Transitions: Filling in the Gaps

As many of you know (and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your warm wishes), Tim’s life came to an end today. Apparently, what is said about renal failure is true: once it starts, it progresses quickly. Yesterday at lunchtime, Tim was tired, but otherwise seemed okay; last night he vomited unceasingly, and all I could do is stand by helplessly, watching his poor thin body wracked by retching, until I thought my heart would explode. Being unable to help someone you love is torture of the worst kind.

Eventually, my body demanded that I attempt to get some rest, and when I finally crawled into bed, Tim made his way downstairs. In truth, I was relieved that I couldn’t hear the pitiful sounds of him being sick, and his restless tossing and turning. But this morning when I awoke I couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t in the Command Chair, on the Settle, in his little square bed, in Star’s crate, or on what had become his absolute favorite blanket of all time - the one that Jolie Banks made for JoLee when I adopted him. I finally put on my headlamp and went out into the darkness of the back yard. Twin green glowing spots pinpointed Tim’s location - he was underneath a juniper bush. Now, I know that dying animals will often crawl away to somewhere secluded to die, but neither Harry nor I could stand the thought of Tim dying under that bush, cold, sick and alone, so I fished him out and made the call to the vet who saved Tim’s life, so long ago. At 8:20 a.m., on this Thursday, February 17, after we had time to sit on the porch together and enjoy the warm morning sunshine (amazing at this time of year), Tim gently slipped away to whatever future awaits him on the other side.

I had called work to tell them I would be late and why, but that I had no idea exactly when I would be in, and I had texted my sister, warning her that I would be physically unable to talk to her for a while, so she might as well not even bother calling me. After the deed was done, I dropped Harry off at the house so he could get his car, started driving to work, and then turned on my phone to let my sister know that Tim was gone. A voicemail waited - it was the office, telling me that I shouldn’t try to come in, and I should take the day off to recover. As you can tell, I work for one incredibly awesome law firm. One quick U-turn later, I was headed back to the house, where I went immediately upstairs, changed into my jeans, and no more than ten minutes after that, was headed off to Branched Oak with JoLee and Star.

Some people crave companionship in times of grief, and some crave solitude. I’m one of those who craves solitude and finds it in the companionship of my dogs. Some solace awaited me at Branched Oak. We didn’t go to any of our normal haunts - that would have been too painful. We hiked in an unfamiliar area and walked for more than two hours, and that, itself, was some of the best therapy for me. I’ve always dealt best with stressful situations by being active. I think the dogs were the same way. They’ve known Tim was sick - I mean, heck, even I could smell the sickness in him, and their noses are a whole lot better than mine. And they knew Harry and I were distressed, and that distressed them, too. After our hike, we relaxed in the sunshine in the back of the Dogmobile and watched the geese fly overhead. I kept expecting to see Tim’s little form come bounding up over the ridge of a hill, his little ears flapping, a big terrier grin on his little face.

Some heartaches aren’t easily salved.

As I sat, I started wondering why Tim’s death has affected me so deeply. I mean, he’s a dog. An animal. Why would I be so emotionally invested in an animal? As a dog-lover with a whole slew of friends who are like-minded, I know there are others who feel just as deeply for their “pets” as I do, but how would I explain it to a person who didn’t share that feeling - one who thinks of dogs as animals?

As Star would say in her journal on Dogster - I pondered on that one for a while. Here’s what I came up with. When I adopt a dog, I see past the fact that he or she is an animal. Winnie had her own personality, as did Mikey, Sparky, Tim, and in the present, Star and JoLee. Each one of those personalities is totally different from the others - and some strike a resonance with mine. In Winnie’s case, she was aloof and elegant, while still being loving and kind, and when Winnie passed, I was saddened, but I knew none of the deep grief that I’m dealing with right now. This grief is akin to that I passed through when my first dog, Mikey, died. Tim and Mikey had a lot in common, when I think about it - and they shared a lot of common personality traits with me. Fiercely independent, sometimes goofy, incredibly loving, and nobody’s “pet.” What I lost today was not an animal. Tim was my friend. My companion.

There’s a big gap in my life right now, and much like when one has had a tooth suddenly and swiftly pulled out, I can’t help but explore the vacant space, test the pain, feel the loss. But I know that, with time, the pain will dull, the space becomes just a space, and life goes on.

Thanks again for all your friendship, warm wishes and the waves of love I felt when reading them. I know I’ll feel this pain again. One day I may even get to the point where I don’t think I can handle it again - I was almost there this time, with Tim. But until that day comes, I will continue to adopt my canine friends and companions and continue to enjoy them, with all their quirky personalities and silly antics.

I mean, how else am I to get through the tough times? I need my friends!

Life and Death

“I’m really sorry - I wish I had better news,” Doc said as he leaned over the padded table where Tim lay, sprawled out, having his tummy rubbed by the vet assistant.

My heart sank.

Doc looked sympathetically into my face while he fell into Tim’s tummy-rub trap. “We could do dialysis, but it wouldn’t last,” he continued hesitantly, absently rubbing Tim’s tummy. I could hear the doubt in Doc’s voice. While I digested that bit of news, he ran down the list of the costs for the procedure, but what I really wanted to know is how long Tim would have to be hooked up, and how long the treatment would help. “Oh, I’d have to keep him two or three days,” Doc continued, “And there’s no knowing how long it would last.”

That did it for me. If it would make Tim feel great for another month, I might consider it, but the red numbers on the report Doc showed me told a bleak story - one of toxins building up in Tim’s little body to the point that his blood urea nitrates and creatinine levels are so high they're above the point where Doc’s equipment could register them.

It’s weird - ever since Tim was about 2 years old - back in 2002 - I’ve known he would die of renal failure, but the news that I have probably at best a few more days with him has hit me hard.



For now, though, we're going to take one day at a time, and make each day the best we can. After we left the vet clinic, I took the dogs out to Branched Oak, where Tim took what was probably his last “run.”



It was more of a meander, really, with me sticking close and looking for signs that he might need a hand, while JoLee and Star chased each other and the squeaky tennis ball I would throw when it came back to me.



Tim sniffed around, moving slowly from one clump of grass to the next.



Star and JoLee would come keep us company. I think they may be a bit confused about how slow Tim is moving, and they want to be sure he isn't hogging a great stink all to himself.



I was amazed that he actually found something to roll on - and that he made the effort.



On the way back to the car, Tim did come close and look up at me, and didn’t resist at all when I picked him up and carried him most of the way back. As we approached the car, he wanted back down again, so he could be a part of the pack and make it on his own four feet. That’s a terrier for you - independent all the way.

When we got back to the car, it was clear to see that he was all tuckered out.



We had a picnic lunch today in the back yard. Tim didn’t eat the roast beef I brought out to eat, sitting next to him in the bright sunshine, but JoLee and Star were more than willing to help eat Tim’s share. I was happy when he drank water. Hey, we take our happiness where we can find it, right?

Last night, Tim was so tired, all he wanted to do is lay on the floor. JoLee came close and smelled him all over, very thoroughly. Star did, too, wagging her tail the whole time.

After a while, I put him on Harry's lap - something they both love.



And this morning, for the first time ever, Tim did not bark to tell us the morning newspaper had hit the porch.

JoLee did.

Natural Selection

From my peaceful Sleeping Porch aerie, the dogs and I look out over the back yard. As you can see, if we want to, we can watch the comings and goings of the students and staff of Nebraska Wesleyan University. It can be quite entertaining (especially on those Sundays when the Anachronists are meeting).

I’ve been more irritated than entertained by the antics of the neighborhood squirrels. Not satisfied with the mother lode of acorns the mighty oak trees drop on the front yard each year, those danged tree rats have been systematically peeling the bark from the Buckeye tree in the back yard. That tree was given as a seedling to my Mom when my Dad died. When we moved Mom here to Nebraska from Colorado, we dug up the Buckeye and brought it with us - it was struggling to survive in the dry, sandy Colorado soil. As soon as its roots hit that good, black Nebraska dirt, the Buckeye flourished.

It was probably two Winters ago that I first saw strips of bark in the yard, looked up and noticed that the squirrels had peeled most of the bark off of several small limbs. When Spring came, I held my breath, hoping the Buckeye would recover. The tree did all right that year. But this year, the squirrels are at it again - and the damage is even worse. Many of the larger branches are completely bare, and once the cambium is gone clear around the branch, there’s no recovery.



There’s no way to keep the tree rats from the tree. In fact, one of the branches they’ve peeled bare has been used as a squirrel highway between the Buckeye and the big white pine for years and years.



A query on the internet brought me some really interesting information and even suggestions on how to deal with “skwerls.” Everything from cayenne pepper to firing up a crock pot is discussed (I’m presuming one is to render the little varmints lifeless before putting them into the crockpot, but I’m not sure if you’re supposed to add the cayenne after they’re in the crockpot or before).

At any rate, after a great deal of thought, I’ve decided to treat my little squirrel problem as an study of Natural Selection. If the tree dies, well, then, it dies. Dad died, after all, and ten years later, Mom followed suit. “To everything there is a season,” right?

Plus, then I don’t have to try to figure out a way to outsmart the danged skwerls.

What does it matter?

I’ve been listening to Mozart for the past month, because I read somewhere that Mozart increases brain activity and creativity. I’m afraid a solid month of Mozart may have burned my brain to ashes. Yesterday, I wanted to listen to something different, so I grabbed a handful of CDs from the entertainment center and brought them to work.

Among those in the handful were two Dan Fogelberg CDs, “The Wild Places” and “River of Souls.” Dan Fogelberg’s music will forever resonate in my soul. I can’t remember when I first started buying his albums, but it was back in the vinyl days - and then I bought them all over again when CDs made the scene. Dan died of prostate cancer on December 16, 2007, so listening to his music is bittersweet for me. I decided to go on-line and read a little more about him and stumbled across a blog written by one of the guys he grew up with, in Peoria, Illinois. It was interesting, reading about Dan’s rise to fame. The stories weren’t all that different from any other successful musician - being in the right place at the right time, the parties, the fame, the fortune, the heartbreak. But Dan spoke to me (and many others, I’m sure) through his lyrics.

Anyway, after I’d listened to those albums and read more about Dan on the internet, I found myself asking those hard questions I always seem to end up asking myself. What mark am I going to leave on this world? Do I even matter? Why am I even here? Those with children have already left their legacy. My husband is a well-known artist. What do I have to show for myself? I’m over 50 years old and what do I have to show for it? I no longer have the energy and pluck of youth to sustain a headlong rush to fame or claw my way into a new profession. And so I headed down my well-worn path to the Pit of Despair.

Teetering on the brink of that pit, a little voice in my head said, “Lisa, if there is even one person in this world that you have touched, you matter.”

I don’t know exactly where that little voice came from, but it stopped my headlong rush into self-deprecation and depression.

When you think about that little statement, it’s true for everyone. Everyone matters. Everything you do matters - from the phone call to check up on a friend, to smiling at someone on the street. From the harsh words you exchange with someone, to the later exchange of hugs. Everything matters. We’re all connected.

Just think of it: I never met Dan Fogelberg, yet he touched me on a fundamental level with his music.

Just think of who you could be influencing even now, with just a smile.

Listening to the Ice Freeze

I’ve walked the shores of quite a few lakes on quite a few winter days, but in all my many years of hiking, I have before never experienced the awesome sound of ice freezing. To be sure, "listening to ice freezing" sounds a whole lot like "watching paint dry," but nothing could be further from the truth.

This happened back in December, on a cold Saturday. When we got out of the car at Branched Oak, the temperature was a balmy 21 degrees, with very little wind. It was nowhere near as cold as it had recently been. Still, it hadn’t been cold enough long enough for the die-hard ice fishermen to be able to trust the strength of the new ice, so we were all alone at the reservoir. As soon as I’d finished locking up the car, I was baffled by a persistent noise.

Now, I've been at the lake in all kinds of conditions, and I've heard everything from thousands of snow geese to ice boats, but this noise was different. I’ve tried to find words to describe it, but the closest mental image I can give you of the sound is to – well, imagine a big upset stomach.

Tim ignored the sound, but JoLee paid attention, and so did Star. It gave us an unsettled feeling; a bit like a warning to be heeded. I was relieved when I figured out that it was the lake that was groaning. It burbled. It whispered, restlessly, and occasionally made sharp cracking noises, like a shot fired. And the oddest part of all of it is that all of these noises echoed, not only from under the ice, but all around us.

When we stood on Lieber’s Point, a finger of land that extends out into the lake, it was as if we had been swallowed, and that the lake was getting ready to regurgitate us. I felt small and insignificant. I can’t even begin to imagine the sound of the ice moving in the Arctic at thawing time.

Although eventually Star and JoLee lost interest in it, I continued to marvel at the noise as we continued our walk. It proved to me once again that, no matter how many experiences I may have throughout my lifetime, there are still new experiences out there for me.

Maybe even right next door.