Originally posted on 12/25/12

He nuzzled his gray snout into the inner curve of my knee. Then he scooted his whole body a little bit tighter against me and let out a long, deep sigh.

I ran my hand from his oversized, perfectly shaped chocolate brown head down his warm, rounded body to the base of his tail. His big front paw contracted, not unlike the toe curl I experience when being well kissed.

My mind drifted back to when this ritual began. He’d just come home with us, a puppy alone for the first time, separated from his siblings — his pack — and his mother.

We quickly developed a routine: he’d eat his food fast and furious, in true Lab fashion. I watched him while  sitting cross legged on the floor. 

Dylan would crawl in my lap after he ate, then I would pet him to sleep.

When he was finished he’d crawl into my lap, curl up, and I’d pet him to sleep.

The phone could ring, my legs might stiffen up, or I’d have to pee, but I never moved until he woke up.

It was the nicest part of my day. Like the magic I imagine a first time mother must feel with her newborn asleep in her arms.

But as he grew, our little ritual gradually dwindled. He no longer fit into my lap, and he preferred the couch where he could stretch out. I had no idea how much I missed it until one Christmas day.

It was the first year I’d spent the holidays alone with my Jewish husband — a man for whom Christmas embodied all of the discomfort he felt growing up in the southern Bible belt, one of a handfull of Jewish kids in a private, Christian school.

Needless to say, he wasn’t excited to celebrate the holiday.

I, on the other hand, had grown up a heathen. I loved Christmas for the thrill of the gift exchange, shiny ornaments, glittering lights, and the occasional theatre of midnight mass. It was my favorite holiday, and I eagerly looked forward to it each year. 

But try as I might I couldn’t convince my husband that my Christmas was fa la la, tinsel, and presents — not at all religious.

Further complicating the issue was the fact that his family didn’t really exchange gifts, whereas mine specialized in gift giving of Olympic proportions, the kind that could drive you to distraction in the quest for the perfect item, along the way buying everything under the sun. It was over the top and in need of adjustment to be sure.

So we compromised. 

Each December we’d agree to various combinations of Hanukah and Christmas, all of which worked to a degree, but none of which completely satisfied either of us. Sometimes we’d have a menorah, sometimes a tree, sometimes both.

One year we’d skip Christmas altogether to visit his extended family in some exotic locale, and the next we’d do stockings and Santa Claus with my family in the Midwest. One year we opted out and attended a professional basketball game on Christmas day. 

When Dylan finally crawled into my lap after several years, he felt like a puppy, not a 70 round dog.

Finally, we decided to just stay at home together with our pets.

So there we were on Christmas day, not really doing Christmas, as per this year’s compromise. I was trying to be loyal to our agreement and keep a stiff upper lip as we watched TV – my husband on the couch, me sitting cross legged on the floor – but truth be told, I was feeling a little sorry for myself, a bit deprived.

Just then our 70 pound Chocolate Lab ambled over. He looked at me quizzically, stepped one foot onto my crossed legs and pulled it off again.

A small spark ignited in me – he was trying to get into my lap!

This hadn’t happened in years! Excited and hopeful, I encouraged him to try again, patting my lap and giving the command, “lie down.”

He’d step on gingerly, turn his body this way and that, look puzzled, quickly step off, and then at my urging, try it all over again.

Finally, he stopped and looked at me reproachfully — my lap was clearly too small. We were both frustrated, but I was unwilling to give up.

In a flash of inspiration, I asked my husband to throw me a blanket. I made a loose circle of my legs on the floor and covered them with the blanket. I hoped  my lap would look bigger, more inviting.

And it worked! To my extreme delight my big beautiful Lab walked onto the blanket, circled once, and settled down, snuggling in and bumping up against the circumference of my legs.

With a deep, satisfied sigh he closed his eyes and relaxed completely. And with tears in my eyes, grinning from ear to ear, so did I.

Merry Christmas to me – best present ever!

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Written by Randy Hale. Originally posted in December 2013.

Our Dog Stops Eating the Day Before Thanksgiving

The day before Thanksgiving I wake up late. Deliciously late. I have nothing to do today. I’m on vacation.

We arrived on Orcas Island the day before, in time to unpack the car and take the dogs for a hike before dark. We did the usual – around the lake, and across the field.

Miguel ran ahead, all business, scouting the trail for us, while Dylan trotted along, dropping his ball at our feet every few yards, elated, grinning, eyes shining, tail wagging, begging us to please just “throw it!”

The lake was icing up so Dylan skipped his usual swim, but he still did his joyful dance, bobbing and weaving, faking and laughing, celebrating having all his favorite things in one place: mom, dad, Miguel, ball, Orcas Island.

Perfect.

Dylan hardly moved on the car ride to the vet.

The next day I get up, get my coffee, and amble in to see Robert in his usual spot with his computer on the couch, Dylan at his side. As I bend down to kiss him good morning the day goes bad.

Really bad.

“There’s something wrong with Dylan,” he says, but it doesn’t register. A joke? Not funny — at all. Then he says, “Dylan didn’t eat.”

My heart stops.

Dylan is a lab. Never in his entire life has he not eaten. Not even after surgery.

Never.

Dylan gives me a feeble wag. His nose is a faucet — big drops hit the floor — his cough is deep and wet. Robert says he hasn’t been off the couch – no morning greeting, no eating, no peeing.

Nothing.

He’s 12 years old. A decent run for a lab, I know. But not nearly long enough for me.

My heart is breaking.

He is my joy, my boy, my baby. I bury my face in his neck and chant our love song, “brown dog, brown dog, brown dog.”

We agree that we need to get him to the vet ASAP. I long for home, not this island vet we’ve seen once in 10 years.

I call. Nothing till 2pm, and they’re worried about him being contagious. I try to keep my voice level as I tell them he lives with another dog who is fine – I don’t think it’s a problem. 2:00 is the soonest. Fine. We’ll be there.

The day is long. We never leave Dylan alone. Miguel gets walked, but he doesn’t eat.

Solidarity? Fear? I don’t know, but I comfort him. I sneak away and cry alone. Robert and I are careful with each other. Afraid we’ll break.

We might.

“Fix Him”

At 1:30 we move toward the car. Miguel comes too, so he won’t worry, alone in the house. As I lock up I glance outside and see Robert, carrying Dylan, limp and docile, cradled in both arms — our 75 pound lab held before him like an offering — down the path to the car, Miguel walking quietly at his side.

I stand frozen, and then, leaving the lights blazing, I slam the door, and race for the car.

At the vet, I run interference to make sure a room is ready to spare Dylan having to be carried to the waiting room and then picked up again to go to an exam room. I don’t know if he’s in pain, but he won’t be if I can help it.

The people are nice. They work hard to contact Seattle for Dylan’s records. The vet enters, smiles kindly at us and greets Dylan with, “Hello, old dog”, as he lifts his chin gently in his hand.

They look into each others eyes and Dylan seems to agree to allow this man to examine him.

His temperature is 104. I foolishly ask and the vet answers that normal dog temperature is 101 – 102.

“We don’t see many at 104,” he says. I ignore the remark, thinking, “Well, you’ve got one now. Fix him.” 

I always go to the snarky side when I’m afraid. And I surely am now.

Medicine for a Brown Dog

He gives Dylan a shot in the hip – big medicine for a brown dog. Dylan barely turns to look. And then pills – antibiotics to fight infection.

Plus some extra yummy, high calorie food, to make him want to eat, or at least to take his pills.

We decide not to do a blood test since the next day was Thanksgiving and the results wouldn’t be in till Friday, and it will  probably only showing elevated white cells due to the fever. And why stick the poor dog anymore?

The vet makes sure to tell us he’s on call tomorrow, and they are open again on Friday. I am simultaneously thankful for the information and terrified that he feels the need to tell us so explicitly.

We were so happy when Dylan began to hang out in the kitchen as his appetite returned.

We reverse our trip, Robert again carrying Dylan. Miguel has waited patiently in the car – not his usual MO, but much appreciated. I pet him.

I don’t know who to comfort first – Dylan, Miguel, Robert, or me.

Home again. Robert gently lifts Dylan back onto his place on the couch. We try to entice him with the smelly good food.

No dice.

We wrap a pill in his favorite – the coveted cheese ball.

Nothing. His jaws remain firmly clamped shut.

Robert finally forces his mouth open and we toss the cheese pill deep into his throat, massaging till it goes down, holding his mouth closed, all the while feeling mean and torturous.

He swallows.

We sigh with relief.

The ordeal over, we pet him and cover him with kisses. He succumbs, but I can tell he just wants to sleep. I reluctantly slink away and turn to mush.

Mercifully, we have a house guest who is understanding and supportive. It’s a relief to focus on someone else for a while. I drink red wine with dinner and relax a bit.

Robert puts a picture of Dylan on Facebook with a notation saying, “ I have a sick, old dog. Please keep him in your thoughts.”

And people do.

The response is enormous – hundreds of “likes” and comments wishing Dylan good health, love, long life, and prayers come through the internet. And though I am a face to face kind of person, reading them makes me feel better.

I am touched beyond belief.

Thanksgiving Miracle!

Robert sleeps on the couch downstairs so in case Dylan needs us he’s right there. I worry upstairs that he won’t wake up, but Miguel, sleeping in his bed on the floor next to me, wakes up 3 times and goes downstairs – and each time I follow.

Twice Robert is awake and with Dylan. Once he’s snoring as I pass silently and snuggle Dylan myself. Miguel and I go back upstairs where I cry into my pillow.

In the morning — a Thanksgiving miracle: Dylan stumbles outside on shaky legs, but under his own power. He eats, slower than usual, but still, he eats!

He spends the day on the couch, but his cough is less labored and his nose has stopped running. And he improves almost hourly and I fawn all over him and talk about him incessantly.

He also began to hang out in the kitchen and eat carrots,  one of his favorite treats:

That night I sleep downstairs on the couch and only wake up twice to pet my boy as he sleepily acknowledges me.

We return to Seattle and immediately see our own vet who knows Dylan well. By now Dylan is walking on his own, eating voraciously again, but still coughing with any activity.

They ask me to wait about an hour while he has x-rays and blood drawn. I go for coffee nearby, walk around a bit, but ultimately end up sitting in the vet’s office.

I feel better there.

Preliminary results are cause for celebration: uncomplicated pneumonia, treatable with antibiotics. The vet, who has an old brown lab himself, and who once put my favorite cat to sleep, hugs me, beaming as he delivers the news.

Back in the car, I hug Dylan and give him a treat. I feel like I’ve just gotten a reprieve.

And I give thanks.

Randy Hale lives in Seattle with her husband, two dogs, and two cats. She has a rich and varied resume that includes hotels, computers, oncology social work, merchandising, sales, acting, and writing.

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(Originally published on July 15, 2013)

Senior Dog Moment

When he was a puppy Dylan would lay in my lab while I read.

I can pinpoint the exact moment I finally acknowledged that Dylan, my 11-year-old chocolate Labrador retriever, was a senior dog entering the final stage of his life.

Anyone with a Labrador retriever or retriever mix can attest that these dogs LOVE food. Anytime a shred of food is within smelling distance (and smelling distance is usually anywhere within a radius of a mile or so), these dogs hone in on it like a Seattleite on a latte.

In the past I couldn’t do anything in the kitchen without Dylan showing up within seconds to hunt for any stray crumbs I might drop. I couldn’t even open the cheese drawer in the refrigerator without instigating a one-dog stampede to the kitchen.

But one day when I was in the kitchen making lunch, I noticed Dylan wasn’t there. I even made a little extra noise just in case he didn’t hear me, but he still didn’t come.

Room Service for Dylan

Tennis ball in mouth = Happy Labrador Retriever. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

I found him on his favorite couch in the basement, eyes open, tail wagging slightly, and looking as if he was waiting for room service.

Of course I went back up to the kitchen to bring him a bit of food I would have “accidentally dropped” on the floor if he was in his usual spot in the kitchen.

It wasn’t hard for me to figure out why he didn’t come for some food. The amount of energy he could expend in a day had started to decline, so after calculating how much energy it would take to go up and down the stairs he decided the trip just wasn’t worth the effort.

That’s when I knew the time my food crazy dog had an extremely limited amount of time left to be with us. Or at least it was the first time I allowed myself to acknowledge it.

Watching My Dog Decline for the First Time

I’ve never witnessed one of my dogs as they transitioned to old age. I got Smokey, my only other dog before Dylan, when I was 11. He was only 7 by the time I left home for college, so I missed his transition from a still-spry middle-aged dog to a more feeble, elderly dog.

Seeing him after I had been gone for months was always a shock, but I never had that “a-ha moment” that shattered the barriers I erected between myself and the realization that he would be gone sooner than I could admit.

Reminders that Dylan’s Time Grows Short

Now that I’ve had that a-ha moment with Dylan, these reminders of his advanced age and declining health constantly buzz around my head, deftly avoiding my attempts to swat them away:

• Laying down in the middle of walks. Dylan tires out much more quickly on walks. Almost every time we go for one he stops at least once to lie down and rest.
• He lays down at the bottom of the stairway to our house.We have to go up 45 stairs to get to our front door. Dylan now lies down at the bottom of the stairway for 5-10 minutes to rest before he begins the long climb.
• Sleeping in one spot all night. Our house has 3 floors. Dylan used to move several times during the night to sleep in different places on different floors. Now he sleeps in one place – in the office next to our bedroom.
  

  Dylan loved Canon Beach, OR. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

• Weakening hind legs. He now stands up in two stages: first his front end springs up quickly, then his struggling hind legs follow several more seconds later.
• He’s very lumpy. As some dogs age, especially Labs, they get lumps which are a called fatty tumors. Dylan has several of them.
• Confusion. Sometimes while walking across a room he just stops and stares into space for 15-30 seconds.
• A LOT of gray hair. He doesn’t just have a gray face. He has gray eyebrows, gray feet, gray toes, gray chest gray everywhere.
• Shorter Playtime. He used to be able to fetch the ball for hours. Now, especially when it’s hot, he only lasts about 10 minutes.
• He wants the Early Bird Special. He wants his dinner earlier and earlier (he’s almost got us back to 3PM) so he can be in bed for the night by 7 PM.
• As I mentioned before, he no longer magically appears in the kitchen whenever I open the refrigerator.

We knew Dylan wouldn’t be with us long after he lost interest in tennis balls. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

Senior Dogs Rock

As much as I hate watching Dylan age, I do love senior dogs.

They have a quiet dignity about them, no use for drama, and are firmly embedded in their routines. They know how to communicate exactly what they want. They’re crotchety.

Their biggest problem? They aren’t senior dogs long enough.

Savoring Our Small Moments

I can’t ignore the signs of Dylan’s quickly advancing age. I can no longer pretend that he’ll be around forever.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing.

It means that I take time out of my day, regardless of how busy I am, to simply sit with him or I pet him a little longer than normal. Sometimes I slip some extra food into his bowl. Or I patiently sit with him at the bottom of the stairs when he’s not ready to climb them. Or after I put him to bed I ignore it when I hear him get up on the one couch in the house he’s not allowed on.

Doing these things will not ease the searing pain or crushing sadness I’ll feel when he dies. But it does help me accept that he’ll be gone soon and savor the time we have left together.

The good news is that Dylan still has some gas left in his tank. I took this picture 3 weeks ago, and it’s how I’ll always remember him – ears flapping, paws outstretched, water spraying, soaring towards his tennis ball.

The essence of joy.

Lab joy.

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The post I Finally Acknowledge My Senior Dog Will Die Soon appeared first on Seattle DogSpot.

(I originally posted this on May 26, 2014, our last Memorial Day with our old dog Dylan. We had to put him down on October 1, 2014. This is one of the last times he was strong enough to swim and play with his tennis ball.)

Last Outing with Our Old Dog?

Yesterday my wife and I spent a rare day out with Dylan, our 12-1/2 year old chocolate Labrador retriever. We don’t get to do this very often because of our schedules. We also have another dog who gets VERY upset if we leave him out of anything we do with Dylan.

Tennis ball in mouth = Happy Labrador Retriever. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

But yesterday Miguel’s doggie daycare was open and Dylan’s was closed (yes, they go to separate daycares); since neither of us had much going on during the holiday, we took Dylan for an outing.

If you’ve been following this blog you know that Dylan is really starting to show is age.

His legs are creaky and wobbly and he’s beginning to have trouble jumping up into the car. His bowels are definitely not as strong as they used to be.

As I wrote last summer, I’ve begun to come to grips with the fact that he won’t be around much longer, so now, every time we take him to one of his favorite places I wonder if it will be for the last time.

Yesterday we took him to do his favorite activities: swimming and playing fetch.

Normally we take him to the Magnuson Off-Leash Dog Park to swim, but we were just there on Saturday, and since he’s been hobbling around a bit lately, I didn’t want to make him walk the 1/4 mile or so it takes to get to the water.

Dylan spreads out at dog friendly Kiss Cafe in Ballard. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

An Old Stomping Ground

We ended up taking him to a little park on Lake Union under the I-5 bridge. When we first got Dylan I worked nearby the park and took him there whenever he came to the office with me. It’s a very tiny park, but it’s quiet and has water access.

Dylan perked up when we pulled up to the park. I’ve only taken him there once or twice since I stopped working nearby in 2005, but he always knows that when we pull up to it that it’s BALL TIME!

Not surprisingly, he didn’t play as long as he did in his younger days, but that’s the new normal with him. And after a few swims after the ball and runs after it on land he did something to his front leg and pulled up lame so that limited his playtime further.

He didn’t seem to mind – 10 or 15 minutes of ball chasing is all he can handle nowadays anyway.

After he rested a bit we all piled back in the car to find a place to eat. Since it was sunny and warm (which is shocking unusual for Memorial Day in Seattle), we wanted to go somewhere that was dog friendly.

Lunch at Dog Friendly KISS Cafe

We thought about going to Norm’s Alehouse in Fremont, but we’ve already been there with the dogs a couple of times and we wanted to try a new place.

We ended up at KISS Cafe in Ballard. The food was good, the people (servers and patrons) were friendly, and it is definitely dog friendly.

Dylan patiently waits for a morsel to “accidentally” fall on the floor. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

The only negative I can say about KISS is that it’s small. If you don’t get a table towards the back of the place that has more floorspace you have to sit at the bar or at one of tables towards the front where floor space is limited.

When we arrived the only place to sit was at at the bar. Dylan blocked the narrow aisle when he stretched out on the floor. Fortunately no one minded – they just stepped over and around him. He even got a few friendly pats from kids and waitstaff. He may have also gotten a few tastes of our lunch.

If you want to go out to eat with your dog, KISS is a great option. Just remember that if you have a big dog you may have to wait a little while for a table in the back where there will be room for it to stretch out.

Tired, Happy Dog

After eating we hoisted Dylan back in the car and headed home. Swimming and fetching definitely wore him out as took longer than usual to climb the 45 stairs to our house. Once inside he fell asleep in his bed for the rest of the day.

But as I worked on the couch after we got back while Dylan slept next to me, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of these days we have left.

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My wife Randy remembered she wrote a few years ago after watching me give a pill to our dog Miguel recently.

Miguel and I have a tense, wary, loving relationship.

I’m waiting for the right dog to take his butter pill. Not bitter pill. Butter Pill. It’s medicine in butter, and we don’t want Dylan to take it. Only Miguel, because only Miguel has giardia. Ugh.  

Dylan, our Chocolate Lab, will eat anything. Miguel, our formerly starving Mexican stray, will not. He’s picky at best, skipping meals, often for days at a time. Recently, with his giardia, he’s been eating, but he’s also been pooping rivers of diarrhea.

But this may be too much information.  

The point is he’s a pain to pill. Just now, instead of eating his butter pill, he left it with Dylan standing there salivating, ready to pounce. Just abandoned it and went upstairs to see Robert. I had to move quickly to rescue it and fend Dylan off while I waited for Robert to come downstairs to pill Miguel for real.  

Robert is Miguel’s personal favorite and the only person he will allow to shove a pill down his throat.

Robert’s method is to anchor him firmly under his armpit, pry his mouth open with one hand, and shove the butter pill down his throat with the other. Then clamp his mouth shut, massage his throat, and croon, “Good boy, swallow that…good boy!” And release! Like roping a calf, it takes a cowboy to do it.  

In this case that cowboy is Robert, Miguel’s hero, alpha dog, personal favorite. His worship of Robert is such that I dread the day when he needs pilling and Robert is unavailable. I envision a blood bath, or at least a Mexican standoff.

Or maybe, finally, grudgingly, he’ll eat the proffered “treat.” He sometimes deigns to eat treats I offer him, but never out of my hand. That honor is reserved for Cowboy Bob.  

Miguel and I have a tense, wary, loving relationship. If I’m the only game in town – say, when Robert has been gone for three days and Miguel has spent those days in the chair at the window, pining, anxiously awaiting his man’s return, when there are still no signs that his beloved will be back soon, and I appear to be his only option – then and only then, will he take food from me, or push his forehead coyly into the crook of my leg to be petted, or prance a bit when I return home after a brief absence.

I’m on the second string, I know, but it still feels good. Like an honor – a coveted award bestowed upon me by the skinny, tailless immigrant who has taken up residence in my home and in my heart.  

Miguel on duty, keeping us safe.

We are friends most of the time, Miguel and I. We’re happy to be together, we have each other’s backs. I walk him, treat him, brush him, and gently tell him “off” when he stands on the chair at the front window barking wildly at the passing parade of unsuspecting dogs, cars, and people. He keeps me safe from the postman and the pizza delivery guy, and he herds me.  

He watches and cajoles and worries when I’m separated from the pack. His job, as he sees it, is to keep us all together. He does this by indicating where I should go with a slight prancing run in the desired direction, then a full stop, checking to see if I’m coming, before continuing on toward the goal, usually Robert.  

The day we met Miguel in San Miguel de Allende in Mexico.

If I don’t follow, he’ll return to where I am and give me a meaningful look. Do not underestimate the meaningful Miguel look. It is intense. A silent reprimand that penetrates me to the core. Dark orbs rimmed in black focus high beams onto my soul, impossible to ignore. “Follow me,” it commands, “Come on!” Should I still fail to move in his chosen direction, his look morphs into disdain. “You missed it — missed your chance,” it says.  

Disgusted, he casts a last, brief, reproachful eye upon me, and stalks off without so much as a backward glance. Unmistakable full body communication from forty skinny pounds of haughty canine without even a tail to wag to soften the blow.

I smile, shake my head, and offer up a silent thank you that Robert isn’t a big traveller, preferring to be at home with his dogs. Chances are I won’t need to pill Miguel anytime soon, but the possibility still looms. Life is unpredictable.  

A moment later, I decide to wander downstairs to join my pack after all. Might as well rack up the points with Miguel while I can.

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When we first adopted Haley 5 months ago she had no interest in swimming. We don’t know her past but my guess is no one ever took her to the water.

Going into shallow water was fine, but she wouldn’t venture further out where she could swim. She even let her beloved balls float away to oblivion rather than swim to them.

But over the weekend at Magnuson Off-Lease Area her inner Labrador Retriever took over and she began to swim like a pro! 

I envision many more swimming trip in our future.

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Bananas are Part of Dylan’s Morning Routine

Tennis ball in mouth = Happy Labrador Retriever. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

I can’t see a banana without crying. This wasn’t always the case. I used to love them. I made sure we had plenty of ripe ones at all times. I’d even go to the store at night, if I noticed we had none for the morning. Sure, I enjoyed them on cereal, on yogurt, in smoothies. But the real appeal of bananas for me lay with Dylan, our Chocolate Labrador Retriever.

Touch a banana in the kitchen and Dylan would instantly appear at your feet, hyper aware, salivating, sitting obediently with military- like posture, eyes glued to you, the tip of his tail wagging in anticipation of his treat. This was our morning ritual. Every day I would share a banana with Dylan. We both loved it. We both looked forward to it.

I would give him exactly 4 slices, feeding them to him one at a time, intermittently spaced between slicing the rest of it into my cereal or whatever concoction I had that day. I fed them to him flat handed, the way you feed a horse, so as not to have my fingers bitten off. That’s how excited he was about his banana.

At the 4^th slice, I’d hold it out and make eye contact saying, “last one”, and he knew exactly what I meant. He’d snap it up and then look at me hopefully, with that total optimism unique to dogs. I’d open both palms and show him my empty hands, whereupon he’d lick my hands, then his chops, and leave, being sure to check the floor for scraps on his way.

That was our coveted daily routine. One of his pet sitters once suggested to me that he had taught Dylan to love bananas. I just smiled. Let him think what he wanted. Dylan and I knew better.

As Dylan got older, his legs got weaker, but his banana fetish remained strong. Even when he could no longer make it up from his couch in the basement to join me in the kitchen, he knew when a banana was being peeled. And he wanted it.

So I started giving him room service. I’d save 4 slices and bring them to him on his couch amid wild wagging and salivating. Same ritual, different location, both of us still thoroughly enjoying it.

But it was a telltale sign of things to come.

Dogs Don’t Live Long Enough

For almost 13 years life was wonderful with Dylan. And then, late in his 12^th year he contracted aspiration pneumonia three times. The final time proved too much for his body. He simply wore out.

Dylan refused to eat or drink for several days during his 3rd bout of aspiration pneumonia. I took this picture the day he was euthanized. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

At the end, he spent days on oxygen at the ER vet, being hydrated, and plied with different antibiotics – none of which, as it turned out, worked for him – before we brought him home.

Alas, my beautiful Chocolate Lab, whose fondest pastime was eating – even before chasing the ball and swimming – wouldn’t eat a thing for days. We tried wooing him with bananas, apples, and stinky dog treats, cooked him salmon, chicken, and steak. But nothing worked. He simply couldn’t do it. He’d sniff the latest offering and then turn his head to the side, resting his chin on a paw or a nearby cushion. It broke my heart.

But that’s how it is with dogs. They steal your heart utterly and completely through tiny, simple acts – the love of a banana, the dive for a ball, the excited wag when you come home. You learn to appreciate and live for each of these moments, and even though sometime in midlife they become routine, maybe a bit mundane, perhaps even a chore at times — they still make you smile. And you are lulled into a false sense of security that this relationship will last forever – that this dog will be with you always, that it’s a lifetime bond between you.

And then, one day, at the market, you glimpse the bananas neatly lined up and tiered in triplets in the produce section, and you burst into tears. Right there in Safeway you are reduced to mush. And you have to turn away, maybe even abandon your cart, leave the store, and go sit in your car to compose yourself. Because at that moment you realize you have lost the love of your life.

“We Have to Let Him Go Sometime”

We tried. God knows we tried. If love could save a life Dylan would surely be alive today. But when it got down to it he couldn’t make it. And he tried very hard – for our sakes. Especially for Robert, I think. Dylan knew I would let him go more easily. Having sat through death before with both parents and my favorite cat, I expected it.  But even that didn’t make it any easier, just less surprising.

Dylan loved Canon Beach, OR. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

So when Dylan began to really, truly fail I found the courage to softly say, “we have to let him go sometime.”
And Robert agreed almost immediately. No matter how hard it was, neither of us was willing to let our precious dog suffer.

The next morning, after Robert had taken Dylan outside two or three times the night before, carrying him to “find his spot”, while diarrhea streamed down his shirt and pants, we decided. We knew that, loud and clear, Dylan was asking to be released, let go. He was asking us to do what he knew we were capable of doing – lay him to rest.

His body was depleted. He hadn’t eaten or drank in days, he’d stopped wagging almost completely, and he’d started dragging himself into the laundry room to hide out, turning his beautiful face away when I went to kiss him.

That morning Robert suggested tomorrow could be the day. But an hour later we knew it would be today, maybe this evening after his Reiki massage and acupuncture.

And then we decided on 2:30 PM.

We Make “The Call”

Robert gets credit for making the call – what a brave and selfless thing to do. I doubt I could have done it. I even craved consensus from his masseuse Jennifer Streit and acupuncturist Dr. Richard Panzer, both of whom agreed that it was best to help him go before he felt real pain or, at least in my mind, any more shame or humiliation.

When the doctor arrived Dylan had moved from the couch to the big, puffy dog bed after finally getting the message across to us. “Out?” we asked, and he’d hunker down on the couch refusing to be moved. But he kept glancing around until I finally asked, “want to get into your bed?”

Then he got there almost airborne, making the short distance from the couch to the bed on the floor, with our help. Lame dog flying.

I had to straighten out his wrist after he landed, but his eyes closed and he dug right in, relaxed, and fell deeply asleep almost immediately.

It’s Time

Dylan flies free. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

Awhile later Dr. Sarah Render Hopkins from Compassion 4 Paws arrived and his tail wagged for the first time in days as he looked up at her. Not just a twitchy wag, a full on happy to see you, glad you’re here wag.

It brought me to tears.

Then he closed his eyes and I buried my face in his neck, just behind his velvet ears, and took long nose hits, committing him to memory.

She sedated him and his relaxation deepened, and my heart sang as he melted further into his cushy bed, finally at ease after days of agitation. Then, after a small fiasco to find a good vein – hard to do after all his IV’s, poor guy – she gave the lethal injection and he was gone.

And for me, at that moment, the magic left the room. Things were duller as the bright light that was Dylan was extinguished.

I will, of course, carry on and love other pets, even other dogs.

But this one, this special one, will always tether my heart. He’s the one that caused me to finally stop eating bananas after binging on them in his honor, tears streaming down my face. I created an altar to him with a tennis ball, a “wet dog” candle, a picture of him, and a banana. I now see sunsets as signs from him that he’s doing well — running, swimming, happy. I bought red roses because once I see that their color is called “freedom” I can’t do otherwise. 

This is a clear sign that he is free at last from his worn out, used up old body. That once again he runs strong and glad. And I know in my heart that that’s the gift we gave him when we summoned all our courage and called the vet that sad, sad October day.

Life will never be the same. But it will always be better for having had Dylan in my arms and in my heart.

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“Have you seen Haley?”

My wife Randy asked me this about 3 weeks ago after some friends we had over that afternoon went home.

“No,” I said, barely glancing up from my laptop.

Haley. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

Haley is our 2-year-old yellow labrador retriever that we adopted in late June from the Freedom Tails program that was run by Harbor Association of Volunteers for Animals (HAVA) at the Stafford Creek Correctional Center. 

She didn’t sound particularly concerned, so I didn’t give it much thought.

Randy returned a few minutes later and said with a tinge of panic in her voice, “Haley’s gone.”

This time I shut my laptop, gave her my full attention, and asked, “Are you sure?”

One thing I’ve learned in the 15+ years I’ve been with Randy is that she sometimes assumes the worst about a situation before knowing all the facts and can go from zero to panic mode in a matter of seconds.

That’s why I still wasn’t particularly concerned that she thought Haley was gone. I also couldn’t believe she had gotten out because she follows us everywhere and has shown no inclination to go anywhere on her own (except to sneak upstairs to eat the cat’s food).

I thought about telling Randy to look again but the terror in her voice convinced me that I should help her find Haley.

After checking all the doors and the gates to our front porch and back yard to be sure they were shut (they were), we did a room-to-room search of our house. As room after room yielded nothing, a tentacle of dread coiled down my spine and settled in my stomach as the terrifying thought that Haley could be gone set up camp in my head.

Randy wanted to start looking for her around the neighborhood immediately, but I wanted to search the house on more time. Surely we must have missed something.

Our second search around the house was much more thorough. We searched every nook and cranny in every room. We checked all the closets to make sure we didn’t accidentally shut her inside one. We searched the backyard carefully.

Nothing.

At this point I stopped trying to convince myself that Haley was somewhere in the house and switched into panic mode. Then a litany of terrifying thoughts began streaming through my head:

ohshitshesgonewhatshouldwedoitsstartingtogetdarkshewillbeterrifiedsheisntwearinghercollarshouldwecallpeopletohelplookforherdowehaveagoodpictureofhertoputonapostershouldwecalltheseattleanimalsheltertoseeiftheypickedherup

Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

Randy briefly stopped this soundtrack of horrifying thoughts when she said we had to start looking for Haley. She drove around the neighborhood in her car while I searched our block on foot.

Unfortunately my search wasn’t particularly effective as I plodded zombie-like through the neighborhood, feeling completely numb and coming to grips realization that the dog we just adopted, the dog that we immediately fell in love with, the dog that never had a real home, was gone.

We had failed her.

That prompted me to push these negative thoughts aside and start calling for Haley. After a couple of minutes, I decided to call Randy to see how her search was going, but when I ran out of my house to look for Haley I forgot my phone. So I ran back home to get my phone, and while I was there, I searched the house again, hoping Haley would magically appear.

She didn’t, so I went back out in the neighborhood calling for Haley while trying to keep my raging flood of emotions in check. But after a few more minutes of calling for Haley I decided to go back home and wait for her there in case Haley made her way back. I also wanted to start planning what we should do in case we didn’t find Haley.

However, I locked my keys inside the house after I went back for my phone, so I couldn’t get in.

At this point my facade of calmness began to crack under the pressure of my roiling emotions, and I just started pounding on the doors and screaming Haley’s name with increasing desperation as my faint hope that she was somewhere inside the house began to fade. I thought I heard a faint bark inside, but I couldn’t figure out if it was just wishful thinking/hearing on my part. 

Eventually I stopped banging on doors and yelling for Haley after realizing it accomplished nothing other than feeding my panic. Randy returned soon after that with the keys to the house and without Haley.

Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

We decided to go inside and plan the next steps in our search for Haley. As we walked in, we both heard that faint bark again. At that moment, somehow, my memory dredged up that despite numerous searches throughout the house for Haley, we hadn’t checked the storage area in the basement where we keep tools, garden supplies, empty moving boxes, etc. It probably slipped our mind because we rarely go in there and the door is in a somewhat isolated area of the basement.

Upon this realization I sprinted down the stairs and flung open the door to the storage room, Haley casually sauntered out.

I’ve heard the phrase “dissolved into tears” before, but I’d never experienced it until I saw Haley walk out of that room and melted into a blubbering puddle while wrapping my arms around her. Randy joined me a few seconds later.

We must have looked like those people that are reunited with their dogs that were lost for years even though Haley had only been “lost” for about an hour.

Eventually we figured out that Haley, who follows us everywhere we go, slipped unnoticed inside the storage room while Randy was in there looking for something, and she unknowingly left Haley behind when she left the room and shut the door. And since she hardly ever barks, she just waited patiently for someone to let her out until she got frustrated and barked a couple of times.

After the tears stopped flowing and our adrenaline began to dissipate, we sank into our couch to watch some mind-numbing TV show before falling into bed, thoroughly exhausted and grateful as our sweet Haley slept soundly in her crate as if nothing happened. 

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I’ve heard that it takes a few weeks for the real personality of an adopted dog to emerge. We’ve had Haley for about a month.

Apparently she’s a big goof.

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We’ve had our new dog Haley for almost 2 weeks now, and as you can tell from the heading of this post, we like her. A lot.

Haley was exhausted after the Freedom Tails graduation ceremony and slept all the way from Aberdeen to Seattle. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

We brought her home after she graduated from the Freedom Tails program at the Stafford Creek Corrections Center in Aberdeen on June 24.

Freedom Tails takes dogs that would most likely be euthanized in animal shelters and gives them “a second chance at life” by pairing them with offenders who improve the dogs’ chances of adoption by teaching them “socialization, house training, and much needed obedience skills.”

I thought she might be a bit freaked out when I took her from the offenders who trained and lived with her 24/7 for the 10 weeks she was at Stafford Creek, but she was fine as we left the facility for the 2+ hour ride, and she hopped in my car with no hesitation (in the passenger seat, of course).

Exhausted from the graduation ceremony and the general excitement of the day, she immediately fell asleep and hardly moved during the ride home.

WHEN HALEY MET MIGUEL

The initial (and biggest) hurdle we had was introducing Haley to our dog Miguel. We’ve had him for almost 10 years now, and due to his prickly personality he’s usually not particularly friendly when he meets a new dog.

Haley and Miguel aren’t best friends yet but they are getting along well. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

When we brought him back from Mexico he got along fine with our other dog Dylan, but because he was an adolescent dog thrown into a completely new living environment, he acted submissively and didn’t try to challenge Dylan’s status in the house. 

Eventually he appointed himself Vice President of House Protection, and on the few occasions that other people brought dogs to our house, he made it clear they weren’t welcome.

That’s why we put some thought into what type of dog we should adopt and met with a dog trainer to figure out the best way to introduce him to Haley.

Due to Miguel’s dominant personality we thought that adopting a submissive female would might make him less inclined to view her as a threat.

The dog trainer we used was Danette Johnston from Dog’s Day Out Seattle. She helped us train Miguel when we first got him, and our previous dog Dylan went to daycare there for several years.

Danette told us that when Haley arrived we should introduce the dogs outside and take them for a walk before we took them in the house because it would allow the dogs to meet in a neutral environment, provide some diversion so they wouldn’t focus solely on each other, and burn off some their energy.

So that’s what we did when Haley arrived and it worked like a charm. Here they are about 10 minutes after they were introduced:

When we brought the dogs inside, Miguel virtually ignored Haley while she explored her new home, and since then they have continued to get along well. Miguel does snarl at Haley periodically, especially when she comes near his food, but he did the same thing with Dylan so we aren’t concerned. And since we know what triggers his growling, we can difuse Miguel’s growling episodes before they can escalate.

To say Haley is ball-focused would be an understatement. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

HALEY FITS IN OUR FAMILY SEAMLESSLY

OK, now that I’ve explained we successfully introduced Haley and Miguel, I need get back to my reason for writing this post: kvelling about Haley.

Quite simply, Haley is a dream. Her trainers at Stafford Creek Correction Center did a fantastic job with her. She sits. She lays down. She stays. She heels. She leaves it when you say “leave it.” She’s housebroken. She sleeps in a crate.

She’s also a quick learner. We have a specific “bathroom area” in our backyard for our dogs, and it only took her a couple of days to learn that was the spot for her to pee and poop. And she already knows how to let us know when she needs to go. She does it by walking back and forth from us to the doorway in whatever room we are in.

She’s also learned how to steal Miguel’s treats. He isn’t food motivated, and he often leaves treats laying around the house. When we get ready for bed, she asks to go downstairs so she can search for stray treats and scarf up all the ones Miguel left behind.

Here is Haley’s lopsided sit. Its cuteness level is off the charts. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

But the best thing about Haley is her personality. I have never met a happier dog. Every moment of her day deserves a butt-wriggling, tail-wagging celebration. And that tail – she wags it so fast and hard it’s like a metronome on crack.

Here are some of her other painfully cute attributes:

• She makes little grunting noises if you scratch her in the right spot.
• The ends of her mouth turn up slightly so it looks like she’s always smiling.
• When we ask her to do something she doesn’t want to do (like laying down while we’re eating) she wags her tail and wriggles her body furiously while turning slightly away from us. She then turns her head back towards us and licks the air.
• She thinks getting a treat is the best thing EVER. I’ve never seen a dog that can simultaneously sit and wiggle its body while waiting for a treat.
• She closes her eyes in ecstasy if you scratch her chest.
• She sits on one hip so she looks like she’s casually sitting in a chair.
• She has a funny little cowlick at the end of her tail.
• She’s an excellent snuggler. I know lots of people have dogs that snuggle but we’ve never had one. It’s delightful.
• If she gets really excited while I pet her she will gently take my forearm in her mouth (we’re working to break her of this habit).

I could be really obnoxious and list a few dozen more of these but I’ll stop now.

Needless to say, we love Haley. Even Miguel is warming up to her. I’m sure that she’ll have some behavioral glitches that we’ll have to address at some point, but I can’t imagine they’ll be that serious.

In the meantime we’ll enjoy this scrumptious new addition to our family. Now if you excuse me I’m going to snuggle with our new dog.

Haley wasted no time claiming the front seat. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.com.

Haley will take every opportunity to snuggle up to us, even if it’s just a foot. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

Haley’s mouth turns up a little at the corners so she always looks like she’s smiling. Photo from Seattle DogSpot.

Here’s the tiny cowlick at the end of Haley’s tail. Photo from Seattle DogSpot

Haley didn’t take long to get comfortable in her new home.

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