She is gone.

She came into my life in November of 2001, by a twist of fate. I had just closed on my house and Gunner and I had moved in just weeks before. I happened to be on a call with one of our local cops who mentioned in passing he was trying to re-home his 6 year old German Shepherd, because he had to move from a house to an apartment. He was heartbroken.

What if I had not been on that call with that cop on that day? Would our paths have ever crossed? I don't even like to think about that possibility. I went to his place after work one day to meet her. I even dragged my best friend, a vet, with me. It gave the pretense of impartiality, but everyone knew when I got out of my car and 85lbs of black and tan charged at me barking, that we would belong to each other. I knelt on the brick road and she stopped mid-charge; all the wind went out of her sails.

"You're not scared, huh? Hmpf."

Thus began one of the most tumultuous yet most rewarding relationships of my life. First, there were the fights with Gunner. Not snapping at each other or barking. Fights that were frightening to watch and sickening to hear. Fights from which my arms and hands will always bear scars, because no matter how dumb it is to try and separate 175lbs of intertwined teeth, fur, claws, and spit, I intervened every time, occasionally sustaining the inevitable collateral damage. I learned a lot about dog behavior from those two. With careful management, the scary fights would dwindle down to once or twice a year.

Our first Christmas, I came home to find lamps overturned and a my cat, Molson, dead on the living room floor. Not mauled, but it appeared as if he couldn't play quite as hard as she thought he could. I remember asking her, "Just what the fuck am I going to do with you?" She just looked at me lovingly with those brown eyes.

After the first couple of rough transition days, she had decided that I was hers, and her eyes would follow me if I moved around the room. If I left the room, she'd be right behind me, most times actually running right into me if I should stop too quickly, she was so close. After a couple of weeks together, we met up with her old owner at the park where my dogs liked to run. He pointed out that no matter where I went, she kept an eye on me. He was both heartened and saddened that she had bonded so quickly and strongly to me.

As time went on and we learned each others' ways, I found that was a common theme: She kept an eye on us. Whomever she deemed hers, she watched over. At the park, Gunner would take off, oblivious, following his nose wherever it led. I didn't have to keep an eye on him because she did. "Where's Gunner? Go find Gunner!", and she was off. She'd charge up to him, stop just short, and touch him with her nose; she'd then look at me as if to say, "See? Found him. He's right here." Then she'd run back to me with her tail tall and proud. If I was the one who left the area, I would see her eyes following me. If I got too far away, she'd run to me, circling widely around me, finally approaching from the side with the trademark nose bump, "Found ya."

A year after she came into my life, I almost lost her. During a week of lots of tears and very little sleep, we finally arrived at a diagnosis: Addison's Disease. It nearly killed her before she was diagnosed; that's the way Addison's is. I remember telling her, as she lay on my bed with fluid slowly dripping into the IV on her foreleg, "I'm going to take care of you, and you're going to be ok." She stared blankly at me. I think I was saying it mostly to comfort myself. She did get better, slowly, and her condition became just another thing we managed.

Things like chewies and toys were not possible in our house. They just weren't worth the trouble and the fights they would cause. Once I actually had time to monitor them with rawhides, so they each got their own to chew. As usual, she couldn't mind her own business, and got reprimanded several times. Resigned, she sighed and went to her side of the room to work on her chewie. Moments later, her head popped up as if she heard something. She rushed upstairs in three bounds, barking as if she were singlehandedly holding off a home invasion. Gunner ran upstairs to join her, barking and growling - at what, he didn't know, but damned if he was going to be left out. Once he arrived at the door, she quietly slipped back downstairs, inhaled Gunner's chewie, then lay on the floor and finished her own. I swear, she was smirking.

The pet sitter told me she sat by the back door looking for Gunner for 3 days after he died in December of 2007. She always kept an eye on us.

She had both rear cruciates repaired, thanks to an angel of a vet who did the surgeries at cost. She slept as close to my bed as she could, on her egg-crate orthopedic doggy bed. No matter how many times I was up and down my steep stairs doing laundry, she'd follow. Sometimes I'd be up and down them again and see that halfway down, she'd stopped to sit and rest. Sadly, I recognized that though she still defied her age, she wasn't young any more.

We celebrated her 14th birthday with cake and candles. It was a day made for celebrating. The nation, with a little help from me, had just elected its first black President. She was a little slower, a little more bony. You could hear the snap-crackle-pop of her hips as she hauled herself up off of the floor. Yet, every morning, I was greeted with her rolling on the bedroom floor, kicking her legs up in the air, yapping joyfully. This was my cue that it was time for breakfast.

At the end of August, when she wouldn't eat, not even cooked eggs, not even chicken and rice - I knew something was wrong. It turned out to be an easily treated infection from which she appeared to recover very quickly. Then, suddenly, not even a week after making a great recovery, she was down again. She couldn't get up; wouldn't eat or drink. Later in the day, it became apparent she was suffering from vestibular disease. After a home visit and a pep-talk from the vet, I felt confident that this, too, we could ride out together.

It was supposed to last a few days, at most. Seven days passed and she had not eaten and had not even attempted to get up. I'd return from work and find her in the same position on her beloved orthopedic bed that I'd left her in over 12 hours prior. She would take a little water, but would turn her face away from anything else: chicken broth, chicken, rice, eggs, even hamburgers. She had no weight to spare, and she became skeletal over that last week.

I took her to the vet's office on Thursday. It was becoming painfully obvious that she wasn't happy. Even as we carried her to the car on a blanket, like a queen being carried through the village by her servants, she looked up only briefly, then put her head back down. She couldn't get comfortable. We ran bloodwork, though I didn't know what I would do with any questions raised by the results. I was becoming more and more certain that no procedure or medication or treatment would take her back to the way she was 7 days ago, when she was following the Dish installer around and giving him hell. That was the last time I saw the real Tara. The bloodwork came back totally normal. It confirmed what I already knew; there was no easy fix. She didn't flinch when they drew blood, or when they started the IV that would ultimately give her the peace she had earned.

I sat on the floor with her, her head cradled in my lap. I told her what a good girl she was, as if she didn't know that already. I told her how much I loved her and that Cecil was going to have some pretty big pawprints to fill. I told her that every dog I was ever going to have for the rest of my life would be compared to her. I told her for the second time in our lives together that I loved her, and that I was going to take care of her.

As she slipped away, I whispered to her, for the last time: "Go find Gunner! Good girl..."

Tara Jean II

November 4, 1994 - September 10, 2009

“He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion.”

Week In Review

Another rough week, schedule-wise and life-wise. Ol' Biddy, aka Tara, made a full recovery from Much Ado About A ButtThing; I knew she had recovered when I came home to a guilty-looking dog and a half-eaten butternut squash that had been pilfered from the pantry. I snapped a picture with my phone and sent it on to Dr. Kate, my best friend and her regular vet, and got the reply, "Yep! All better!"

Ol' Biddy has had a setback again and is dealing stoically with a bout of vestibular disease. It's so hard to tell when she can't get up and walk, or won't eat or drink for two days, whether her Addison's Disease is trying to kill her, or if it is - like today's bout - a pretty benign and self-resolving thing. She had a down day yesterday, refusing to eat even cooked eggs. I checked on her this morning, in the 15 minutes I had between work and my IPMBA class, and my breath caught in my throat. For a full 10 seconds I watched her; then, the shallowest of breath. She tried to get up, splaying her legs out to try and balance, and gave up. She had a dull, resigned look in her eyes that broke my heart.

Long story short, when I came home from 8 excruciating hours in class, worrying about her, she had the classic signs: a head-tilt and nystagmus. The kind and generous owner of the veterinary practice took the time out of his holiday weekend to make a house call and confirm the diagnosis, help administer subcutaneous fluids, and chart a course of treatment. You really just don't see doctors like that any more, and Tara is lucky to know two of them.

It's actually comical now to see her look at you, head tilted to one side, right eyebrow rhythmically jerking up and down; to me it looks like she is hanging on every word you're saying. Continually, "Hmmm, dear? Hmmm, dear? Hmmmm, dear?" repeating her movements like a dancing .gif image.

So, with yet another stressful week behind me, here's the tally:

Last Sunday - ended up walking the young pup in a leisurely fashion
Monday - I did nothing, because I worked a 20 hour shift and frankly, just didn't feel like doing any more.
Tuesday - I road-ran!!!! Holy shit!! C25K W5D1 on the road. It wasn't bad, but I do remember thinking "IhatethisIhatethisIhatethis" while I was in the thick of it. Probably not great for something I want to keep doing for exercise. Road running is still an option, just not my fave.
Wednesday - I decided I needed to get a full cardio/weights workout in, but in a minimal amount of time. This led to a 20 minute run on the treadmill at 5.5mph, then Body Fat Solution Workout A.
Thursday - I was extremely sore after Wednesday's ambitious leg-heavy orgy of running, squatting and lunging, and I got my ass handed to me at work overnight Wednesday. Just for fun, I was also getting my Dish installed any time between noon-5pm. I can't nap for an hour when the sleep I am missing can be counted in days and not hours, so I did what any reasonable person who is walking-into-walls tired would do: I cleaned. Up on chairs dusting ceiling fans and corners. Down on floors scrubbing. Up the stairs. Down the stairs. Vacuum the carpets. Steam clean the carpets. Cleaning for 8 hours when I could hardly walk straight? I'm callin' it exercise.
Friday - I liked the compact workout so much I did it again. Ran 20 on treadmill at 5.3mph (feeling lazy), and Body Fat Solution Workout B.
Saturday - biked half the day in IPMBA course. Slow-speed riding is difficult. Hanging at home with the Ol' Biddy after class, so I banged out a Body Fat Solution Workout A while half-watching the House marathon.
Today - more IPMBA! More riding! If I can knock out a Body Fat Solutions Workout B after class, that's plenty for me to call it a day.

Looking ahead:
I'd like to do the cardio/weight combo 6 days a week. I just need to back off on the running if I start to dread it and sub in a hill-climb workout like I did in the past. I am starting to feel weird if I don't get my workout in; nagging thoughts nip at the edges of my subconscious all day, until I make the time and get it done.

This is a good thing.

My old friend,

we've known each other for 8 years now. Quite a tough adjustment when you first came into my life; two strong personalities clashed, and many were the times I agonized and wondered if we were right for each other. As time went on, and we learned each other's ways, I grew to wish that I'd known you all of your life. You're fiercely loyal, you love without pretense or judgement or shame, and you would lay down your life for me. I think you know that I would do the same for you.

We've suffered the lean times together and we've grieved together, but we've had many more good times than bad. We've had walks in the park, and walks in the woods. When those weren't enough, you'd open the door while I was at work, and you'd let yourself and Gunner out to take a walk on your own. The phone call would come, from the police or the neighbors. I'd drop everything and search frantically for you, and find you trotting casually down the double yellow line of a busy road, not a care in the world: "Oh, hi. Just out for a walk. What the heck are all these cars doing behind me?"

You earned your reputation as a canine garbage can, performing (what I can only imagine were) acrobatic feats to move food from shelves and counters, and yes - even the closed refrigerator -into your bottomless pit of a gut. There were times that I couldn't even muster up the gumption to get pissed off, because it was just so... funny. Food wrappers strewn everywhere, refrigerator door still hanging open, emptied of all but lettuce, and one guilty looking pair of brown eyes staring up at me as if to say: "I know. You're mad. But it was sooooo worth it! p.s. Can you let me out now? My tummy feels a little weird."

We've held on through Addison's Disease, which almost killed you, and two cruciate repair surgeries. Now we're fighting a much bigger battle: time. I am picking up on signs that something isn't quite right; your hindquarters are damp because you're licking and worrying on that area all the time. You seem to be enjoying your naps a lot more frequently than before, and when have I ever had to coax you to eat? All subtle signs that maybe someone else wouldn't notice; but, my friend, we've been together too long for me not to notice.

Know this: I'm with you. I'm with you to the end. As long as you show me an inkling of happiness, every day is going to be yours to grab by the cojones and hang on as only you know how. You're going to eat eggs and chicken and ground beef and rice. We're going to play Tennis Ball and we're going to snuggle on the floor together. We're going to sit in the sun together. When all of that doesn't seem to make you happy any more, or the bad days greatly outnumber the good, we'll talk some more, and you'll tell me what you want me to do. Until then, the day is ours.
Love you, Ol' Biddy.

Worry.

It always precedes and bleeds into the first couple of days on a trip out of town, when I have to put my beloved girlies in the care of others. Of course, I cried when we dropped Cecil off at the kennel. She hates it, and I hate it for her, even though they take great care of her. It also didn't help that my pet sitter left me a long rambling message a couple days before I left town, making sure I left all contact numbers for my vet, wanting to know if I wanted her to call me "if something would happen", with the disclaimer at the end of the message that, "Tara's getting older, that's the only reason...."

I don't blame her for worrying, I guess. Tara is 14 and has a chronic medical condition. However, her calls to confirm before I leave usually consist of, "Hi, I'm starting on (date) at (time) and finishing on (date + time). Let me know if there are any changes or if there's anything else I need to know." Maybe she sees more than I do. She asked very similar questions on my last couple of trips before Gunner went rapidly downhill at age 16. It doesn't help that every time I go out of town now, I have memories of having to take Gunner for his Last Ride the night before that trip. He was ready. I wasn't, though I know it was the right thing to do.

However, Tara's still happy. I find myself sometimes having to justify my decisions to people. After all, Tara still being around is the reason we're doing the "long engagement" thing and living in separate houses. I don't trust her and Cecil to not get into a bloody, scary, knock-down, drag out fight to end all fights - and with an 8 year old in the house, it's just not an option to try moving them in together. My arms and hands still bear scars from separating Tara and Gunner. And - only real dog people will understand this - it's just not fair to move Tara in her last years into a new and unfamiliar house where she'd be relegated to the lower level of the house and have to deal with another dog with a personality similar to hers. Sometimes when you are charged with the care of someone, you have to do what's best for them, even if it's not the ideal situation.

I guess the pet sitter sees the way she laboriously makes her way on the stairs, stopping to sit and rest halfway down sometimes. Or the way she loses her balance and sometimes her back legs just give up, and she follows suit, flopping down wherever fate fells her. Or the poopy accidents. Sometimes she doesn't even realize it's happening until it's too late. On good days I notice the telltale (telltail, ha) tail raise and get her outside on time. What I prefer to focus upon, though, are the good things: The way she hauls herself up off of her orthopedic dog bed to greet me when I come home, and the unbridled joy in her clouded eyes when she opens them, focuses, and realizes it's me. The way she still rolls on her back, kicking her legs up in the air and barking her demands for breakfast and dinner. Her habit of eating only part of her breakfast, pacing around until I make my eggs, waiting for me to top off the rest with a discarded yolk so she can finish up. The way, when I'm home, she is always aware of where I am, and is right there beside me. The once rough and tumble - now gentle and much abridged - play and wrestle times we have in the evenings.

I think I will know when it is time, and if maybe I don't see things as realistically as I should, I can count on my best friend, who also happens to be Tara's vet, to help guide my decision. What I do know, is that it's not time right now, but that doesn't mean it's not hard to be away, knowing our time left together is short.

I miss my girls already.

I know exactly what's going on here.

Just because I'm nearly deaf and my eyesight fails me sometimes and I bump my head into the wall if I try to turn too quickly... Just because after a walk halfway around the block I'm ready to get my nap on (thanks for the orthopedic bed by the way, it's the shizz! as you youngsters like to say) .... Just because in dog years I'm 14, and in human years - well let's just say I knew Jesus before he had that hippie hair-do ... Don't assume I don't know what the hell's going on here.


You're cleaning like a woman possessed. The fridge is almost empty. You're even letting the eggs run out! Noooooooo! Now, you know I eat all but a few bites of food and meds and wait patiently for my egg yolk every morning. Ok, well, maybe sometimes I kick my bowl to remind you, but you have to admit you're a little absent-minded yourself. So, how do I get my daily egg-yolk if there arent any eggs? This is a fucking crisis, in case you haven't noticed.


So, what's up with all the laundry, huh? What happened to the one-load-at-a-time dealie... where you choose a piece or two out of the dryer until it's empty, then start the whole process over again? There are massive amounts of laundry being done. I see what's going on here.


You've changed light bulbs over the stove and in that little lamp you like to leave on for the *gulp* pet-sitter.


The pet-sitter is coming. Tell me the truth. She is, isn't she. That lady who gives me treats, and walks me a couple times a day, and scratches my butt - that lady?


When are you leaving, again?

Wait just a damn minute, here. What is this pet-sitter business? Here I am, typing this from my dark, crap-smelling cell, and you're relaxing at your home on a bed???

I mean, I knew something was up. Dad cleaning til 2am and the suitcases lying about are never good signs. I keep hearing the word "Disney", whatever that means, but I like the word because it sounds a little like "dinner". I digress. I don't know what to do any more. I eat a whole chocolate cake off the counter, they give me a stern talking-to and then leave me alone. Here I am, I've been a GOOD GIRL for months, and I'm back in jail. I think when I get back I'll eat one of the kid's stuffed animals. Why not? I'm already doing the time, might as well enjoy the crime.

Wait. What do you mean, "if I had let the pet sitter in the house I wouldn't be here"? That lady was the pet sitter???

Crap.