Wherein I talk mostly about dogs.
Concentration 1.01
No crystals
Red cells-yes, white cells-no
LOT of protein
Bun 103 (34 is normal)
Creatinin 3.7 (2.3 is normal)
Thyroid and liver enzymes normal
This is what my vet told me yesterday before he said: “You have a renal failure kitty.” No wonder Maxwell has been peeing all over the house. Dr. Mac said Maxwell will eventually stop eating. The good news is he’s not in any pain and he’s had a really good 16-and-a-half years.
The first dead human I ever saw was the dad of one of the kids in my high school band. I remember the kid played percussion, and I think he was one of the Michaels that we referred to as Michael with a last initial. Pretty sure the dad died of a heart attack. Anyway, I went to the viewing with my best friend David, who was also in the band, and as we stood there in line with my middle school band teacher, we had one of those totally inappropriate jokey moments and were all shuddering silently, trying to conceal our laughter. Michael H.(?)’s dad wore a suit and was laid out in a fancy coffin, and I was struck by two things, his stillness and how much he resembled Michael.
I also went to the viewing of a co-worker’s father in 2004. This was when I was teaching in New York City, and I didn’t even know the guy very well. But he’d always been nice to me and he had given me one of my top three pieces of teaching advice: “If you see a kid doing something wrong, acknowledge the kid who’s doing it right.” The father looked stiff in his tuxedo, clownish in his make-up. Mr. Yount (working in an elementary school, learning first names is optional) seemed truly appreciative that I had come, but I felt uncomfortable and left as quickly as I could without being rude.
I’ve seen lots of roadkill in my life, including my own pets in childhood, and a few months back, I watched a white cat dash into the road and get hit by a pick-up truck, flipped and torn apart by the tires. That experience gave me some mini-PTSD, I think, as I kept thinking about it for weeks. The image still plays in my mind when I drive down that little stretch of 70.
(I’m pretty sure I myself ran over a squirrel last year, but I didn’t see it in my rear-view mirror so I prefer to think it escaped and is scampering around Mt. Moriah Road gathering nuts for this winter.)
And then, of course, there’s Boone. When my brother-in-law took him out of the Animal Control truck, he just seemed heavily asleep. E. put him down on a piece of wood in the driveway. I knelt sobbing and touched my forehead to my dog’s side. When I ran my hands over his chest, I found the bullet holes; my hands came away bloody. His glassy eyes stared, and his tongue hung comically out the side of his mouth like in the cartoons. E. and I dug a hole in my front yard. I lifted Boonie up, carried him to the hole, and laid him in his grave. We mounded the dirt on top of him. The next day I planted a little flower garden there and sank bricks into the ground for a border. I look at that little garden every day.
Anyway, I’ve just been thinking about this because before Boonie died, I never understood the tradition of viewings. But a few months after his death, I was discussing the concept of acceptance with somebody, and I realized that that’s what seeing, touching, carrying his dead body had done for me. It helped me accept that he was dead. At the time, I wished I could turn back the clock, I played all the what-if games with myself, and six months later, I still cry about it. But he’s dead. He’s dead, and I accept that.
Dear Violet,
You know that I know that you know that I know that you’ve been sleeping in my bed while I’m at work. Come now, I’m not that dirty. I also don’t tend to put shoes on my bed. I especially don’t tend to put ONE flip-flop and ONE sneaker on my bed. So stop looking all yawny and waggy, with your ears back like “What?”, when you meet me in the kitchen when I get home.
Love,
Amy
P.S. I love you anyway.
Redford gets so excited about the treat that he’ll get when he loads up into the car that sometimes he doesn’t wait for me to open the door before he tries to jump in. He’s so pretty.
This morning, he did just that, and while I was fretting over his noggin, I dropped Violet’s leash. She seized the opportunity to sprint toward the road, which of course made me freak out and run after her. And then I remembered. That’s her game. As long as you chase her, she’ll run. So I turned my attention back to my special needs son. Sure enough, Violet came strolling back up the driveway and jumped in the car.
I was reminded of this kid, Michael, who I had my third year teaching in NY. He was a handsome little guy, always in uniform: navy pants, yellow button-down, navy tie. (Some public schools in NY—mostly low socio-economic schools—opt to be uniform schools.) Smart too. But Michael was a desk-thrower. And he cursed A LOT. He’d have these fits where I’d have to evacuate the rest of the kids from the class and let him wreck the joint. And sometimes he’d get mad and leave the classroom. The first few times I ran after him. I was worried he might hurt somebody or run out in the street and get hit by a bus or something. About the fifth time, I don’t know, the novelty had worn off maybe, and it took me a little longer to follow him. When I got into the hall, he was peeking back through the double doors to make sure I was coming. That’s when I realized, he didn’t want to run away; he wanted to be chased. Dogs and fourth-graders, man.
P.S. I used to talk to Michael’s grandmother every day after school. One Monday, I went out to tell her that he had a GREAT day. I told her, “He was calm and focused. He didn’t curse or have any tantrums. He did all his work.” She said, “Yeah, he started anti-psychotic meds on Saturday.”
Redford the Dog just got into an altercation with a metal stool. I didn’t see the whole thing, but I’m pretty sure the stool whooped some ass.
Dear Boonie,
Tomorrow it’ll be four months since you died.
My friend Kate? At work? The one whose mom would have said, “Get another dog”? Anyway, her sixteen-year-old daughter just got her heart broken. First relationship, like two years, and he went off to college. And lasted a month. Anyway, the daughter’s doing a lot of crying, apparently. Yeah. And she said to her mom, “I’m not ready for it to be over. It was the one good thing in my life.” Looking at it as a 34-year-old, I can see the statement is teenage histrionics, but the histrionic teenager in me can really relate because that’s how I feel about you. I’m not ready for it to be over. I wasn’t done loving you.
Love,
Amy
My dogs just spent two hours running around in the rain with their friend Barley…and now they’re wrestling on the living room floor. I mean, seriously, what do I have to do to wear these dogs out?
Dear Violet,
You’ve always been different from Boone and Redford. You chewed a few things when you were a baby, but it seemed like you got over that pretty quickly. (You’ll still collect my things, but you don’t chew them. I’ll come home these days to find a sneaker, a flip-flop, and a bra in your bed, all perfectly intact.) Redford’s tail conducts a little symphony of joy all the time, a work of varied time signatures and tempos, but your tail has always had three settings: side-slapping with joy, the metronome tick, and between your legs. You’re smart, unlike your brothers, bless their hearts. You memorize places where I put you back on-leash, and from then on, it’s like I have a force field around me when I hit those spots. You won’t come within ten feet of me. Though you don’t always follow the rules yourself, you are The Enforcer and sound the alarm whenever your brother is doing something naughty.
You love having play-dates and slumber parties with your friends: Jackie, Barley, Raven, and Moby. One time, I stupidly left Moby’s food bag on the floor. I walked in to find Boonie sniffing at a giant, slobbery hole in the side. I started to chastise him, but something else caught my eye. You, looking like one of Dr. Seuss’s star-bellied sneeches, prostrate on the living room floor. Sure enough, I took you all out for a walk and, ORP, you barfed up an enormous rainbow pile of Beneful.
From Day One you were terrified of children, and really anyone who didn’t love dogs. You love to swim and dig your nose under the water (I call it The Bulldozer). You love wrestling with your brother. You send me on a total guilt trip when we haven’t been hiking in a few days. You prefer to be rubbed on your chest and belly and will contort yourself on the couch to make it happen. Despite my dismay, you insist on digging holes in my yard when I’m not looking, and then stare at me wide-eyed and innocent when I see your nose covered in red clay and give you a talking to. Redford’s all ADD and will wander away from his food mid-bowl, and you’ll slink over and munch quietly until I yell at you. If he’s being particularly focused one day, you’ll run to the door and arf as if there’s something he should be aware of, just to distract him. When you lie down, it’s in full frog pose. I sent a picture to ihasahotdog.com, so you have been immortalized.
That horrible day, when you popped out of the woods after four hours missing, I thought my body would fall to pieces. I had never experienced relief like that before, which made it all the more horrible when Laura told me Boone was dead. For days, I’d tell Wa, “I feel like I’m dying.” And she’d ask if I was suicidal, and I’d say no, I didn’t feel like dying, I felt like I was dying. The only thing that kept me going was you and your tragic, confused face.
It’s safe to say you’re the best decision I’ve ever made, Violet. You are my rock and my guard dog and my shweetie pie. I love you so much.
Love,
Amy
Dear Violet,
You might wonder how I could’ve written to Redford before I wrote to you. Lots of reasons, I guess. He’s so loud and there all the time. He’s also my replacement dog for Boonie, whom I’m still mourning. Mostly, though, I wrote to him first because I feel like I could fill tomes about you, and it’s hard for me to start. Anne Lamott says to start with a one-inch square and just write about that. I’ll start with how I got you.
My co-worker Taren had gotten Jake the Springer Spaniel-Lab Mix a year prior and was in LURVE with him. She thought I should get a dog. I said thanks but no thanks. Too much of a tether to my house. Sometimes I liked to go straight from work to the gym or out with my buddies and not come home until late. Couldn’t do that if someone was at home in a kennel and going to piss herself.
Anyhow, one Saturday afternoon, Taren called. She was at the shelter and there were these three little lab puppies that I had to come see. I begged off with the excuse that I had just walked 20 miles. (I really had just walked 20 miles; Wa and I were training to walk a marathon.) She mentioned the shelter was open on Sunday afternoons, and I said I’d think about it. I did think about it. That was all.
Monday came around, and Taren offered to go to the shelter with me–good god, she was persistent. I said OK, but I told her I didn’t want her to be disappointed if I didn’t adopt a dog. We went inside, and those three lab puppies sure were cute, right there snuggled up in the first cage. Most of the dogs were arfing, “Take me, take me,” and I died a little inside. But then I turned around and saw you, a pit bull-lab mix, about 5 months old, brownish-black with a white chest and little white reflector pads on your heels. The sheet posted on your kennel said in bold print ‘Cruelty/Confiscation’. You stood up on the cage and stared deep in my eyes and licked my fingers. That was it. It was Thursday before I took you home, what with my having to cry to my therapist about it and the shelter’s being closed on Wednesdays and your having to get your lady-surgery, but that moment sealed the deal. There was no backing out.
Rosie called me on the night I brought you home and demanded, “Nunu, what about the puppy?”
I said, “What about the puppy?”
“What did you name the puppy?” she demanded.
“Well, I haven’t named her anything yet,” I told her.
“You could name her Violet,” she said. I don’t know where she came up with that, but it was perfect.
More anon.
Love,
Amy
So Redford took my mouth guard off my night stand again, and this time he ate it. Not put a crack down the side like the last time, after which I brushed it with my electric toothbrush and popped it back in my mouth. This time he ate it. I found a few little shards off plastic on the dog bed, but otherwise, as Anne Lamott would say, Sugar, Honey, it’s gone.
How could I not notice him eating it? Shut up.
Earlier in the evening, I had dropped some ice, and ice is clear and crunchy too. Course, ice doesn’t usually last 20 minutes, but Redford was quiet and occupied, and you don’t know how rare an occasion that is.
Anyhow, it’s gone.
That means I’ve been sleeping without a barrier between my upper and lower teeth for three nights. Big deal, right? Well, people have told me that when I don’t wear a mouth guard, they can hear me grinding my teeth. Let me say that again: they can hear me grinding my teeth. Now I’ve tried during my waking hours to grind my teeth audibly and I CAN’T DO IT. Go ahead, try it! How hard is that?!
I’ve had a mouth guard since I was twelve. Dentist-made ones, ones I bought at Dick’s Sporting Goods, soft ones, hard ones, ones that cover my top teeth, bottom teeth, both sets of teeth, ones that just sat between my back teeth. None have helped with the headaches or the TMJ. They certainly don’t stop you from clenching. In fact, they encourage it. If you have something between your teeth, the impulse is to bite it. (Get your minds out of the gutter, pervs.) But mouth guards have stopped me from grinding my teeth, as one dentist put it, “down to nubs”.
Redford didn’t eat a $10 one I got off the Internet or a $20 one from Dick’s. No, he ate the real kind. The one I had to go to a different dentist for because he made yet again a different kind for me to try but of course I had to get an exam and a full set of X-rays from him and that’ll be 800 please.
(By the way, I love how dentists’ office people never say the word ‘dollars’. It’s always ‘800’, or for my root canal last year ‘a thousand’. I always want to say, “Bananas? Can I give you a thousand bananas?”)
