgh. He was small enough that he climbed under my shoulder harness and went to sleep on my chest. When I pulled into my boyfriend’s driveway, he and his oblivious mother were sitting on the front steps. I let Bear out of the car and instinctively he waddled to her, climbed up on her lap and went back to sleep. She was sold in seconds.
So for his first year, Bear grew up with my boyfriend. I saw him every weekend. When I got a new job, and a house that allowed pets, it was time for Bear to come live with me. From that point on he was the most important "male" in my life, other than my Dad. My boyfriend was third. We eventually broke up and Bear was the one who comforted me every morning I woke up crying. He would literally lick away my tears. I couldn't help but laugh.
Bear and I would spend weekends camping in the wilderness of West Virginia and Kentucky. I had no fear being out in the woods with just a tent and my dog. He slept in the tent with me and more than once I awoke nose to nose with him. We hiked all over the state sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. Those days with my dog are some of the best memories of my life.
Over the next several years, Bear remained the only constant companion in my life. Over five moves, a few new boyfriends and different jobs, Bear was the one who stayed by my side. No one had a chance with me if they couldn’t pass the “Bear” test. He was my protector and let no one near me he didn't trust. He was my companion and he was my best friend. I truly think soul mate is a fair description of our relationship.
He was ten when I moved to Cleveland. I met the man of my dreams a year later and Bear approved. He even slept on his side of the bed. Although I'm not sure if he did it because he liked him or just liked to annoy him. Bear and his dog, a Scottish Deer hound mix named Piper, were really the reason that brought us together.
A few months later, Bear tore his ACL. I knew I loved this man when he carried Bear a mile back to the car when the dog couldn't walk anymore. It was also the first time I realized my dog was getting older and the end was on the horizon.
Bear's ACL surgery cost me around $1500, but I didn't blink an eye. That's what a credit card is for. Some people can't understand how a person can spend that kind of money on a dog. When I bought that dog, he became my responsibility, not only when he was well.
Bear bounced back after his surgery, but time was catching up and our walks became shorter and shorter. He literally started to stop and sniff the roses. It was quite a lesson for the rest of us when you stop to think about it. He enjoyed every minute of every moment. If I paid more attention at the time, I might have learned something.
Bear turned 13 on May 7th, 2002. Once again my intuition told me I only had a few months left with him. He had developed Osteoarthritis in his hips. Walking was difficult for him so he just rambled around the yard and stayed close to the house.
At this same time, my father was getting ill too. I was running back and forth to Pittsburgh to take care of my dad. The stress was killing me. But I noticed my dog and my dad were living parallel lives. They would each get sick right after the other, so I was constantly taking care of one of them. I didn't realize it at the time, but Bear was training me for what was to come of my father.
In mid-May the temperature hovered around forty degrees. Our house overlooks a ravine with a creek running through it. When it rains, the water gets pretty fast. It's not easy to get down to the creek. The sides of the hill are rather steep and one morning Bear took a tumble. I didn't see him, but instinct told me to look over the edge. He fell about 20 feet into the creek and his legs were stuck in the mud.
A couple weeks later, Bear decided he was tired of me going back and forth to Pittsburgh and leaving him behind. I came home from work and found him lying on the floor not looking good at all. Bear was a tough dog and hid his pain very well. This time, he couldn't hide it.
Hours passed. I cried. Nothing happened. I called the vet who told me most likely Bear had a stomach ache. I felt like an idiot. A grateful idiot. I gave him some medication and poof, he bounced back. If a dog can be a drama queen, Bear would have won the Oscar.
By mid-summer Bear's back legs gave out on him. I got a sling to help him get outside, but mainly he just stayed in the living room. Everyone kept telling me to put him to sleep but I knew in my heart that the dog would tell me when he was ready to go. I look back on it now and I think that Bear didn't want to leave me until he knew I was ready to handle it. That happened in the early morning hours of August 25th, 2002.
When I got to him I could tell he wasn't comfortable. I slept with him on the floor in front of the air conditioning vent. Finally he sat up and looked at me. I knew in his eyes he was telling me that he'd had enough. He told me that he was ready to go and he knew that I was ready to let him go. I carried him outside and put him in his favorite spot in the yard. I watched him from the house as he watched the sunrise. It was a Sunday morning and of course the vet office wasn't open. When I brought him back in, he seemed content, but I could tell this was it. At that point, he was starting to die. He closed his eyes and once again seemed uncomfortable. This wasn't a stomach ache.
This was the first time I ever had to do this and as horrible as it is to have to put your dog to sleep, Bear's last moments were beautiful. He taught me the importance of putting someone else's needs before my own especially, when the time comes to let go. It's been several years and I still cry when I think about it. I still miss him.
When I left the vet's office I felt Bear's presence with me. I could feel him bouncing around me and running toward my Jeep. I knew he was with me and he was free. He was no longer in pain and no longer unable to walk or run. I believed he could fly if he wanted to.
Bear died at 11:13am on August 25th the same day as Zieskite, my first dog. The following morning I woke in that half awake half sleep state and heard him barking outside. After thirteen years of listening to him bark, I knew it was him. I think he came back to say goodbye. I sat up in bed to listen and it stopped.
I decided to have him cremated. The pet cemetery allowed me to have a little memorial service for him. They cleaned him up, placed him in an open container and put flowers all around him. They allowed me to follow him back and help place him in the crematory. I needed to see that it was clean because I needed to know I would get my dog's remains and not those of another. For some reason, as morbid as it sounds, this was important to me.
This was the tribute I dedicated to him on petloss.com.
Dakota Bear 5.7.89-8.25.02
You were so much more than "just a dog." You stood by my side during every significant event in my life. You never questioned my judgment, never begrudged my mistakes and always offered me love, compassion and understanding during the darkest of days. You were the only one in my life I could truly trust and I never questioned your loyalty. You were more than my best friend, you were my soul mate. You taught me patience, you taught me tolerance, you showed me how to love unconditionally. You were more than "just a dog" because you taught me how to be human.
Chapter three: Norm
Ten months later, on June 16th, my Dad died. The last day I saw him was on Father's day, the day before. His health had been declining and six months earlier I had him moved to the VA Hospital in Brecksville so I wouldn't have to drive so far to see him.
After the brain tumor diagnosis, his doctor's drained spinal fluid from his brain and my father spoke to me for the last time. He had severe hydrocephalus, or water on the brain. His brain was also severely atrophied or shrinking. He hadn't been able to speak for weeks. He seemed catatonic most times when I went to see him.
When I met with his doctors, two amazing brain surgeons I truly respect and admire, I asked them if they would put their mother or father through the surgery. They both told me no. The tumor was the size of a golf ball and in the deep left center portion of his brain. Getting to it for a simple biopsy would probably kill him in his frail state. I took their advice.
My father returned to the VA and his doctor called me and told me to give myself a break. He was catatonic again because once they pulled the spinal tap his skull again filled with fluid. She told me that he wouldn't even know I was there. I took her advice and stayed away for a week. Seeing him in that state was taking a huge toll on my own health.
But then it was Father's day. I had to go see him. But this day was special. I had finally decided to start looking for another dog. So after my visit we would go to Massillon and see a man who had Great Pyrenees puppies for sale.
I spent fifteen minutes with my father. When I arrived I immediately noticed that someone had given him a feeding tube. I requested the nurse remove it. My father was adamant that he did not want end of life care.
This time he appeared to be sleeping but I couldn't wake him. I held his hand, but I don't think I told him I loved him. In my heart, I'm sure he knew. Once again I left in tears unable to cope with the fact that my father, once the Superman of my life, was fading fast.
We rode the Harley down to Massillon. The breeder lived in a double wide trailer on a tract of land that had more than a dozen kennels. He had white Shepherds, Bull Mastiffs, Boxers and two Great Pyrenees. I think I was so desperate for another dog I didn’t realize at the time that I was dealing with a “backyard breeder.”
The next morning at 5am the phone rang. I instantly knew who it was. I sat up in bed but couldn't bring myself to answer the phone. Deke picked it up and told me it was the doctor on duty at the VA. I remember walking slowly into the office and taking the phone.
I am convinced that my father waited for me to return to the hospital to say goodbye. How appropriate that he died the day after Father's day. For all I know he might have died on Father's Day and they found him the next morning.
I buried my father the next day. He would have been proud that most of the people who attended the funeral were my friends. Ironically the day he died was beautiful. I saw the sunrise and the rest of the day was warm and sunny.
Two weeks after my father's death I was sitting in my home office doing paperwork. I opened the desk drawer and saw his wallet. I'd had this wallet for over a year and believe me when I tell you there was no money in it. My father's care pretty much wiped out my personal savings. I knew he used to hide twenties in his wallet, so when I needed cash to pay for his haircuts or other items, I raided the wallet.
I took it out of the drawer and began to look through it. Inside was my senior high school picture, his social security card, Medicare card and health insurance card. That was it.
Chapter four: Brody
Zena's puppies were born on July 23rd. Four weeks later, we went back to Massillon to see them. There were two white males. One was big, noisy and pushy. The other one was quiet but not meek. He would check you out for a bit before he'd decide to come over. When he did, he'd chew on my fingers. He was a lot smaller than his brother, but seemed to have a quiet confidence that we liked. We went back two weeks later and decided he was the one we would pick.
On September 17th, we went to pick up our new puppy. He was $500. I used my Dad's $100 to buy him. When the breeder handed him to me he weighed nine pounds. We thought he was huge, except for the fact his siblings were twice that. It didn't occur to me then that we were probably getting the runt of the litter. When I took him in my arms, Deke said, "We're gonna need a bigger house." We laughed because it reminded us of Chief Brody's line in the movie "Jaws" when he sees the shark for the first time and says to Quint, "We're gonna need a bigger boat." So we named the dog Brody. Actually his full AKC name was Chief Brody Atka Naku. Atka is the Inuit word for "guardian spirit" and Naku is the Russian word for "white bear." Brody would be the guardian spirit of my white bear.
I instantly fell in love. But almost from the beginning, Brody had health issues. He was the first dog I'd ever had that had worms. As he matured, we noticed that his front right canine wasn't developing correctly. I took him to a dog dentist who told me that Brody had a condition that wouldn't let the enamel fully cover his tooth. He thought that Zena must have developed a virus while the pups were in utero. The dog would get used to it, but I worried that it might cause him pain down the road. We decided to let him become full grown and then we would get him a titanium cap.
At six months we noticed a strange growth on the upper right palate of his mouth. The vet removed it and thought it was a benign skin tag. I was grateful that I bought Pet Insurance the day I brought him home. Brody seemed to be an old soul. He didn't play much like a puppy should. He seemed far more mature for his age.
Brody bonded to the family. The cat was a bit hesitant at first, but after the first swat across the puppy's nose, they became friends. Piper, our old guy, finally got to be the Alpha of the pack. He took full advantage of it growling and snarling at the pup whenever he had to teach him something useful. We also realized that Piper loved to play practical jokes on Brody. He would get a bone or toy and lay just out of reach of Brody's chain, just tormenting him.
Piper was Deke's dog. He got him from the APL in 1991. He was 13 when we brought Brody home and I truly believe the puppy put some spunk back into the old guy. Piper is a mutt. I would have put money on him being part Scottish Deerhound. I later learned through a dog DNA test that Piper's main mix is German Shepherd and Petit Bassett Griffin Vendeen. He also has some Belgian Sheepdog, Boxer and Collie in his mix. No wonder he's lived so long. He's eighteen as I write this. While Deke is his owner, I've been Piper's caretaker for half of his life now. More on him later.
In March of 2005, I decided I wanted to start training Brody to become a Therapy dog. Because of my job, I spend a lot of time in hospitals and see the happiness dogs bring to patients. I thought Brody would be perfect for that role. We started training to get our Canine Good Citizen Certificate. He did extremely well.
Then one day in April, Brody went over and sat in front of Deke and yawned. Inside his mouth, on the upper left palate was a fire red growth about five centimeters long. My heart stopped. His breath had been stinking of late, but I never thought to look into his mouth. Besides, he hated when I'd try to brush his teeth or anything. Now I knew why. I didn't know what it was but I knew it couldn't be good. I rushed him to the vet and they told me they had to keep him overnight and they would laser the growth out of his mouth in the morning. I went out into the parking lot and started crying. In the pit of my stomach I knew something was terribly wrong. I picked him up the next day and brought him home. He didn't have an appetite because the open wound hurt him if he'd try to eat. We just had to wait for it to heal. A few days later, on a Saturday morning, one of the vets called me. She just received Brody's lab results and thought I should hear the news as soon as possible. Brody's growth was malignant. He had cancer. She gave me the number to a specialist and I made an appointment for Monday morning. Brody wasn't even two years old yet. He was still a baby.
Monday morning we were in the waiting room with about a dozen other dog owners facing a cancer diagnosis. I’m usually not an emotional person, but I fall to pieces when it comes to my animals. We don’t have children so perhaps it’s some parental instinct we have regarding our dogs. Regardless, I was a wreck in that waiting room. I assumed any dog that gets cancer dies from it. Fast.
The worst part was realizing that the other dogs in the waiting room were much older. My dog wasn’t even two yet. I felt cheated, confused, scared, alone and above all, helpless. When it was time for our consult with the Vet Oncologist I wasn’t sure what to expect. The first thing he did was hand me a tissue and tell me that I didn’t have to be tough around him. It was OK to cry. The people at the clinic saw people like us everyday. The people in the waiting room felt the pain of those who walked out in tears. We all were there because we loved our pets. We were willing to find them the best healthcare available and in some cases, no matter the cost. I was willing to spend whatever it took to get Brody healthy. I had Pet Insurance, a credit card and a decent income. The biggest heartbreak wasn’t the dogs with cancer; it was the people who couldn’t afford the treatment.
Brody was diagnosed with an Oral High Grade Fibrosarcoma. There wasn’t a whole lot of information about it on the internet and what I did find wasn’t promising. The tumor was growing so fast, without treatment my dog only had a few weeks to live. What was more frustrating is that he was the first Great Pyrenees ever seen at the cancer clinic. Pyrs are known to be at risk for Osteosarcoma but usually later in life. A young dog with oral fibrosarcoma was very rare, but we hoped his youth would work to his advantage.
The best treatment option for fibrosarcoma is surgery. Usually the tumors appear on the limbs and amputation can save the animal’s life. But Brody’s tumor wasn’t that easy. If we opted for surgery they would have needed to remove nearly a quarter of his head. Including his eye and a large portion of his jaw. Then, there was no guarantee they would be able to get the clean margins they needed to prevent the cancer from returning. They also didn’t know how far up into his skull the tumor went or if it reached his brain. The other risk from this type of cancer is eventually the cancer cells enter the lungs, which is a fatal diagnosis.
We decided that the surgery would destroy his quality of life. I couldn't stand the thought of the dog being deformed like that and then the cancer returns anyway. From the beginning, I knew no matter what happened, I would not let dog suffer or go through a painful death.
Our next option was Radiation therapy. Eighteen days straight. Every morning I drove across town, about thirty miles, so Brody could get his radiation treatment. It usually took about ninety minutes. I sat in the waiting room with all the other cancer pet owners. We became our own support group. We cried at the losses and cheered the positive outcomes. We also supported those who were newly diagnosed. I met many people who drove three hours or more so their pet could receive cancer therapy. I was also extremely lucky to have a boss who was a dog lover. He didn’t mind my coming in late because of Brody’s treatments.
Usually after radiation Brody would be very tired. He would sleep the day away, but perk up at night. After the second week however, he stopped eating. The radiation was beginning to destroy the tumor tissue and his mouth was raw. They advised us to use an oral antiseptic to help him with the pain, but usually we couldn’t even get his mouth open. He started spending time away from us. He wanted to be left alone in the basement. It was heartbreaking to see him in so much pain. We tried everything we could to get him to eat but to no avail. I pureed his food in the blender, gave him pure chicken or beef or chicken broth but he wouldn’t touch a thing. He was about 110 pounds when we started radiation in mid May. But the end of June he was down to 70 pounds.
After we finished our last treatment I was advised that the radiation would continue to kill the cancer cells. What I didn’t realize is that meant the dog would be in far more pain. I was walking him one day and suddenly he started screaming. It was a horrific sound. It didn’t sound like a typical dog yelp; it was a scream that I’ll never forget. He looked at me and I was helpless. There was nothing I could do. People started coming out of their homes when they heard the noise, probably thinking that I was beating him or something. When I tried to explain that he had an oral cancer, they looked at me as if I were crazy. It amazed me how many people did not believe dogs get cancer too.
The summer of 2005 was a difficult one but by late August Brody started eating normally again. We went back to the vet every three months for exams and chest xrays and was elated each time the vet told us there was no sign of cancer.
When Brody was first diagnosed the vet was honest with us. Most dogs don’t survive this type of cancer. In his career, he only had one dog survive three years. When you're looking at weeks, three years sounds pretty good. We were grateful for every moment we had left.
The radiation treatment gave us a full year of remission. Brody was seemingly back to his old self and except for those visits every three months, we kind of forgot about the cancer. Deke and I were out on the motorcycle and decided to stop at some cheesy Psychic fair. There was a guy there who read Viking Runes. I'm Norwegian so Deke thought it would be fun to have the guy tell my future. He tossed the stones and then looked at me and said, "Who close to you has cancer?" I thought for a moment and then looked at him and said "No one." He shrugged his shoulders and gave me some schmaltzy reading but then asked me again who I knew that had cancer. Again I told him no one. Finally he seemed frustrated and asked me a third time. It was then I realized that my dog had cancer. I told him Brody was in remission from cancer. The man looked at me and flat out said, "You know he's not going to survive it." I looked at him and tried to stay strong and said I realized that. Then he floored me. He told me Brody took that cancer for me. I was supposed to get cancer and Brody was saving my life. That's what he was here to do. The logical part of my mind wanted to slap this idiot upside his head. Whether it was real or not however, thinking that my dog was saving my life just made me feel better. For the first time, his cancer diagnosis seemed to make sense.
A few days later everything would change. We looked in his mouth and our hearts broke. The tumor had returned, but this time there were two.
Our next option was chemotherapy. We began treatment immediately. The good thing about canine chemo is that they handle it much better than humans do. Brody didn’t lose his hair or get sick from it. It did sap his energy, but chemo appointments were just once a week. The first round of chemo bought us another month of remission, but then the cancer came back a third time and this time it was growing incredibly fast. We tried one more round of chemo, but at the end, it was clear that the high grade fibrosarcoma was going to win.
At that point we decided to stop all treatment and let Brody live out his days in peace. We spoiled him rotten and gave him whatever he wanted which was usually London broil. He also loved slushy drinks and we often treated him to Rita’s Italian Ice. When he’d let us, we tried to sneak a peak into his mouth and were heartbroken by how fast the tumors were growing. They were the size of my fists and growing down his throat.
Eventually his breathing became labored and we knew it was time. We shuddered at the thought of him suffocating from the tumors. His personality also began to change. He became extremely protective of me and attacked four people who came near me. The vet believed the tumor was going into his brain.
I decided I would never again have a pure bred dog. I couldn't bear going through this pain again. Piper was strong and healthy and old. Our next dog would come from the shelter. We also decided that we would name him Griffin. Deke has a tattoo on his back of a Griffin. Half eagle half lion mythological creature. It was his protector, our dog Griffin, would protect us.
On August 20th we took Brody and Piper up to a park on the lake. They both loved to walk around on the path and the wind from the water kept them cool. Brody seemed tired and his breathing was labored so we went at his pace. Just as we decided to start heading back to the car I looked across the park and saw a white puppy. Instantly I knew it was a Great Pyrenees pup. I told Deke to look but he disagreed with me. The couple saw us and we were drawn to each other. We met in the center of the park and sure enough they had a three month old Pyr puppy named William. He was adorable. We told them of Brody's situation but also what a wonderful dog he was. They would be happy with their breed choice. The husband told Deke the name of the breeder where they acquired William. I had no interest in knowing this and told Deke to just forget about it. When we returned home he went on the internet and found the breeder's web page. The Lucky G Ranch was expecting Pyr pups in the Spring.
The next day I went to work. The talk show the station produces had a guest who called herself an Animal Communicator. She claimed to have the ability to talk to animals, living or dead. My friend told me I had to speak to her about Brody. The woman knew Brody was sick but did not know the seriousness of his illness. She also couldn't have known that I already called the vet to begin making final preparations. He told me he'd be ready to help any day and at any hour. I thought the end of the week would probably be best. The way Brody was breathing I wasn't sure how long he'd last and I couldn't let him suffer.
The first thing Agnes said was that Brody was ready to go this weekend. He just wanted a week to say goodbye. Then she told me not to worry because he'd be coming back to me. My bullshit meter started pinging into the red. I thought this woman was crazy. I laughed and asked her what he would come back as and she told me he would come back as another Great Pyrenees. I knew she was full of it now. I informed her that I was done with pure bred dogs. There wouldn't be another one. That's when she laughed at me and said, "Yes you will dear. Brody is not finished with his business here on earth. He just needs to go get a healthier body. Sort of like a tune-up." It sounded so ridiculous, but at the same time, it was making me feel better. She continued saying that Brody would come when the snow comes. He would return to me because our pets are our soul mates.
That night I thought about what Agnes told me. Even though my logical mind thought she was crazy, I couldn't help finding the Lucky G Ranch website on the internet. Interested buyers were required to fill out an indepth application to be considered for one of the puppies. It was pretty thorough. It tested my knowledge of the breed, asked questions about our home and yard and how we would care for the dog. I filled it out and hit send. I sure wish that breeder in Massillon cared the same for his dogs.
On Wednesday we had one last appointment with the vet oncologist. I needed to hear from him that there were no more chances. We waited for nearly an hour and a half before the receptionist told us that the vet quit the night before. I took it as a sign that there was nothing more that could be done.
On Friday, August 25th we took our three-year-old Great Pyrenees to the vet for the last time. That morning, he ran down into our creek and chased away the ducks and geese. It was incredibly frustrating knowing that our dog appeared healthy on the outside, but was dying from within.
We both held him while the vet tried to find a working vein. The chemo collapses the veins and it was extremely difficult to watch the dog get a needle in all four legs because the vet couldn’t find one that would work. However, at 12:15pm, I held his head in my hands, looked into his eyes and we told him how much we loved him as he went to sleep for the last time. I lost my third dog again on August 25th.
I felt an enormous sense of grief but also a weird sense of joy. I knew the dog was no longer in pain and in my heart I knew we did the right thing. The most important thing we had to remember was to put his needs before our own. It didn't stop the pain or the deep feeling of loss we both felt and we held each other and cried.
Brody’s treatment cost more than $10,000. Bills were required to be paid at each vet visit. Receipts were sent to the Pet Insurance and then reimbursed. In the end the insurance covered almost 40%. I'd have paid double that if it would have saved him.
When we returned home from the vet both of us were emotionally and mentally exhausted. I went upstairs and got on the computer to check my email. The first one I saw was from the Lucky G Ranch. The owner received my application and had a few more questions to ask me. I emailed her back telling her she had no idea how important her note was on that particular day at that particular time. Maybe Brody would come back to me. A few minutes later I heard Deke yelling for me to come downstairs. The mail had come. In it was a box of cigars sent to him. They were called Griffins.
Chapter five: Griffin
Certainly these could all be coincidences. But somewhere inside I knew Brody didn't cross over, he was waiting somewhere in limbo. I never had the dream about him, I never heard him bark.
Beth, the owner of the Lucky G Ranch, and I became email friends. I sent in a deposit to get one of her puppies from the next litter due in spring. The winter of 2006 was a warm one. We had no snow, just flurries a couple of times but never anything that would stick. Kind of strange considering we live in Cleveland. Then Valentine's Day came and brought with it a hellacious blizzard. The winds drifted the snow and left us snowbound in the house. We had five foot drifts up against the garage door so we couldn't get the cars out. At least three feet or more covered the entire driveway. Work had to send the photographer to my house to pick me up.
It took Deke four hours to snow blow the driveway. When I returned home from work that night there was an email from Beth waiting for me. Great news! Petty and Pearly were pregnant.
Petty's AKC name is Karleo's Full Moon Fever after Tom Petty. He was a Canadian Champion but sadly had to quit showing because of a fall. He lost one of his testicles and could no longer be in competition, but he could breed. Pearly was one of Beth's females. She resembled Brody a great deal. The Lucky G Ranch is a working farm of 43 acres. Beth and her husband raise goats and her nine Great Pyrenees are actually doing what they were bred for. Guarding livestock.
Pearly is a barker as are most Pyrs, she's also a little shy. The breed tends to be aloof except when it comes to their family. They bond to everyone they live with.
So on Valentine's Day, when the snow came, I found out Pearly was pregnant with pups. Over the next few weeks Beth would send me pictures and email updates. She even sent a picture of Pearly getting an ultrasound to make sure the pups were OK. Beth's pups were a few hundred dollars more than Brody's breeder, but it was obvious that they'd be worth every penny.
Winter went back to being mellow until Easter Sunday, April 8th. We had another blizzard that weekend. But then on Easter Sunday, the day of the resurection, Pearly gave birth to eight puppies. Two girls and six boys. He came when the snow came, just like Agnes said he would.
I felt like an expectant mother. Beth would send pictures each week so I could see how the puppies were growing. It was like they doubled in size each week. I was so excited, I couldn't wait untill June when we could bring him home.
In early May I got a phone call from my brother. Every year the local newspaper prints a list of people who are eligible for unclaimed funds from the Pennsylvania treasurers office. My brother called to tell me that our father's name was on that list.
It had to be a mistake. He'd been dead four years. I took care of all of the finances, I'd sold the house, he hadn't paid taxes in almost a decade. How could he be on the unclaimed funds list? And why wasn't he on the list the years before? I called the PA treasurers office fully expecting them to tell me that I had to fill out a million forms to find out how much money was there.
The woman simply asked me, "Do you want to know how much it's for?" I said sure, and then almost fell off my chair when she said, "One hundred dollars."
My father had been dead four years and suddenly, just like the money in the wallet, another hundred bucks appears. I really believe my Dad was helping to buy me another gift. Another dog.
Now, remember the explanation the psychic gave me about why Brody got cancer in the first place? Supposedly he was taking it for me. That wasn't lost on me even if it was a ridiculous thought. February of 2007 I went in for my annual gyn appointment. Two days before my birthday I got a phone call. They found atypical cells that could be cancerous, I needed to have a biopsy. I only had one other questionable Pap in my life and that was in college. Turned out to be nothing. They already knew something was wrong or they wouldn't be asking me for a biopsy.
I made the appointment and went through the process. It sucked. Waiting for results sucked even more. Getting the results I really wasn't expecting was the uber suckfest. They found some high grade pre cancerous cells that had to be removed. What was worse, the biopsy couldn't tell them if the bad cells went into my uterus. I had to have surgery that would remove nine centimeters of my cervix and potentially might require a hysterectomy. My forties were supposed to be my "me time" decade. Now I had to start them with this bullshit. I cried, in private. I got mad, in private. I went through the "why me" bullshit. I agonized over the "not knowing" part. Then I snapped out of it. I simply didn't have time for this cancer shit. I had a new puppy coming.
Then it hit me, wow, this could have been so much worse. I was so freaking lucky that they found it when they did. They found it early and surgery could take care of it. There would be no chemo, no radiation, nothing that I've witnessed other cancer survivors go through. I had a cake walk and had no business feeling sorry for myself. Then this weird thought hit me, what if it was supposed to be worse? What if I wasn't supposed to find it when I did? What if it was supposed to happen two years earlier when Brody was diagnosed. What if Brody really did somehow save my life? I know, I'm reaching. Sure is a nice thought though isn't it? Don't we all want closure and life explained?
On May 17th I had my surgery. Yeah, that really sucked. Two days later, I hopped on a plane and flew to Minneapolis. I rented a car and drove another two hours to Luck, Wisconsin and the Lucky G Ranch. It was time to meet my boy.
OK, yeah, so it wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done. But I couldn't have had better therapy then being surrounded by a bunch of fuzzy white Pyr pups. The surgery caught up with me later, I just did my best to take it easy. Besides, I still had to wait a week to find out if I had cancer in my uterus. Believe me, this was a worthy diversion.
A few weeks earlier, Beth introduced me via email to a woman in Toledo who was also getting one of the puppies. Michelle and her husband Ron recently lost their Leonberger, Barney. A big beautiful giant. I learned Michelle was just as crazy as I was about the puppies. She and Ron took a trip up to the ranch a couple of weeks before me and Ron, an amateur photographer, took a zillion pictures. One of them was of Michelle holding this white, big headed little beast. I was drawn to something in that dog and decided that was the one I wanted.
When I got to the ranch, Beth had two of the pups bathed and cleaned up for me. One was a little spitfire with badger coloring and the other was the little polar bear pup with the big head. She put him in my arms and he started squirming and fighting to get away from me. He had no interest whatsoever. Meanwhile, there was this dirty little fuzzbutt, who also was all white, climbing up my leg and chewing on my shoestrings. He wouldn't leave me alone. If I'd sit down, he'd jump on my lap. If I stood up he'd chew on my pant leg. I kept trying to get the attention of the big headed clean one, but this other one wouldn't let me.
Finally I asked Beth if she would mind if I gave the glommy one a bath. He took it like a champ. Never struggled or cried. Put up with the hair dryer even. Then I took him in my arms and he snuggled up onto my left shoulder. I knew instantly that I found my soul mate again.
A week later I got my results. The cancer hadn't spread. I just needed to get examined every three months and keep getting clean test results. Just like what we went through with Brody. How ironic.
A week after that, it was time to bring the new puppy home. Ron and Michelle offered to drive the 12 hours up to Luck and bring the puppies back to Toledo. It was a good idea because the litter mates would have each other on their first big journey. Ron and Michelle took the badger colored spitfire and named him Noah. On June 4th Deke and I drove to Toledo to bring our boy home. He was seventeen pounds and had a big head just like the other one did. I picked up a couple of stuffed toy Griffins. One for Noah and one for ours. Deke suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to keep that name. On the way back to Cleveland, we looked in the crate and the puppy was cuddled up with his stuffed toy. We had to name him Griffin.
His official AKC name is Lucky G's Griffin de la Montagne. I named him in honor of Beth and the kindness she showed to us. A Griffin lives on a mountain, just like a Pyr. Pyrs are named for the Pyrenean Mountains between France and Spain. So he's Griffin of the mountain.
He's not like Brody, yet he seems to be wise beyond his years. Almost like he's done this all before. He's very much a puppy and very devoted to us. No matter where we are, he needs to be touching one of us. Preferably sitting on us too. It's getting difficult now that he's over a hundred pounds.
Piper and the cat readily accepted him. Almost like they were expecting him too. The cat swatted him on the nose and taught him boundries. That lasted, oh about a week. As Griffin got bigger he became convinced that the cat was his personal toy. There were many times we had to rescue the evil one from being smashed by a careless paw. As Griffin matured he learned to be more delicate around the cat and instead took to cleaning him and snuggling with him.
Piper still gets to be Alpha and doesn't take any of the puppy's grief. Even though Griffin is much bigger than Piper, Piper still rules.
Chapter six: Piper
Speaking of Piper, as I write this he's pushing nineteen years. Deke rescued him from the APL in 1991 and the dog was already about ten months old. He is the most gentle, laid back beast I've ever met. We always thought he was a Scottish Deerhound or Irish Wolfhound mix. He hovers around 90 to 100 pounds. Long legs, black wire hair, long snout and long tail. We were wrong. I did a DNA test on him and discovered his main mix is German Shepherd and Petite Bassett Griffon Vendeen. Who'da thunk. He also has Belgian Sheepdog, Collie and Boxer in his mix. Perhaps that's why he's lived so long.
My vet wants to study him. He's never met a dog this big that has lived so long. Maybe his personality has something to do with his longevity. Piper is kind and considerate and even polite. He has this genuine quality about him that draws people to him. He's not the best looking dog, but he has the heart of a kind king. He is definitely Deke's boy. However, he took to me as well. After Bear died, Piper helped me get through my grief. He took me on long walks and made me feel needed. Bear taught him so many things too. Like barking at the door when he wants to come in, barking at the door when he wants out, barking at me when he wants fed. As he's aged, he's earned his crochity old man moments. Piper has outlived so many and has learned something from each. It is his mission to make sure Griffin has the proper tools to take care of us. However, I'm becoming convinced Piper may outlive us all. Despite some achey legs and arthritis, he shows no sign of really slowing down.
November 2007, we thought we were going to lose him. I took Griffin to the dog park and discovered just because he's vaccinated for Bordatella (Kennel cough) doesn't mean he can't get it. There are several different types of Kennel cough. The vaccine just weakens the response.
Griffin came home and gave it to Piper. Piper's old immune system couldn't handle it and he spent the next ten days at the vet on an IV. He lost a lot of weight and went down to about 50 pounds. He seemed like nothing but skin and bones. We started feeding him baby food, pot roast, chicken anything we could get him to eat. Then I read an article in the "Whole Dog Journal" about raw, unbleached tripe. We ordered some and it truly is a miracle food for dogs. His coat is the best I've ever seen it, his eyes are bright, he has more energy and his quality of life significantly improved. Piper highly recommends raw diets.
July 2009, Piper told us it was time to go. He started having difficulties and by the end he could no longer stand up on his own or barely walk. When we left the house he no longer had the ability to get up to get a drink of water. It was no way to live and it was clear the dog was miserable. Deke had to make the decision. It was his dog. The day before the 4th he called the vet and told him he thought it might be time. Our vet suggested we wait out the weekend and see if Piper improves at all. He didn't. Deke decided the following Tuesday would be the day. He spoiled him by feeding him chicken and steak. Even gave him ribs and eight cheese sticks for his last meal. Piper loved it. I came home from work around 8pm. Fought back tears the last two hours of my shift but couldn't stop them on the ride home. Deke has this ability to be pragmatic before difficult emotional things need to be done. I need to learn that skill. I was a mess. Afterward, I'm the one that's all business and that's when it hits Deke.
Like we did with Ren, the vet came to the house. I thought Piper would prefer to be outside, but he wanted to remain in the living room on his bed. We both held him and told him we loved him. Piper knew exactly what was going to happen I'm convinced. He put his head back as if he didn't want to watch the needle. Or perhaps it was more a movement of relief. Relief from the pain and being a prisoner to it. Within seconds, he was gone.
There was a lost feeling we both had, but at the same time I think we felt Piper was at peace and hopefully running to the bridge to see his friends. He died on July 7, 2009. The following morning Deke and I took him out to the same place we took the others, Western Farm Pet Cemetery. The next day Deke returned with Piper's remains in a wooden box and he's now on the shelf with Bear, Brody and Renfield. The following Saturday I was watching TV with Griffin at my feet when suddenly I very clearly heard Piper's bark at the back door. He barked twice and then it was gone. I'm sure he was too.
I will always have these warm memories of the dog that everybody couldn't help but love. There was just something about him that drew people to him. He didn't have the looks of Bear, Brody or Griffin but he had more personality than all three of them combined. A kind of wisdom and understanding that can't be adequately explained in words. I'll always smile at the thought of him stealing Griffin's bones and then laying just out of reach of his chain and eating them in front of him. He was never cruel but boy could he be sly. Rest in peace my friend.
Chapter seven: The fuzzy orange ball of hate
I need to rewind. I mentioned Renfield, but he really deserves a chapter of his own. Let me be clear. I am not a cat person. I love all animals and I was always friendly to cats, but I am not a cat person. I just don't understand them. They don't really need you, they treat you like staff and they are quite content to be left alone and on their own.
It was October 3, 1993. It was pouring rain. I had been promoted to main anchor at the TV station where I was working at in Huntington, WV and was on my way to an early breakfast meeting with the big cheeses of the corporation that owned the station. I was dressed to the nines and as usual late for the meeting. It was raining, like the saying goes, cats and dogs.
I opened my car door and in jumps this wet, orange furry thing. I realized it was a cat, grabbed it and tossed it back onto the sidewalk. He turned around and jumped right back into my car. I grabbed him again and tossed him out. What I didn't know about cats is how damn determined they can be when they pick you to be their human. He jumped into the car a third time only this time, climbed into the back seat.
I really didn't have time for this. I decided fine, he's going to my meeting with me and he'll just have to wait in the car. I started driving down the road and this thing is sitting in the back seat started making this weird noise. Remember Beaker from the "Muppets?" He kind of "meeped." The cat was meeping, not meowing. It was like he didn't know how to meow. That's when I realized he's not too thrilled about being in a moving car. Suddenly flashes of shredded upholstery flashed through my mind. I turned the car around and headed home.
My roommate Lynn was leaving for work when I caught her in the driveway. I handed her the drenched cat and told her to put it in my room. (I didn't know what "it" was, male or female) She looked at me like I was insane. We not only had Bear, we had rescued a stray we called Rocky, because he was dumb as a bag of rocks.
When I got home, the stray cat was sprawled out on my bed. I came upstairs and he just sort of looked at me as if he was annoyed. Of course, being the sucker that I am, I stopped and picked up cat food and a little box for litter. He ate like he hadn't seen food in days. The dogs were barking and whining at the door and finally managed to pry it open. I heard the two of them bounding up the attic steps and my heart nearly stopped. I thought, OK, this is it. They're going to shred this cat.
They both came to the edge of my bed sniffing like crazy at the curious thing on the comforter. The cat sort of looked at them like he was bored. He stood up and stretched and then sauntered over to Rocky and swatted him square across the snout. Rocky sneezed. Backed up and looked at me as if asking, "how could I let this happen?" The cat then made a move toward Bear who, looked at Rocky, turned and just walked away. Bear lived with cats when he was in Pittsburgh. He was well aware of their capabilities.
That was about all the drama with the cat and the dogs. Over the next few days I kept letting the cat back out thinking he'd go home, but every night there he'd be sitting on the front porch waiting to be let in.
I didn't look at him as a permanent member of the family. I just thought he was crashing for awhile and eventually he would leave. I didn't even name him. Then one day I woke to this weird crunching sound. There sits the cat on my window sill eating something. The screen was split and these little beatles were coming inside. The cat was picking them off one by one and eating them. So I named him Renfield after the character in Bram Stoker's "Dracula." Renfield ate bugs.
Now that he had a name, he was family. Ren really took to Bear. Wherever Bear was, the cat had to be. He would sleep next to him. Follow him around. It was comical. Bear didn't seem to mind the company. Even when I'd walk him the cat would follow us. When Bear would stop to do his business, the cat would do his too. It was bizarre. Ren was so used to going outside it was almost an insult on days he had to go in his litterbox. He actually seemed humiliated.
I didn't know how old the cat was when he jumped into my car. He wasn't a kitten, but I don't think he was a full grown cat either. However, Bear was teaching him how to be a dog and that was making him grow on me.
Chapter eight: Rocky
Rocky was about six months old when we found him on our front porch. He'd been hit by a car and his rear leg was broken. For some reason he settled on our front porch. Bear was going crazy barking at the door and when we opened it, there lay this pathetic, lanky injured dog. We thought he was a Shepherd/Rot mix. He was huge. Lynn took most of the responsibility for his care. She got his leg fixed, got him cleaned up and he moved in with us. He was an utter clutz. Almost resembled a Great Dane. I tried not to pay too much attention to him, because he wasn't my dog, but Rocky would go out of my way to make me pay attention.
He ate my books, my shoes, my clothes. He'd sleep in bed with me, lay next to me on the couch. Wherever Bear was, Rocky had to be close by, so that meant in any personal space I had. He loved Lynn but never destroyed any of her stuff. Just mine. We used to laugh that he might have been retarded. What we didn't know at the time was that he did have brain damage. Most likely from getting hit by the car. Rocky was about two years old when the seizures started.
He developed epilepsy. At first the seizures were minor, lasting only seconds. We probably didn't even notice them. But they got worse. Lynn took him to the vet who put him on Phenobarbitol. The same medication humans use for epilepsy. But the seizures continued to get even longer. Eventually lasting an hour or so. Rocky was taking the maximum dose and the vet told us the pills would probably kill him first. There was one seizure I'll never forget. It started in my room and the poor dog was running into the walls. Bear was barking furiously. Not at Rocky but at me. It was like he was yelling at me to do something, help him please. Rocky then got too close to a flight of stairs and fell down. He wasn't hurt, but it was horrific to watch and be helpless. Rocky had grown to be about 130 pounds. It was like watching a person crumble down a flight of steps.
We talked about putting him down but I couldn't do it. I asked Lynn to wait a few more days. I was hoping the siezures would just stop. One fall morning I took Bear and Rocky to the nature trail they loved to hike. It was a great day and Rocky had a blast. I got home and then went to work. When I returned at midnight only Bear met me at the door. I asked Lynn where Rocky was and she told me she dropped him off at the vet to be put down. I was devastated.
Somewhere in my heart I knew it was the right thing to do, the dog was only going to get sicker and maybe suffer, but I was furious that no one was with him during his last moments. No one held him, no one told him he was loved. Then I'm sure he was dumped in some West Virginia landfill. The thought still haunts me. Lynn was devastated too, she just couldn't bring herself to watch him die. I swore I would never let one of my animals ever die alone. I cried my eyes out and held Bear all night long. Even the damn cat seemed to miss Rocky.
Chapter nine: Renfield revisited
By March of 1994 I landed a job in Columbus, Ohio. I had to move and suddenly wondered if the cat was going to come with us. He hated riding in the car, I'd never taken him to the vet and I still really didn't consider myself his owner. But Lynn was moving too. She was getting married and moving to Virginia. I couldn't leave the cat behind, so I got a travel carrier and off the three of us went to Columbus.
I moved into a townhouse apartment that accepted animals. Ren learned his territory by following Bear and me on walks. He never strayed far and still took his bathroom cues from his dog. When I started the job I had worked in a week vacation so a friend and I could take a cruise to Mexico. I dropped both Bear and Ren off at Norm's house in Pittsburgh so he could babysit. Norm hated cats. Until he met Ren, whom he dubbed, Hell Cat. He also called him Renfrue. I don't know what it was about Ren that made cat haters fall for him. He was such a bad ass. Total Tom cat. Had absolutely no fear of dogs. When I returned to pick up the boys, Norm had taken the liberty of taking Ren to the vet and getting him all of his cat shots and getting him neutered. Making him an official domesticated cat.
A few months later, my friend Larry got a producing job at the same station where I worked. I had a two bedroom apartment and needed a roommate so Larry moved in. He had a female cat named Tigger. Ren tortured her. Tigger was typical cat. Hated dogs, very shy, indoor type. Ren would stalk her and go out of his way to torment her. Bear I think was just embarrassed to be living with two cats. Even though one thought he was a dog.
Just to give you an idea of the type of cat Ren was, one day I was leaving for work and I found him on the front porch wrestling a squirrel. The two were so connected they looked like some freaky furry alien. I picked up the mass and had to bang it on the wall to get them to separate.
Another time I went outside and discovered Ren had caught a chipmunk. It wasn't dead yet. He was literally tossing it to Bear who would catch it and toss it back. I swear I can't make this stuff up. I stopped the macabre spectacle and saved that chipmunk only to be munched another day.
Ren was evil. I heard that cat's kill for fun but I wouldn't have believed it until I watched it in action. I should have named him Hannibal. He literally developed killing fields where he'd leave the carcases of his kills. Oh, and you know how they say the cat kills and leaves it for you as a gift? Ren would drop his dead, headless prey at Bear's feet, not mine. Oh yeah, he ate the brains. Never could find the heads of things.
In September of 1995 I went on vacation. Upon returning, Ren was missing. He was gone for five days. Every day Bear and I would go out searching for him but we never found him. I started to begin to accept that maybe I would never see him again. Then on the fifth day I opened the door to let Bear out and he bolted across the street. There was Ren. He'd shattered his hip. Not sure if he was hit by a car, fell from a tree or the victim of abuse. Regardless, I rushed him to the vet. $400 later he officially became my cat.
When he returned from the vet, Bear would guard him. Tigger thought this was her time to get even, but Bear was having none of it. Bear and that cat developed an even deeper bond.
A year later, I moved into a chic apartment downtown in Columbus' German Village. Ren went back to his city roots. I came home one night from work and on my back porch were no less that ten cats sitting all over the place. There was Ren right in the middle of them all. When they scattered he looked around as if to say, "no fellas, she's cool, she'll feed you."
In April of 1998 I got a new job and moved to Cleveland. I found another two bedroom apartment in the Tremont neighborhood close to downtown. Tremont was just starting to turn around but it still had a very urban feel about it. It was an ethnic melting pot. You could walk down the street and smell foods from every continent and hear ten different languages. I really liked it there, my friends did not.
When I pulled my Jeep up in front of my new digs I went to let Bear out of the back. I wasn't in town 30 seconds when a pitbull attacked Bear. It was horrible. Poor Bear was stuck on his leash and I'm struggling to break up the fight. Finally the owner, a very large black man called Ace, came over to help me. He was walking his dog with a rope. No leash, no collar, just a rope. When we finally managed to separate the dogs, Bear had blood all over his white fur. I freaked out. I had no idea where the nearest vet was. I had no idea where anything was. I hadn't even moved into my apartment yet. Two of my friends were sitting in the Jeep holding onto Ren. They were terrified. When I realized the blood on Bear's fur was actually from the bite marks he left on the Pitbull's face I turned on the owner and went ballistic.
It was about 5pm on a pleasant April afternoon. There were people outside and children playing in the street. I got up into "Ace's" face and read him the riot act. I told him that if I ever saw him or his damn dog again I would put a bullet in the dog's head and another in his head. I truly meant it with every ounce of my being. He believed me.
There were only two males in my life at the time that I would kill for. My dog and my Dad. I don't have anything against Pitbulls in general. But an aggressive dog like that was simply dangerous. It wasn't his fault, he was clearly made that way by this asshole, Ace. I really believe there are no bad dogs, just bad people. No one should own a dog with that kind of aggression issue if they're not prepared or trained to handle it. This idiot obviously wasn't. Thank God Bear wasn't a child.
So that was my welcome to Cleveland. We moved in and I kept the cat indoors for awhile. A couple of days later I was coming back from a run and I ran into Ace. I actually tried to approach him to apologize for my psychotic behavior, but he ran away from me. He also made sure I knew that the dog was tied securely in the back yard. I later learned that Ace, who lived across the street from me, was the resident crack dealer on my street. One night I came home from work late and a couple of my neighbors were waiting for me at the end of the driveway. I took Bear out for a walk and they stopped me and asked me to watch Ace's house for a few minutes. It was past midnight on a weeknight and it was like Grand Central Station. Every few minutes a car, bicycle or walker would go to the door and come back out a few seconds later.
The next day I made a call to the police. The following day there was a "For Rent" sign in Ace's window. We never saw that pitbull again either.
It was while we were living alone that Bear and Ren began a strange habit. Bear would not come upstairs to bed until Ren was in the house. When he'd hear Ren at the door, he'd bark to wake me to come let him in. Then the two of them would come sleep in my room. It was a habit they would keep for the rest of their lives.
A year later I became the Fresh Princess of Bay Village. My friend Eileen bought a house on Lake Erie and she needed a roommate. Gee, what a tough decision. Live on the lake or in the 'hood. We moved. The summer of '99 was a blast. The house had a little lake house behind it right on the cliff. We spent many nights on the balcony drinking and singing obnoxiously according to our neighbors. The back yard was completely fenced in and was a good size so we could let the dogs out and not worry. Eileen had three dogs at the time. Wyatt, a lovable yellow lab who just recently passed on at age 16, (April 2009) Waldo, a stinky, whiny Bassett hound, and Charlie, a shepherd, golden or maybe setter mix, who actually came later, but was rescued from the ghetto. Our next door neighbor, Martin, had two dogs also and occasionally Piper would come to visit. So there were times when Ren was surrounded by seven dogs at a time. He didn't mind one bit and they all knew not to mess with him. Not only could he take care of himself, but I'm pretty sure Bear would have issue with another dog messing with his cat.
Ren was not content staying in the fenced in yard so he would explore the neighborhood. The lady across the street from us was one of those crabby animal haters. One day all the kids were out in the street playing when Ren caught a Blue Jay. He shredded the bird in front of all the kids in the witch's yard and left the pieces and parts for all to enjoy. The next day there was a notice tacked to our front door from Bay Village Animal Control. They were looking for an orange cat. You know your cat achieved something when "wanted" signs go up for him. We kept him in for a few days until the heat blew over.
The day I moved in, Eileen's ex-boyfriend came over and proposed. Thus began a whirlwind of drama. She accepted at first, then they broke up, then more drama and they got back together, then she got pregnant, then they got married. I was looking for a house of my own at the time when Deke asked me to move in with him. I was hesitant at first, but he convinced me. Turned out to be one of the best decisions I've ever made. However, Deke was concerned about Piper and the cat. So we had Ren move in to Deke's house first. At first Piper was incredulous. He'd been the lone dog for so long, bringing in a cat was rather insulting. Bear often came to visit and the two of them got along well, but a cat?? After a couple of weeks and my big move, I think Piper realized it was going to be permanent and just learned to deal.
Ren was in heaven. The house sits at the end of a dead end street overlooking a ravine. The hill was covered with trees and at the bottom was a stream usually filled with ducks and geese. We had regular visits from deer, raccoon, woodchucks and all manner of little critters. Ren's killing skills escalated. He became so proficient in killing that sometimes he preferred live kill to his cat food. If I happened to come along before said critter was dispatched, it would be rescued. But usually the stealth cat would beat me to it. He actually had a killing field where we found headless carcasses of birds, moles, chipmunks, mice and the occasional unrecognizable varmint. His talents became so impressive he started killing and eating rabbits. Not the full grown ones, just the babies. This is where I drew the line.
I couldn't figure out one day why his stomach was so distended and he had no desire to eat. He didn't appear to be in distress, just full and utterly content. Then I found the rabbit foot in the yard. I didn't believe it at first until the night we heard this screaming sound. It sounded like a human infant crying. We both ran outside to see what was making the noise. I came around the corner of the house and there sat Ren. Looking up at me with those big yellow innocent eyes. He was just laying on the ground, not bothering a soul. Then I saw his midsection move. I went over and picked him up and the little orange evil ball of hate was laying on top of the baby bunny. I brought the cat inside and hoped the bunny found his way home. He was rescued long before Ren could do any permanent damage. We noticed that the rabbits dug a hole right under a tree in the yard. Inside were four bunnies. Ren's actually the one who alerted us to it. We noticed him stalking the hole. The next day we found another foot and a very well fed cat. We considered it our duty to protect the rest of them, so we put a rock over a portion of the hole, just big enough for the rabbits to get in and out, but not for a cat to climb in and grab dinner. Then we kept him inside for a week or so. He would stare out the living room window, patiently waiting for the next opportunity he could get out and get another order of Hassenfeffer.
Once we thought the bunnies had moved we let him back out. We were wrong. A massacre took place and that was the end of the baby bunnies in our yard. Hopefully, word spread around the rabbit families that our yard was a death trap. I haven't seen any since.
Ren adored Deke. Whenever he had the opportunity he'd seek him out and lay on him or cuddle next to him. Deke hated cats. But like everyone else, became smitten by this orange devil who acted like a dog. Loved him so much he actually built him a "cat house" that resembled our house, with shingled roof and all, so the cat would have a safe place to hide if the weather turned while he was outside. The cat loved Deke's hammy hands that gave just the perfect head massage. He'd let you know he'd had enough when he would attack your fingers and do his best to shred them. We all still bear the scars. I'm sure Ren loved me too in his own way. He would seek me out when he wasn't feeling well. He would only come to my whistle. Yes, he actually came when called, just like a dog. But it was clear that I was his human, more so than he was my cat. However, I was the only one permitted to rub his stomach and never fear the claw.
Aside from his hip injury there was only one other time I saw Ren show actual emotion. The day I had to put Bear down. He saw us carry Bear to the back of the Jeep and he watched us leave. When I returned without Bear the cat was hiding behind a bush. He'd never done this before. He seemed afraid of me, or maybe it was anger. He avoided me for what felt like weeks. He hid behind furniture, wouldn't eat and seemingly bonded with Piper in their shared grief. I never witnessed anything like it, but the two of them were devastated that Bear was gone.
Eleven months later we brought Brody home. When Ren saw the puppy he gave me a look like I was a traitor. He kept his distance but every few minutes would move closer to the little white ball of fuzz that was about his size. Finally he came over to investigate. Brody lunged at him to play, Ren hissed and gave him a swat across the nose. Brody learned to respect the evil little hellcat.
Ren took to Brody but not in the same way as Bear. Ren and Piper both probably knew Brody was going to have a hard life long before we did. Piper was now the Alpha dog and it was his job to teach Brody boundries and his place in the house. Ren actually seemed more kind. When Brody was terribly sick, he wanted no one near him except he didn't mind the cat. Ren would snuggle in the crate with him in the basement. He watched over him and seemed to bring him some comfort. I never thought the evil beast could have that kind of compassion, but he certainly did for his dog Brody.
In 2008, I finally realized Ren was truly getting older. But he wore his age well. Ren was such a bad ass I never really noticed he was getting old. But suddenly he was having more difficulty jumping up on the bed and furniture. He stayed closer to the house and didn't seem to roam as much. I think he may have scrambled with a younger cat and was forced to give up some of his territory. His killing skills were still there. In fact, he felt the need to train Deke how to hunt. One night I heard Deke screaming at the cat in the kitchen. I came downstairs and there's Deke in the middle of the kitchen, in his underwear and holding a spatula and a ruler, standing on a chair and yelling at the cat to do his job. The cat was sitting on the floor beneath him just looking up. Apparently Ren brought a live mouse into the house and dropped it in front of Deke. I'm convinced it was more than a gift, he was trying to teach Deke some hunting skills. Deke freaked. He hates mice. Meanwhile the mouse took off and was hiding somewhere in the house. I found him and put him outside. A few days later, the cat tried again. When he got the same reaction from Deke he realized that this stoopid human was a worthless cause in the hunting department. He already knew I was worthless. For years, I'd been freeing his prey in front of him.
I knew Ren was slowing down, what I didn't know was that he developed congestive heart failure. One day he was fine, the next was tragic. I came home from work and Deke had been trying to find him but couldn't. I called him and he wouldn't come. Finally our neighbor discovered Ren under his car. I went over and tried to coax him out but he wouldn't come. I finally had to pull him out. I took him inside and realized he was very sick. We rushed him to the vet and learned that fluid was filling up around his heart.
This is the email I sent out to those who knew and loved him:
It is with a heavy heart that I tell you that Renfield went to Kitty heaven Sunday evening June 15th at 10:05pm. On Thursday he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. It was a surprise to us because that morning he jumped on the bed and snuggled up next to Deke and chewed on my toes for awhile. By the time I returned home from work, he was having difficulty breathing because fluid was building up in his lungs and around his heart.
He spent the night at the vet and I brought him home Friday, but he wasn't his normal serial killer self. He barely moved, refused to eat and started fading fast. The vet told me that if I kept him calm and medicated he might live another few months, but his condition would only deteriorate. That wasn't life for Ren. The vet helped me come to the decision that it was better to let him go than let him suffer. Ironically a few minutes after I made that decision, Ren, true to his bad ass being, decided he wanted to go outside. The cat hadn't moved in three days and an hour before he's to be put down, he decides he wants to go on one last sentry march around his territory. I quickly realized why. He was looking for a place to check out on his own.
Ren hated the car. If he absolutely had to ride in one, he was only calm when he was sitting on my lap. Rarely practical. I didn't have the heart to force him to go for a ride the last hour of his life. So I had the vet come to the house and we all settled on the deck outside. He gave Ren a sedative which was supposed to knock him out in five minutes. Not Ren. Ten minutes later, he gets up and starts walking away. Then he did it again five minutes later. He always had a mind of his own and was always determined to do things his way. When the sedative finally kicked in, Ren went to heaven snuggled in my arms. I'm sure Kitty paradise allows for chipmunk chomping, mouse mushing, rabbit ripping, bird bludgeoning serial killer cats like him. I sure hope there are plenty of critters for him to "play" with and lots of tuna and turkey too.
For those of you who know me well, there seems to be a lot of symbolism in my life and Ren's death was no exception. Sunday was Father's Day and the five year anniversary of my Father's death. Norm loved the fuzzy orange puss kins and so did Bear. So it brings me comfort to know that not only will they be taking care of him, Ren and my Dad share an important date in my life. Somehow there's a connection, but I'm not sure I'll ever know what it is or why.
What I do know is that I will miss the early morning mewlings for food, the scratches and scars on my hands and feet and the soft fuzz and purring when he decided that his stoopid human was worth cuddling next too. How lucky am I that he chose me when he jumped into my car on October 3, 1993. I wasn't a cat person, so he acted more like a dog, and somehow, taught me to like cats too. He was one of a kind that left an indelible impression (and scars) on all he met. May he rest in Peace.
About a week or so later I had a dream. I was once again in Ritter Park in Huntington, WV. There was Ren chasing chipmunks and oblivious that I was even there. Bear was nearby chasing squirrels, also oblivious to me. I turned to my right and in the haze I saw my father. He didn't speak, only waved to me. Standing next to him looking rather regal was a dog I'd never dreamed about before, until now. Rocky was standing next to my father. He saw me but didn't react. Almost like he was protecting my Dad and loyal at his side.
I awoke with a smile and tears. I clearly knew what the dream meant. My boys were with my father and he was taking care of them until it was time for all of us to be together again.
Chapter ten: Mojo
I've never owned a kitten. Ren was a self sustaining animal and he really didn't require a whole lot of attention, unless he wanted it. A kitten required attention, patience, supervision, care, litterbox, toys and a whole bunch of other stuff I was going to have to learn about.
I knew I would miss Ren, but I never realized how empty our house would become without a cat. I missed the feeling of waking up to him sleeping on my legs. I even missed him chewing on my fingers and toes. It was time to get a new cat.
Deke and I made the trip down to the APL to see the dozens of cats they had for adoption. I really didn't want a kitten. I thought getting a young cat was the better way to go for us. There were plenty I wanted to take home, but none that Deke fell for. He wanted another Ren. Another fuzzy orange ball of hate.
A week later one arrived at our front door. A neighbor volunteered for an organization called Rainbow Cats. A litter of orange kitties was discovered in a drain pipe in front of some skanky bar a few towns over. She put the picture of the "most orange" one on our door. They called him Blizzard. He was being fostered with a family that had dogs. I called the organization and the cat moved in on Labor Day weekend. I set up Griffin's crate for a cat and that's where we kept him until he became acclimated. We'd let him out to explore and he stayed in the crate in the bedroom with us at night. He was nothing like Ren. He was a cat. But boy did he have personality. He took to Griffin almost instantly. Within a few weeks, he was sleeping on him. He respects Piper and gives him space, but he adores Griffin. Finally we had to decide on a name. I don't know why, but Mojo just seemed to fit. He definitely had that Mojo working.
I thought he was about eight weeks when we got him. The Vet said he was much older. In fact he thought he was born in mid June. Ren died on June 15th. We decided Mojo's birthday was June 16th. In case he was Ren reincarnated, it just made sense. As the weeks passed, Mojo started acting more Ren-like. However, he's far more affectionate. He also loves Deke and those hammy hands. He's managed to integrate himself into the family and like cats sometimes do, he seems to be taking over.
The day after Piper's death was a monumental moment. I took the day off and Griffin and I were sitting on the front porch. I was working on the computer really not paying attention to the cat creeping up the stairs. I heard a soft thump. A few minutes later I glanced over at Griffin who was lying still on the porch but standing by his tail was a very proud Mojo. He looked at Griffin and me like he was expecting a ticker tape parade. Because on top of Grif's tail was Mojo's first mouse kill. Just like Ren did for Bear, Mojo brought his first "gift" kill to his best friend, Griffin. Griffin sort of glanced at the dead mouse and then went back to sleep not bothering to move it. Good thing Deke wasn't on the porch.
Mojo's still learning and right now we're calling him the "Dragon Slayer." He's killed five dragon flies and one cicada. The other day, Deke found him shredding a chipmunk. Since then he's managed to catch a bird and baby bunny but we managed to rescue both. He's chased squirrels up trees and toyed with a few more chipmunks. Maybe there's a little reincarnated Ren in him after all.
Chapter eleven: Fiona
Without Piper in the house, the yin and the yang of black and white dogs was unbalanced. I really wanted a female and preferably a black Newfoundland. Once again serendipity strikes. In early October I was asked to take part in a Newfoundland water rescue demonstration. Tuck, the newf, pulled me out of the middle of a pond. It was rather impressive. I made some comments to the other dog lovers about my wish to someday have a female newf. Two weeks later, I received an email about a little girl named Fiona.
I say little because she's small for a newf. Just 90 pounds. She'd been with a breeder for the first two and a half years of her life. She had two litters and she lived in a house with just dogs. Allowed to "go" where ever she wanted and eat whenever she wanted. She had little human contact and was definitely a "beta" member of the pack. She's extremely shy, timid and fearful.
An older man's wife was dealing with colon cancer. He thought getting his wife a companion animal would help her so he bought Fiona from the breeder. She had to be trained from scratch. In October, the woman died of her cancer and the man decided he could no longer care for Fiona alone. She may have also been a painful reminder of his wife, but I'm speculating. His wife was moved into a hospice and I was told Fiona spent two weeks completely alone in the house with just someone stopping by to feed and let her out.
Her story started to spread and before she was given to Love-A-Stray I had already called them to say I was interested in her. We took Griffin to meet her and on Halloween weekend she moved in. She didn't know how to climb stairs and it took me two days to teach her how to climb the stairs. Raw green tripe works wonders.
When I finally got her papers a few days later another bizarre shock. Her birthday is June 16th. The same day I lost my dad and Ren and Mojo's assumed birthday. Weird.
Fiona is a sweet lovable girl but she still has a lot of learning to do. She's still not trusting, but she's come a long way. She slept in bed with us all night and her shyness is starting to fade at least around us. She adores Griffin and the cat. They have a calming sense over her. Needless to say she melded into our pack and we're grateful to have her.
Six years later:
In February of 2016 we took Fiona in for her annual checkup. Because she's now almost nine, I asked the vet to do some blood work. A few hours after we returned home I received a shocking phone call. Fiona was in progressive kidney failure and had perhaps weeks to live.
Fiona had transformed into a lovable happy dog who may not have been very active, but would still trot down the driveway to welcome us home. She was definitely slowing down, but we had no idea it was because her kidneys were failing.
I refused to accept the vet's analysis that this was it. We put her on prescription kidney food, which thankfully she actually liked. I started giving her subcutaneous fluids every other day. We monitored her water intake and then all of this became normal day to day life.
Late August early September she stopped eating. I wasn't supposed to give her protein because it was hard on her kidneys, but her not eating would also cause her kidneys to fail. The vet told us to get her to eat anything we could. So she started getting rotisserie chicken with rice, ham, turkey, beef and rice, whatever we could get her to eat. She'd nibble one day and not eat the next. It was heart wrenching and frightening.
She no longer wanted to go for walks and was beginning to have trouble controlling her bladder overnight or when we weren't home. We kept her in the kitchen with puppy pads and she made an effort to use them. But she could still get up on her own and go outside and do her business if she had to.
I became very concerned about the eating and I knew after a week or so that the meat was probably driving her kidney lab numbers up which wasn't good. So on Wednesday I took her into the vet to put her on IV fluids and hope she would bounce back. She did once before.
On Friday the vet called to tell me her numbers were still off the charts and she wasn't improving. It was made very clear to me that our time was up. So Deke and I went to the vet to bring her home.
She was so weak and could barely walk my heart just broke. We hoped she would perk up when she got home, but she just seemed to stress more. When we opened the back of the Jeep, Griffin was so excited to see her, but once he sniffed her his tail just dropped. He knew how sick she was.
We lifted her out of the Jeep and let her lead us to where she wanted to lay down. Once on the spot of grass she chose, she started drinking copious amounts of water. We gave her as much as she wanted. It was clear to us that she was extremely uncomfortable. When I looked at her gums they were black with a bluish tint. I feared she was in cardiac arrest.
I knew then it was time to call the vet. While we were waiting for him to arrive, Fiona got up on her own and went to the bathroom without any assistance. It seemed to be her last effort for dignity. She then found her favorite spot in the mulch under her favorite pine tree. A week earlier she dug a little hole in the spot where she laid to stay cool. She chose the same spot.
Griffin laid down in the driveway several feet away which is something he normally would not have done. He always stayed by her side, but this time it seemed even he knew there was nothing he could do to help her.
Before the vet arrived we knew we had to put Griffin in the house. We brought him over to her for one last sniff. He dropped his head and tail and slowly walked up the stairs into the house without protest.
Three hours after we brought her home the vet arrived. I held her and rubbed her ears and told her what a good girl she was. Deke was holding a flashlight so the vet could see. He barely put the needle in when she took her last gasp and fell against my leg.
Moments later, Mojo came up and smelled her. He started meowling and seemed very angry. After the vet left we brought Griffin back out to smell her. One last time he stood guard over her for a few minutes and then went and laid down.
Deke and I wrapped her in a black dog paw blanket and put her in the back of the Jeep. It was a Friday and Western Farm wasn't open over the weekend. We took her back to the vet where they would pick her up on Monday.
On Wednesday I got up early and drove to Western Farm for my fifth pet funeral in fourteen years. They had Fiona in the little chapel room covered in a blanket. I wrote in the memory book:
"They said we rescued you, but it was you who rescued us. Sleep well sleep girl we will always love you and you will never be forgotten."
I then walked her down and watched as they carefully lifted her for the very last time. A few hours later, Deke went to pick her up. She's now in a beautiful cherry box and will be scattered with me when it's my time.
As the days past I became concerned because I haven't heard her bark or had a dream about her yet. The house feels empty so I know she's not here. Griffin is lost, the cat is mourning. The two of them seem to be staying out of each others way.
Griffin began throwing up and not eating much. He's stressed being without her or without something else to guard in the house. I took him for ride in the car on our way to a long walk and I'm sure he could still smell her. He got sick in the car, something he's never done before. It's hard enough missing her on my own but its devastating watching how this loss is affecting him.
I think the only answer is to get Griffin a companion. I just have to figure out a way to convince Deke.
Chapter 12: Dad and the German car
Years
ago I promised Norm I would never own a German made car. We were an
"All American" family especially when it came to what we drove.
There was another reason too. My Dad was Jewish and felt a very real connection to the horrors of the Holocaust.
My
Dad's dream car was a white Lincoln Continental Town Car but he never
had the opportunity to own one. A year after he died, my Jeep was on
its last legs and it was time I bought a new car. I'm more of a truck
kind of girl so I thought I'd get a Ford Explorer to fit the dog.
At
the dealership I found what I thought was the perfect ride. Brand new
Explorer, pearl white with a tan interior. Just as I was about to tell
the sales guy that I wanted it, another salesman popped up and said he'd
just sold it.
The sales guy I was working with suggested I
drive a Lincoln Aviator back to the dealership building. Essentially
the same as a Ford Explorer but the super luxury version. It was a
beautiful truck. Pearl white with a tan interior and all the bells and
whistles I never thought I'd ever have in my own car. That sales guy
was a smart guy. He knew I couldn't resist it and when he made the
numbers work for my budget it was a no brainer.
I
told myself I bought it in honor of my Dad and while I loved the truck
it took me nearly a year to get used to it. Driving was fine, the
problem was that it was the first car I'd ever owned that was noticed.
I'd come out of the grocery store and find people checking it out.
People would drive up next to me on the highway to admire the truck. It
made me very uncomfortable.
When it was time again for a
new ride, I went back to my Jeep. It's an awesome Jeep, but it looks
like thousands of others on the road, so nobody really pays attention to
it.
I babied my Jeep and decided I would only drive it
in the winter or when the dogs needed to go somewhere. So I needed a
second car that I could beat around with.
The station
was about to retire my old news car. A 2002 Mercury Marquis with
143,000 miles on it. It was beat to hell and people often slowed down
because it looked like a cop car coming up behind them. I paid a whole
$200 and never worried about anyone ever checking it out. It had no
hubcaps, dents all over it, a funny smell, but it was big and relatively
safe and I could put a zillion more miles on it as long as I took care
of it, which I did religiously.
I was never self
conscious driving around in a total piece of shit. I have nothing to
prove to anyone but I took a lot of ribbing from friends and family.
Especially when I'd show up to formal events and hand the keys to the
valet while dressed in an evening gown. Some were concerned about the
message this "image" would send.
So I started
entertaining the idea of getting a "fun" car. I'm pretty frugal and
don't spend money on frivolous things. The only real "toy" I own would
be my Harley Davidson motorcycle. But I always dreamed of having a kick
ass sports car.
For our anniversary one year, Deke
surprised me and bought my dream car. An indigo blue Shelby Mustang.
I. Love. That. Car. But he drives it most of the time because even
though I can drive a stick, that car is ridiculously fast and well, I
like to go fast. Which can be downright dangerous, or worse, expensive
with speeding tickets.
So I thought about getting a
Corvette. It would unfortunately have to be automatic because I would
be using it for work and I spend a lot of time on the phone in the car.
So I'd need my hands free.
I started scouring the
internet for one with the "shark" body. I settled on an '81 or '82
model but for the life of me I couldn't find one that I liked.
So
I started entertaining the idea of getting a new one. I built my own
z06 on Chevy's website and the $106,000 price tag was well out of my
budget.
The Stingray appealed to me but the one I wanted
still cost around $70,000. I couldn't justify that car payment for
something I may only drive six months a year.
I gave up
and decided a new car wasn't in my future and my Mercury, which I
lovingly referred to as the Hoop-D, would last me another few years.
Meanwhile,
Deke really wanted me to get a BMW Z4. While I admired the car, I had
this pang of guilt in me for even considering it after the promise I
made to Norm.
That's when Deke dropped a bomb. He asked
me how much I was thinking about putting down on a new car. I told him
about 10 grand. He said he'd match that if I bought the BMW. I was
floored. I told him that was not necessary. I'm not one for fancy
jewelry or other expensive baubles and although he's bought me some
beautiful things, he knows I never ask or expect him to do so.
He told me to consider the car as a gift.
How could I say no?
I told him I'd think about it.
Then on June 16th, the 13th anniversary of my Father's death, Deke suggested we take a ride and just "take a look" at the Z4.
Damn,
it's a sexy car. I agreed to a test drive but when we walked into the
dealership I found it very strange that the sales guy asked me to go to
the finance department first.
I knew Deke had checked out the details on the ride first, but I had no idea that he already put down $20,000.
I
may be blonde, but I'm a pretty sharp girl and the gears in my mind
quickly surmised what he tried to do behind my back. I told the guy I
was going no where until I test drove the car. He looked at Deke and
then quickly grabbed the keys once he realized he ruined what was
probably supposed to be a surprise.
I took off and fell
in love with this forbidden car. When I returned, I had my own bit of
fun and told them that while it was a beautiful car and I absolutely
loved it, it wasn't for me.
The look on their faces was priceless. Then I told them to take me to finance and I bought the car.
When
the sale was over and I was driving the new car home I realized the new
car smell must have gone straight to my brain. I couldn't possibly own
this car. I broke a promise to my father on the anniversary of his
death.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Two hours later I decided I would return the car the next day.
Before
taking it back I popped over to my best friend's house to let her have a
look at it. She was so genuinely happy for me, that I finally did
something for myself. Then I told her I was taking it back.
She
read me the riot act. She reminded me that I wasn't being frivolous
because I could afford it. She reminded me that this was a gift from
Deke. She reminded me that I never did anything fun for myself and it
was high time I enjoyed something. She reminded me that a dear friend
of ours was just like me, and then she died of pancreatic cancer and
never had the opportunity to really live her life.
I
started to cry. As I stood there listening to her list off these
reasons, I swear I heard my father. It was as if she was channeling
him. I promised her I would give it the weekend before I decided
whether or not to return the car.
The following day my
band played at a huge venue for thousands of people. We were opening
for a well known act and it was an utter blast.
After our
set, I was back stage packing up my equipment when suddenly this man
appeared. He looked to be homeless. He was an older man with scruffy
hair and a full white scruffy mustache and beard. He asked me how many
members were in my band. I told him six. Then he handed me six stars
that appeared to be cut from an American flag. Then he took my hand and
put a wooden round chip in it. He said 'This is for you,' when I
looked down I realized it said "One Day At A Time" and I knew it must
have been his sobriety chip. I was very touched and thanked him. I
turned to put the items into my gig bag and when I turned back he was
gone.
I have no idea how he got back stage and no one else noticed he was even there.
My
father always had an American flag in his car. It was always one of
those little flags stuck on a toothpick. The kind you might stick in a
cake. He always had one in the radio speaker holes on the dashboard.
In
1979 he was in a horrific head on collision and almost died. My mom
took me to the impound lot so I could get his belongings out of his now
totaled Ford Fairmont. My father was in ICU. I was the only one who
could fit inside the mangled mess of bloody metal.
I
grabbed his briefcase out of the back seat and then looked to the
front. The dash was caved in but standing perfectly upright was that
American flag. I took it and my dad kept it in every other car he ever
drove.
After I got him out of the house and had to
sell his car, I kept that American flag and put it with the belongings I
kept of his.
I forgot about my chance meeting back
stage until the next day when I was cleaning out my gig bag. I came
across the six cut-out stars and wooden chip. The stars were each in a
little plastic bag and on the back there was a sticker. It read, "I am
from an American flag that used to fly proudly above. Over time I
became tattered and torn and can no longer fly, but you can carry me
with you."
Then I looked down at the wooden "One Day At A Time" chip. It had flipped over. On the back there was a name. Norm.
I
decided not to return the car. Each time I drive it, especially with
the roof down, I find myself relaxed, at peace and actually smiling.
I'm pretty sure Norm's sitting next to me enjoying German engineering
too.
Chapter 13 I can't breathe.
I don't know how to write this. Griffin is gone. Gone too soon. My beautiful, handsome, healthy boy has left us. Far too soon. On August 23rd we had some people over and Griffin wasn't happy about it. We wouldn't let him outside
hot all summer
not eating so much
lost weight
got bloat, bloat symptoms
came thru surgery
came home, still not eating
friday not good, infection, then just give up
August 25th fear
Sept. 1 1115am, Griffin left us peacefully.. I begged him to find another body and come back
He was healthy
What not to do when someone loses a pet, offer them another
funeral.
Libby gone, Harley gone... too much
See him everywhere, but that's just memory
haven't heard him bark, haven't really felt him
got fiona a new box
I need the dream or the peace knowing he'll come back
He's my soul mate.
Chapter 14 Fergus
Remember when I said it's never a good idea to tell someone who just lost a dog, to get another? I still wholeheartedly believe that, but in my case I guess it just depends who's suggesting the dog.
In 2014 there was a famous Great Pyrenees who lived in the neighborhood named Castle. Castle just won Best of Breed at Westminster and was a huge star. He was absolutely gorgeous. Funny thing though, as I would walk Griffin down the street, I was used to the fact that he could stop traffic with people wanting to get a better look, but now people were actually confusing him with Castle. That would be like confusing me with Giselle, or some other supermodel. But Griffin loved the fauning attention. He always liked it when people would stop and "notice" him. Then he was do that Pyr thing of being "done" with you when he was over the attention.
Castle had gone on to become a platinum grand champion, his owners, Mike and Sally Falatach also had Macee. She too became a platinum Grand champion
