Another Week, Another Eulogy.

Momma and Jack, October, 1998

The horrible thing. 

The thing I can't talk about.

The thing I knew was coming and dreaded and could not bring myself to face, has happened.

My darling Jack The Dog has gone.

Cancer sucks.  Lymphoma sucks.  Even when it's just your dog.

On Friday evening, he seemed much as he had - declining, but not broken -  but when we awoke on Saturday morning, we knew that the time had come.  He was suddenly no longer interested in eating and his legs could no longer support him. 

His girlfriends (see below) came and spent the better part of the day with him and with us, all of us lying with him on the floor, petting him, loving him until the time came to let go.

The vet made a house call, armed with her pink syringe, and Jack quickly went to sleep in my arms. 

It was horridly painful.

It still is.

It seems absolutely mad that just last week he was insistently barking for Pumpkin Cookies.

How in the world does time just keep moving on? 

I couldn't write a word at first, but, as I'd felt compelled to write a tribute to Cosmo J. Bird less than a month ago, I now feel an even stronger urge to share the story of Jack The Dog with you.  I don't need sympathy or comments or any of those things.  Just, please, read on to share the life of one, very loved, Jack Dog.




Jack the Dog at 2 years old.


THE STORY OF JACK THE DOG

When my husband and I were first married, we lived in an apartment, but finally got enough saved up to buy a small house in a bedroom community, about 40 minutes north of where we worked. 

My husband has always known that I simply can not live without dogs, and he had always promised me that we'd get a dog as soon as we had a house.  He kept his promise.

Within two weeks of moving, I was reading the paper in my new dining room, sipping coffee and probably having a bagel, when I spied an ad in the local paper advertising three litters of puppies available in a nearby desert-ish town for $25.00 each. 

$25.00?

That's IT?

Suffice to say that I didn't have too much convincing to do, and being childless at the time, it was easy enough for us to hop in the car and drive 20 minutes or so to Anza.  As soon as we stepped out of the car, we were immediately swarmed with puppies.

Swarmed, I say.

There were SO MANY puppies-- three mothers, two fathers--all living on a working farm, puppies spilling out of the barns, puppies romping in the grass, puppies yelping, puppies panting, puppies running to the water dishes... it was sheer madness and hilarity. 

The mother of one of the litters was a beautiful Chow and Shepard mix, the father, mostly Australian Cattle Dog.  Most of her pups looked similar with crazy-fluffy long, thick under-coated fur, black and tan markings and purple spotted tongues.  I had my eye on a little boy with the cutest curly fur, and I followed him around for a little while, attempting to catch his eye, when I noticed that his straight-haired brother was following ME. 

I couldn't shake him.

No matter where I went, or which puppy I played with, this guy wouldn't let me go.

That's right.  We didn't pick Jack The Dog.  Jack The Dog picked US.

So that was it, then.  He was coming with us.  Aside from finding Jack (or the other way around, if you must), the most amazing part of the day was when his mother followed us to the car, stuck her nose in, gave it (and us) a good inspection, and then finally nudged Jack one last time and turned back toward the barn. 

It was amazing.  I'd never known a momma dog to say goodbye like that. I'll never forget Jack The Dog's Dog Momma and her goodbye and well-wishes. 

He was named on the drive home - 'Jack', for the everyman.  'Jack' for the great Jacks in history and literature and song.  'Jack' is a good name for a dog. 

And that is how I came to be the Momma of a $25.00 desert dog-boy.

It wasn't all roses and sonnets, of course.  He was a bit on the aggressive side, a bit too crazy when people came to the door, but he was the smartest dog I've ever known. 

He considered it a personal affront that cats and rabbits exist in the world, and had a special bark for each of them.  In fact, the only not-so-smart thing I ever saw from him was the time when he was still less than a year old, and he was so intent on running after a cat across the street that he didn't notice that there was a car coming.  Fast.

He ran smack into the side of the moving car, bounced off the door, and rolled in a fuzzy ball down the street.

He was fine.  The driver was a little shaken.

Opening Jack's Stocking, Christmas, 2010

I've never known another dog to love Christmas as much as I do.  Jack did.   He loved sitting under the Christmas tree, he loved presents and insisted that HE have presents to unwrap at any gift-giving occasion.  Sounds expensive and spoiled, I know, but he was perfectly happy if I wrapped his old toys in newspaper, which is exactly what I did. 



My husband and Jack used to stare out the front window on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus.  I made him a Christmas stocking, and I'm pretty sure that he waited all year long for me to bring down the boxes of Christmas decorations so it could be ChristmasTime again.

Waiting for Santa.

My mother, the Saint, fed Jack his very first people food, when she came to visit my house for the first time during Thanksgiving.  Of course, she gave him turkey.  Right off the platter.  Which spawned a lifelong infatuation with deli meats.  Try making a sandwich with a barking dog at your heels.  Every.Day.

He was my first child.  The first dog that was ever really mine - not my parents' dog, not my family's dog.  MY dog.

Jack gets his first look at Miss M, April, 2007.

When my actual children came along, Jack was always right THERE, inspecting new babies, keeping watch over baths, supervising the putting into car seats and encouraging both of my kids to run after him long before they should have started walking.

The first time we took him camping, he had a blast exploring around the campground, until it was time to settle in for the night, and he spent hours looking from us at the campfire to the car and back again, clearly wondering what the hell it was we were thinking and why weren't we getting in the car and going home?

Run, Run as far as you dare.... then run back to Momma.
At the Salt Flats, near Anza-Borrego State Park, California.

As long as we lived in that first house, every year after we'd unwrapped our Christmas presents, we took him to the mountains to find some snow.  He reveled in it.  He darted in and out of the snow, burying his nose deep into the white, snuffling forward and sideways, making long, winding trails under the trees.

Building Snow Dogs with Daddy on Christmas Day.

We took him for walks in a nearby desert-y meadow, under a bridge with fantastic graffiti, and he would rurunrunrunrun through the flowers and scrub and sand as fast as he could, ears back, fur flying, tail straight as an arrow.

Under his favorite Bridge.

My best friend, Laurie, lived nearby with her two gigantic wolf-mix dogs, Mitoc and Teemo.  They were the best of friends.  Jack would lick poor Teemo's often infested ears, taking care of his older brother and running in and out under the legs of Mitoc the Lumbering Gentle Giant.  He loved them so much, that when Laurie and Mitoc and Teemo moved away to Virginia, we didn't DARE mention their names, or Jack would go tearing around the house searching for them for hours.  For ten years, this continued, until fate brought Laurie back home to San Diego just this past year (her dogs having made their own journey's across the Rainbow Bridge), and while Jack clearly wondered where Teemo and Mitoc were, just having Laurie back made him happy.  I'm so glad Jack lived long enough to spend time with his girlfriend again.  Ah... First love...

Miss Laurie comes to visit, Christmas, 2010.

When we went on vacations, family friends, Jule and Bob, would come over every night night to feed the dogs and birds and fish, and ended up liking the menagerie so much [Ok... maybe not the birds, which Bob nicknamed"Ted (Bundy) and "Jeffrey (Dahmer)" for their propensity to bite the hands that fed them] that they stayed for hours every night, lying on the floor, covered in dog hair, stroking fur.  Jack adored Jule.  Adored her.

In the backyard of our first house, before we had landscaping.



But I think what Jack loved most of all - and what we loved most of all - was just spending time with us. 

He had a job to do... the Chow in him made him an excellent protector, and the Cattle Dog kept him from being a "One Man Dog" as a Chow often is.  Any friend of mine was a friend of his, and until he was an old-man-dog, there was just no way to keep him from jumping up on people when they came to the door.  No way.  He was too happy to see them.



Such a beautiful boy.



Ohhh.... It's still too soon.

I've been on the verge of tears for days.  The worst is leaving the house, only to come back and find him missing.  No Jack to greet me.  No wagging tail and doggie grin.  No soft ears to stroke before bedtime. 

His absence is palpable and our collective heart is broken.

We are empty.

We Miss you.

Sleep well, my friend.

My heart will always hold you, even though my arms no longer can.

/Jack The Dog's Momma

October is for Pumpkin Cookies

Time for Pumpkin Cookies!

October may well be my favorite month. When I was a kid in Ohio, the walk home from the school bus stop at the end of my street was filled with colored leaves, the lovely, earthy smell of fall in the air, and on the best kind of day, the divine aroma of pumpkin cookies baking when I stepped into the house.

October was a favorite time in our house for the usual costume-y, candy-filled reasons, but we had an added bonus.

My mother (the saint) was born on Halloween.

Which meant October held not only bonfires and hay rides, but also a traditional pumpkin shaped cake, made in a bunt pan, with a half-banana "stem" stuck in the middle, and covered in bright orange seven-minute frosting.  I have never, ever liked seven-minute frosting, but tradition is tradition is tradition.

I imagine this was my Mom's Birthday Party - circa 1978.
Mom is lovely as usual.  And, get a load of that mustache on my dad! 

My brother & I scooping out Pumpkins for our Jack O' Lanterns,
October, 1978. I'm not going to do the math for you, but I was
5 in this picture.  I COULD have photoshopped the red out of these
pics... and, in fact, I DID give it a shot.... but I like them better this way.

On Halloween night, after we got home from Trick or Treating, Mom ALWAYS told us that we couldn't eat much candy, because we HAD to go to bed, as she had to grab her black hat, climb on her broomstick and fly to the big meeting at midnight.

We thought she was a real, honest to goodness Witch.

A GOOD Witch. But, a Witch.

Well it makes sense, doesn't it? Halloween Birthday? A love of all things Halloween-y? You see?

We were convinced.

She even has a bit of a nose.

A bit. Not a huge, pointy nose, but a bit of a nose.

She knows it. She won't mind me telling you.

Minus the witchy wart.

My mother LOVES Halloween, as one who is born on such a fun day would.

This morning, little girl and I "face-timed" with her, and Mom aimed her iPad at her vast collection of decorative witches and pumpkins for Miss M to see. She showed us a witch made from a gourd, a witch made of a shell, a beautiful hand-made crafty witch, and the witch marionette that I made her eons ago with a BRIGHT green polymer clay face and giant pink lips. It was pretty funny to see that thing again.
After we disconnected from "The Facetime", all I could think of was making Pumpkin Cookies.

So I did.

And now, you can too.

These Pumpkin Cookies are a cake-like cookie, with Oatmeal, Cinnamon and Chocolate Chips. And if you think that doesn't sound like a good idea, watch the video (below) of my Jack-the-Dog barking at the oven for his share. He didn't get one (chocolate chips). But! He DID get a dog biscuit. I'm not a bad dog-mother.

I imagine that this recipe came from the back of a Libby's Pumpkin can, but I don't know that for a fact. What I DO know for a fact, is that they are delicious.

Also: Be forewarned that this recipe makes TEN DOZEN. I freeze half of it. You can do that. Scoop them onto a cookie sheet, as if to bake, then slide them into your freezer until frozen. Once they are frozen enough to handle, put them in a freezer bag until you need to pop a few in the oven for fresh-baked cookies without all the fuss. Mmmmmmmmm.

PUMPKIN COOKIES

4 c. Flour

2 c. Oats

2 tsp. Baking Soda

2 tsp. Cinnamon

1 tsp. Salt

1 1/2 c. Butter or Margarine

2 c. Brown Sugar

1 egg

1 tsp. vanilla

1 Can Pumpkin (16oz)

2 (or more!) c. Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips

Mix Flour, Oats, Baking Soda, Cinnamon and Salt in a large bowl and set aside.

Cream Butter, Brown Sugar until light and fluffy.

Add the Egg and Vanilla to the creamed mixture and beat well.

Alternate adding the canned Pumpkin and Dry Ingredients to the Creamed mixture.

Stir in the Chocolate Chips.

Drop by Tablespoonfuls (I use a cookie scoop) onto lightly greased cookie sheets.

Bake at 350 degrees (F) for 20-25 minutes.


Immediately ride the school bus home and grab a few with a glass of milk.

Or just lay down in front of the oven and BARK until Momma gives you one.

Freeze the extras!

(You need Flash to see the video of Jack Barking for his cookies)

BARK until you get one!

OH!  I'm also doing something I saw on Pinterest with Plastic Snakes, a Grapevine Wreath and some Black Spray Paint.  Stay Tuned....

I LOVE HALLOWEEN!

Goodnight, Sweet Prince.

Zoe (Left) and Cosmo (Right)

15 years ago, my husband and I came across a small Mom & Pop pet store that was going out of business. We'd just moved to Southern California, had our first apartment together, and erhm, in fact, weren't actually married yet. The wedding was a year away.

M had worked at a fish store while a high school student in Florida, so one of the first things we did in California was set up a fish tank. One night, we noticed a big "Store Closing, 50% Off" banner posted in the window of the pet store, and we thought we'd go in and see what kind of fish we might add to our tank.

I think we spent a grand total of 47 seconds in the store before we both spied a bonded pair of Green Cheeked Conures sitting forlornly in a cage, looking as if the world was ending. We asked the owners what would happen to the birds when the store closed, and they admitted that they would probably be split up, if they couldn't find a home for them as a pair.

Well.

We just couldn't let THAT happen.

Suffice to say that we forked over the half-price cost for the birds, a cage and necessary birdie accoutrements on the spot. Two for one. No brainer. They could stay together.

Of course, at the time, we had NO idea how much fun they would be, what a complete pain in the a$$ it would be to take care of them, and we had not a clue as to how old they were, what sex they might be (mother and son? Brother and sister? Clueless). This particular type of bird is has no differing sexual characteristics, so the only way to tell was to have them sexed by DNA.

We never did that.

In time, we decided that one of them was a girl (possibly the mother?). Zoë has a penchant for nagging and bosses the other one around like crazy. Boss Bird. The other bird eventually claimed the name "Cosmo J. Bird", although the long-standing joke is that "no one knows what the 'J' stands for". Not even Cosmo.

Cosmo immediately claimed all sets of keys as his own, hoarding them in his cage, climbed up to the top of the dish drainer in the sink to get to my stack of to-be-recycled Coke cans, grabbed the pop-tops in his beak and tossed them all over the kitchen like the Sumo Wrestler he is.

Er, rather, was.

Cosmo J. Bird died this morning.

And I can't believe how absolutely sad I am.

The night before last, I heard a "thunk" from the birdcage after I'd gone to bed. It was then that I realized that I'd meant to give them fresh water before I went to bed, and hadn't. So, I got up to check on the birds, and give them water, and I see my Moey on the bottom of the cage, one foot curled up and having problems standing. He'd obviously fallen from his perch.

I immediately opened the cage and got him out, holding him against my neck as he liked, while he slowly gathered strength back to his foot. By the time I put him back in his cage, just a few minutes later, he was grabbing onto my fingers with both feet, no problem. I decided that maybe his foot had just fallen asleep, and went back to bed.

Not.so.

The next morning, he was not exactly right, but not exactly awful, either. By bedtime, though, he was wearing down and I realized that if he couldn't stand or climb, he couldn't get to the food or water dishes, so I hand fed him some banana and syringed some water into his beak. I went to bed last night dreading what I might find in the morning, and hoping that if it was his time, that he could just go quietly and peacefully.

This morning, I found him still on his perch, but very much worse. He couldn't seem to move his left leg, and his right leg was also failing to a degree. I picked him up, allowing him to bite my finger so he could get into my hand, since he couldn't lift his feet very well, OW, and we spent about and hour this morning in the recliner with Moey snuggled against my neck. Seemed the only thing he could do, or the only place he wanted to be.

I put him down a few times, to get coffee, to get dressed, in a box he couldn't climb out of, lined with an old soft fleece blanket of my son's. When I put him down , he would just... Flail. Wings stretched out, couldn't stand, couldn't fly, couldn't walk... Just... Flail.

It was Heartbreaking.

M took the kids to school, and by the time he got back, it was clear that we needed the sort of advice only a vet can give.

I knew he was dying... Knew I couldn't do anything for him... And I couldn't stand to see him like that, but also couldn't bring myself to smother him or whatever else I might do to end his suffering.

So we went to the vet.

Sigh.

At least I got to hold him as he went to sleep, and then as he went to the great birdie beyond. I whispered to him. We told him he was a good bird. We told him we loved him. We told him there would be a sky full of hemp seeds to eat and coke cans to toss to his heart's content. Keys to be hoarded. We asked one more time what the 'J' stood for. We will never know.

And then M and I cried our eyes out.

Over a little bird.

Over a two-for-the-price-of-one Green Cheeked Conure.

Over the first living thing we'd ever had together. Not a child, exactly, but 15 years of laughter and bird antics, of and biting and terrorizing our visitors.

15 years of love and friendship.

15 years.

While M dug a hole for him in the bird and butterfly garden, I crocheted a lil blue birdie blanket for him as fast as my hands could go. It was the least I could do for my soft, sweet boy.

After the burial, I held Miss Zoë, wondering what life would be like for her without him. I remembered seeing little stuffed birds for single birds to snuggle against in the bird stores, so I spent the afternoon patterning a little bird, cutting it out of the same blanket that we brought Cosmo home in, and sewing and stuffing a little "friend" for Zoë to cuddle with. I have no clue of she'll ever accept it (she's always been slow to adapt new toys and things), but if she ever needs it, it will be there.

But my Moey... Moey is gone. And I'm so sad.

The hell of it is.... I've one 13 year old dog diagnosed with lymphoma, one 9 year old dog suffering from arthritis or hip dysplasia so badly that he struggles just to stand, and Miss Zoë herself, has had her little birdie skull stitched back together by a talented bird surgeon after she was accidentally stepped upon by yours truly 11 years ago.

Who would have thought that it would be my sweet Moey's turn first?

Good night, Cosmo J.

Momma loves you.