More honesty

I don't think I'm dealing with my loss very well.  The house still feels empty though it is full of life. Puppy Skylar and Tellie wrestle and play; I wrestle and play with them.  The sound of their growling and Skylar's barking as they knock each other over is something I would usually love to hear. The "crunch, crunch, crunch" of a Skylar eating, can almost be like music. Watching Tellie gnaw on one of her bones and seeing Skylar chew on an old sneaker generally puts a smile on my face.  However, all this just seems to magnify my loss.

I can't help but think Jersey would be the ring leader of all these shenanigans.  She would be the one running the show.  She'd be the one teaching puppy how to be a dog.  She'd be the one serenly overseeing the mayhem from her spot on the couch, she'd be the one Tellie and Skylar would be climbing over when they nipped at her feet and got in her face.  She would be rolling over on her back, legs akimbo, letting them jump on her and grab at the thick fur under her neck.  I can see her smiling as they played with her and she swatted back.

These are the things I think about.  Instead of feeling joy at the sight and sound of two active dogs living lives of puppy contentment, I end up melancholy at the thought Jersey will never be taking part in any of this action. I keenly feel her absence. My life keeps moving ahead but it only means I'm getting further and further away from when she was here. It is an awful feeling, one I keep trying to shake off.  I'm doing my best to move on, I'm doing my best to let it go, I'm doing my best to change my perspective but I'm not being too successful at it. It's hard to move on when I'm overwhelmed by the distance of forever.

Let's go fly a kite

Walking Jersey was an experience much like a tug of war against a bigger, stronger opponent. One could only hang on hoping against hope there would be no residual rope burn on the palms before being dragged through the mud pit which was the clear indicator of winning or losing the battle. One could never win at this demonstration of "Feats of Strength"

She was a big dog.  She was 75 lbs of muscle and never quite got the idea of walking calmly on a leash.  It was always quite the sight seeing Alexa flying like a kite tied to Jersey's leash when they would go for a walk.  Jersey was oblivious as she powered her way down the sidewalk, Alexa yelling "HEEL! JERSEY, HEEL! HEEL! STOPPP!" at the top of her lungs until her cries were silenced as she was pulled further and further away.  Jersey was always on a mission and nothing would deter her.  Heaven forbid she would see a rabbit or a squirrel.  All hope would be lost as Jersey did her best to say "hello" to the critter who would have run away at the speed of light at the sight of the big, orange dog bearing down on it.

I on the other hand was better equipped to rein Jersey in.  I make no claim at superhuman strength though I thought I was Superman when I was a kid; "Faster than a speeding bullet! More powerful than a locomotive! Able to leap tall buldings in a single bound!" The truth was I was a scrawny 10 year old with a dish towel pinned to my shirt, running around the house with arms stretched out in front of me.

For some reason Jersey would respond to the sharp tug on her leash and my deep Basso Profundo command of "EASY!" She would usually slow down and stop straining at the end of her leash, walking easily next to me as if she didn't have a care in the world.  Generally exuding an air of "What's all the fuss? See? I hear you. There's no problem."

We had a couple of routes to walk when we lived in Colorado.  They would generally be up a hill (which seemed more like a mountain,) down the sidewalk, along the paved path which took us through the copse of evergreens to the green space at the far end of our development, finally wending our way back home.  Yet no matter how far we walked, how much she pulled or how hard I pulled back against her, I could never tire her out.  It seemed logical that the strain of being held back and a long walk would be enough to have her drop into her bed and pass out.  Not Jersey.  She'd only be energized, wanting more, asking to go for another walk.

Unfortunately, I'd never be able to accomodate her.  I'd be the one passed out on the floor, my chest heaving as I gasped for breath knowing I'd have to slather Ben-gay on my sore shoulded muscles.

Jersey had it figured out.  I swear she knew if she wore us out from a leashed walk, I'd be more inclined to take her to the dog park where she could run free.  She wouldn't have to be concerned with our pleas to stop or running fast enough to keep the kites flying.

Fighting the fight

Yesterday afternoon when I got home from work, Alexa and I sat out on the deck.  Tellie and puppy Skylar were with us.  Tellie, doing her best to stay away from puppy and Skylar doing her best to get Tellie to play. It was hot, it was humid and the afternoon sun was cooking us.  It was Jersey weather outside
 and we could picture her lying against the house, panting and being absorbed looking at the trees, watching for movement of the leaves as she waited for for a breeze to blow.

Both Alexa and I had the same thought at the same time.  Jersey should be here with us.  Among the things she loved best was being with her pack, not necessarily sitting next to us but being with us, knowing we were there.  Knowing she was doing her job; keeping watch over the yard keeping critters away.

From where our chairs were, we could see the view she would have had if she was sitting on the top of the stairs.  She would sit with her butt on the deck and her long legs resting on the top step and look out over the backyards of our neighbors.  If she saw anyone, be it someone cutting their lawn or sitting on their deck, she would bark, letting them know she saw them and that she was on patrol.

As we talked about her, I started getting angry. Angry that she wasn't there.  Angry that her life had been cut short.  Angry that we were robbed of her. Angry that there was absolutely nothing we could do to prevent the lymphoma from taking her life.  I miss her and keenly feel her loss.

It got me to thinking that, god forbid, if anything happened to Tellie or Skylar I would be devastated.  It would be a horror if either contracted a cancer of some sort and they had to fight that losing battle.  We've been through it with Jersey and know the effect it has had on us.  I can't bear the thought of going through it again.

That's why it is so important to do everything possible to find a cure for the many, many forms of cancer which can potentially take the life of our beloved companions.  The National Canine Cancer Foundation is conducting research on a daily basis in a heroic attempt to eradicate the disease.

You can help them in their fight.

Making a donation to this 501(c)3 organization allows them to keep up their daily battle.  It is unfortunate that this research is so expensive to conduct and that we, as pet owners, are the ones who have to support their efforts.  There are a few grants available, there are some sponsored events to raise money but it takes more than that to sustain their work.

A donation of $5 can help them in their efforts.  For me, $5 seems a small price to pay if it means that Tellie or Skylar will not have to face a certain death sentence if they were to get cancer.

If you make a $5 through www.jerseysplace.org to the National Canine Cancer Foundation, I'll send you a Jersey's Place wrist band.  I wear mine not only as a memorial to my Jersey but because I believe in a cure.  One side of the orange band is debossed with a paw print and "Jersey's Place." Debossed on the other side are the words BELIEVE in a cure...and another paw print.

Go to www.jerseysplace.org and click the tab for donate.  The active link will take you directly to the Foundation website where you can make your contribution.

It helps me work through my grief at the loss of Jersey by knowing I've taken an active role in fighting against this awful disease which took her life much too soon.  Maybe you, too can get some comfort if you've lost a puppy or kitty friend through taking action.  Maybe you'll get satisfaction knowing you've done everything you can to protect the life of your furry companion

She ain't heavy

We got a puppy about a week and a half ago.  We've named her Skylar and she's an 11 week old, 11 pound bundle.  She is laid back, has a wonderful disposition and is truly finding a home with us. When we first adopted her from the Howard County Animal Welfare Foundation, a no-kill shelter here in Maryland, she was sick with what we thought was kennel cough.  It turns out she had pneumonia and ended up having to spend a couple of nights in the hospital.  She's back with us now, feeling better and reminding us what it is like to have a puppy in the house.

After Alexa took the picture yesterday and I posted it on Facebook and someone commented that she has the same eyes as Jersey.  I didn't pick up on it at first but now that it was mentioned, Skylar does have the same steady gaze and knowing look that Jersey had at the same age.  As I think about it and watch Skylar, I am noticing more and more similarities. the most startling one is what I'm doing to get her housebroken.

In a previous blog back in February or March, I wrote about how I had been carrying Jersey up and down the stairs of the back deck.  Jersey was an 80 pound, heavy, muscle bound dog. When she started going lame and showing the signs of her illness, it was harder and harder for her to get outside to pee and poop. I made a commitment to her that I would carry her in and out for as long as she needed no matter how heavy she was.  She eventually came to realize that she needed the help and began to help me lift her from the ground.  She would lean into me, almost as if she was shifting her weight to make it easier to get into my arms and carry her.  I ended up having to get a wrist brace and forearm wrap to get some additional support for myself so I wouldn't blowout either my wrists or my arms because of overdoing it.  I carried her up and down, in and out countless times during her illness.  It was difficult to some degree but was done from a place of love and was never, ever a burden.  She never really felt heavy because I knew I was helping her the best way I could and that she appreciated it. That was a few months ago.

Now, I'm carrying Skylar in and out through the same door and up and down the same steps so she can pee and poop.  She hasn't quite figured out how to get down the stairs so she has to be carried and I carry her back up them sometimes.  She does know how to climb the stairs though and sometimes I let her. Mostly though she needs a lift. She still has the pneumonia, though it is going away, and shouldn't really be exerting herself or else she gets into a coughing fit.

What I am struck by is that there is some sort of similarity and a kind completion involved here.  I carry Skylar just as I carried Jersey. Skylar is light as a feather and I can carry her on my arm so I can support her chest, her long legs dangling.

Jersey was heavier but I carried her just the same.

It's bittersweet when I think about it; I'm doing the same thing but for different dogs.. A couple of months ago I started carrying our special girl who was at the end of her life.  Now, I'm carrying this helpless puppy who is just beginning to discover us and the world. 

Jersey's room

I miss Jersey the most at night before I go to bed even though we didn't have any special nightime rituals which make me think of her. She didn't usually sleep with us, she didn't jump up on the bed to say goodnight.  She would generally fall asleep on her bed which was on the floor in what we called "Jersey's Room."

She did have her routine which involved walking from roon to room at about three o'clock in the moring. She would make sure all of us were where we were supposed to be; safely tucked into bed and sleeping.  Only then would she go back to one of the rooms she called her own and go back to sleep knowing she had done her job and that all was well in her world.

She always liked her own space.  When we were living in Colorado, we had a futon in the office.  She would usually pass out on that at the end of the day.  She would snore and twitch as she dreamed about chasing rabbits or running in the dog park. Of course, I don't really know what she was dreaming about. I could only guess as her eyes flutterred, her legs and toes twitched and she made the same kind of yipping noises she would make when she saw a rabbit.

She was always independent.  She had her special places staked out.  During the day she could be found on the guest room bed, the love seat in the den or on the leather couch downstairs in the "Man Cave."  I tried to keep it covered up but today there are scratches and scuff marks where she would sleep and stretch her long legs against the back cushions.  On Sunday nights, I lie on the floor of the man cave watching TV.  It's when I'm reminded it was one of her favorite spots.  It's another one of those times when I miss her most.

Today, I have a candle on the window sill of Jersey's room. The place in the house she could think of as her own. The candle sits over the scratches she made when she would paw at the window as she tried to get the attention of people walking on the sidewalk past the house, letting them know she was on patrol and had her eye on them. I can still see her either asleep in her bed or sitting in front of the window, looking.

Each night I stand in the doorway of that room which is bathed in the orange flicker of the candle.  It's then I feel her loss.  I talk to her and tell her how much I miss her and love her.  I let her know the light in the window is her spirit shining out for the world to see. There is some comfort knowing it's there as if she still has watch over the house. I let her know when she see's the light, she'll know where we are.

I go to sleep thinking of her. I'm glad for the feeling she's still going from room to room, watching over her family, making sure we're all OK

Puppy games and constellations

Jersey had very long legs and paws like baseball mitts when she was a puppy.  She was also very stubborn.  No matter how many times she was called, no matter how many treats she was offered, no matter how many times I sat on the ground to coax her to me, she would only come when she wanted and she didn't want to very often.

Every night we would let her out for one last time before bed.  Every night it was a battle to get her to come back inside.  You couldn't chase her.  She considered it a game and always kept just out of reach.  She would sit and look at us with a "catch me if you can" look on her face.  She knew she was smarter than we were and she never let us forget it.

The one trick we used to lure her back into the house was to pretend someone was at the front door.  We would either knock on the wall which sounded like someone at the door or either Alexa or I would ring the doorbell and announce in a cheery voice "Oh, HELLO!  It's so nice to see you!"  She would come galloping into the house, barking the high pitched bark of a puppy that was meant to be intimidating and assertive but only made us smile.

Eventually she caught on to our trickery and resorted back to sitting on the brick patio giving us the smug look which only endeared her to us that much more.

For the first few weeks she was with us, I slept on the floor next to her crate.  I thought it would keep her quiet and settled if she saw someone was with her if she woke up in the middle of the night.  I also thought it would be easier to get her out of her bed and outside to pee if  I was right there.  I was obsessed with avoiding accidents and tried my best to anticipate any little peep or snort or "woof" and whisk her outside.  I especially wanted to get her out in the middle of the night if she needed.  I figured it would speed the housebreaking process and let me get back to sleep quicker.

The Santa Fe sky in the middle of the night is spectacular.  We lived on the outskirts of town in a development where there were no streetlights.  I always thought the builders wanted to avoid light pollution just for the purpose of being able to see the stars.  In truth though, they were too cheap to have them installed but that's another story.

I would scoop Jersey up in my arms, carry her into the backyard and let her do what she needed to do.  I always took it as an opportunity to look up and have my breath taken away.  It was possible to actually see the white smear of the Milky Way stretching across the sky from the Sangre de Christos to the east and the Jimez range to the west. One could count the seven sister stars of the Pleiades which ordinarily would only be visible through a telescope.  They were high in the sky, winking blue and white against the blackness of night.  They were one of the most beautiful sights I have been privileged to behold.

Jersey on the other hand would be sitting in the gravel which made up the majority of our little yard, looking at me with a "what's next" look on her face.  I would snap from my reverie and remember it was three o'clock in the morning and needed to get back to sleep.  I would motion to Jersey to come to me.  No response. I would qently tell her to "come." No response.  I was trying to be quiet.  it was after all the middle of the night and I didn't want to wake Alexa.

With more urgency, I would command "Come!" She would still be sitting looking at me, her eyes glittering with mischief.  In my expasperation I would take a step toward her.  She would take a step back. "Jersey, I'm getting tired of this.  Come here!" She would take another step back, daring me to come get her.

I would usually win the challenge when I would corner her against the wall surrounding the yard.  She didn't care, she would have enjoyed toying with me and would end up licking my face with puppy excitement as I carried her back in to go back to sleep.  She would always give a contented sigh after I closed the door of her cage.  She would fall back to sleep with a smile on her face, dreaming of beating me once again, at my own game.

Wisdom through suffering

For the first time in a long time, I've not experienced any waves of grief, I haven't felt like I'm drowning in despair and my heartbreak seems to be developing a thin layer of scar tissue and is possibly beginning to heal.  I don't feel like I'm suffering with my loss.  It is dissapating as I simply experience the loss without suffering and that I'm beginning to understand the difference: suffering with the feeling of loss is paralyzing. This, as opposed to simply feeling a sense of loss without suffering.  For me, the suffering associated with the loss of my Jersey is related to the sense of finality that comes with death; the sense that she is gone forever and that forever is a long, long time.  Hopefully someday I'll be 90 years old and she still will not have come back.

I don't know if I believe the concept of being reunited in Heaven.  No one has ever come back to tell me it's true.  Those that might have come back to give an answer haven't; they are dead. I think we take a sense of comfort from telling ourselves that there will be a joyous greeting upon arriving at the pearly gates.  I also think the idea of death is so incomprehensible that we had to create the idea that death isn't really final there. It is a nice thought, I just don't know if I can buy into it only to have it turn out not to be true.

My aim is not to engage in a discussion of the reality of heaven, it's to share my evolution from suffering to a deep sense of loss which I can accept and even begin to live with.  I will always miss Jersey; there will always be something gone from my life that can never be replaced.  My realization is that I don't have to suffer as a result of it. Loss is just one of those feelings associated with our human experience and ultimately is one of our emotions. Accepting loss for what it is rather than asking "why" is a much healther attitude than drowing in our suffering.

This evolution I think is best expalined by a quote from Aeschulys, an ancient greek poet and dramatist: "He who learns must suffer.  And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."

I've learned it is OK to experience loss.  We wouldn't even know what it is unless there was a flip side to it. A sense of discovery.  I am discovering it is possible to love and accept another dog into my life.  Jersey will never be replaced and I will always miss her. But someday I'm counting on the loss slowly being replaced by joy.  Joy at what I have and joy at what I had with Jersey.

A story

Little DaisyFe was to become a part of our family.  We found her at the Howard County Animal Welfare Society, a no-kill shelter in Howard County, Maryland. We fell in love with her as soon as we saw her and made the decision to give her a home.

A few weeks ago I wrote that I wasn't ready to get another dog and that it would probably be awhile.  Well, enough of you know that when you see "the one," you know it.  Everything changed when we met her.

She had been in a kennel with her brothers and sisters.  They were a litter of mixed breed Australian Shepards and were born this past February.  They were resuced from a shelter in Georgia and were now waiting to be adopted.

Daisy was hiding at the back of the pack, seemingly not sure what to make of the two people who were sitting on the ground inside the kennel.  The other pups had swarmed over us, as puppies will, licking, jumping, nipping my beard and generally showing the unbridled enthusiasm of a new born puppy, not understanding the certain fate that awaited them had they not been rescued.


Alexa coaxed her out and held her in her lap.  it was obvious there was something special about this pup.  Though she had a mishapen left eye, she had a gentle, gentle spirit and innocence which was obvious as she gently licked Alexa's nose.  I could almost hear the pup saying "I recognize you.  You are my protector and I trust you."

Alexa was touched and my questions about a new dog disappeared as she spent more and more time with us.

To cut to the chase, we brought her home last Saturday.  She had a case of kennel cough and even though she had been given a nasal antibiotic she was still wheezing, sounding like she was sucking water through a straw.  She was given an injection of a stronger antibiotic and was returned to us with the admonition that if she got worse, contact the shelter and their vet would attend to her.

She had been given a bath before we picked her up and was wrapped in a blanket because she had been shivering.

We got her home, still wrapped in the blanket and took her into the backyard so Tellie could get a sniff of her while checking out this new addition who appeared on her turf.

The puppy spent some time outside with us, appearing not to be feeling too well; we weren't sure if it was from the bath, the antibiotics or the stress of a new place.  It was probably a combination of all three.  She was groggy and had taken a couple of wobbly steps in an effort to explore the freshly cut grass which had that outdoorsy, summery smell which ordinarly makes a puppy leap about in joy.

We took her in the house and introduced her to her bed.  She settled in immediately giving a contened sigh as she fell asleep.

As she slept, Alexa did an Internet search to try and find out what the pup's ears would look like as she grew.

What Alexa found filled us with dread, shock and horror.

White Aussie Shepards with a mishapen left eye, as our pup had, were the result of inbreeding and usually were born blind or deaf or both.  Because of this inbreeding, they were born with a double gene which would utlimately destroy their system.  A nickname for these particular pups is "Lethal White." They are called this because they are usually put down when they're born because of the propensity of complications which were sure to occur during her life. It was almost guaranteed to be cut short because of a disturbing number of medical issues.  Pups like this who are not euthanized are considered "special needs" dogs which require an extraordinary amount of testing and concentrated care, extraordinary care that was beyond our capacity.

It turned out the pup had indeed been born deaf.  She didn't know how to bark because she had never heard another dog.  She would never hear our voices calling to her.  She would never recognize the words "come" or "sit" or "good girl."

To jump even further ahead, we had to make the agonizing decision to take her back, especially in light of what we had just been through with Jersey. We were so not equipped to provide for her special circumstances and would have to let another family better able to provide her the care she required take her home.  We knew she would be adopted quickly and would get a home.

The next evening we made the another decision that we would go back to get her.  No matter what it took, she needed us and we needed her in our lives.  No one would be better equipped to take care of her than we were.  We would name her DaisyFe.  Fe meaning "faith." We had faith everything would be alright.

Alexa e-mailed the shelter to tell them we would pick her up in the morning.

We received a return e-mail.  She had unexplicably and suddenly passed away.

Another hole in our lives; another heartbreak; another devastation.

I'm so thankful that in the few hours she was with us she was able to have an experience of family.  We experienced the joy of providing help, shelter and love for a helpless being. She was going to be ours and we would love her.

DaisyFe, now you are whole and healed.  Your spirit is with Jersey and ultimately, there is no better place to be.

A milestone reached

It's a little less than two months ago since our Jersey left us and as to be expected, I'm still feeling a giant hole and oppressive sadness in my heart from the loss.  Time seems to have slowed down.  Each day
crawls by s     l     o     w     l     y as the seconds, minutes and hours tick on.  But, I'm taking untold comfort from all those offering their support to me through my Facebook open group page Jersey's Place. It means alot to me.

What really provides comfort is the impact Jersey seems to have had on all those following us on FB.  Most members never met her; most never saw her in action, most never had the experience of being stealthily sniffed as she cautiously checked you out.  The thing that gets me are the number of folks who have told me that they HAVE come to know her through these pages and feel her spirit. They have been so touched by her that many have been inspired to take action because of her story.

Yesterday we reached a milestone.  We've raised $500 in donations for the National Canine Cancer Foundation (www.wearethecure.org) through our website www.jerseysplace.org.  Folks have been so moved by her that they have generously created a living memorial in her name by contributing to the on-going research efforts to find a cure for the many forms of canine cancer which unflinchingly robs us everyday of our beloved companions. It takes them without regard for breed, color, size, age or sex. I am gobsmacked at the number of people who are going through the same thing I am.  Even more surprising are the numbers of those beloved companions who were taken away around the same time as Jersey.  Canine Cancer is a very active, dreaded disease.  I truly believe Jersey would still be here with us if there had been a cure. Our support for this research goes a long way to sparing someone else the grief so many of us have experienced.

It's become more than our donors receiving a Jersey's Place wristband.  I think it's about the compassion people have for each other during their time of need.  At least in my experience, people are quick to act and offer support.  I am grateful for each one of them.

When I set out to do something in Jersey's memory, I wanted to do something to make myself feel better. I had no idea people would become so invested in her story.  They have.  They have been touched by her beauty and her spirit and have come to love her as much as I do.  My thanks. Love and mercy to you all.