Since I've last posted...
Cinder's put on 30 pounds and has become a truly good dog. I know he's lucky to have left the pound, but we're just as luck to have him.
My wife became pregnant, and 3 months later no longer was. I've been boycotting this subject. I don't feel ready now either. I suppose the good news is that I'm not officially Cronus, as was looking like the case for a while there. So I got that going for me.
I have a Godson. He's a happy, healthy, huge baby. Just a blessing on us, and we're so lucky to get to share him. I'm chalking him and Cin up as the two good things from 09. There are others (other friends had kids as well), but those are the two I see a lot.
I now have a beard. Chinstrap and goatee. Surprisingly decent since it's my first foray into facial hair.
Life continues to treat me better than I have any right to expect or even hope for.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Monday, March 16, 2009
Just a puppy
Cinder may be huge, but he is still a puppy. If you know dogs well, you can tell by looking at him. He is still gangly, for one, not a phrase often used to describe mastiffs. Additionally, his paws, ears, and head are all still far too big for his body. Just comically oversized for his already significant torso. His floppy ears are literally the size of crow wings. His paws leave tea-saucer size imprints in the dirt, and lead to his constant slipping and tumbling around. As for his head? He has put his mouth around the entire heads of other dogs, including two labs. Not in violence, as he wasn’t biting, rather placing his maw in dominance, but the feat is ridiculous. He put…a head…in his mouth. Cin, I think they can figure out the domination part by looking at you.
Of course, if his appearance is goofy/scary then his antics are both inane and insane, with a silliness exponentially magnified by his size. You know how dogs, especially puppies, pick up sticks and run around with them? Well, so does Cinder, except he picks up big sticks. Brooms, rakes, and shovels are his playthings, all full-sized, and scattered around the yard at a puppy’s whim. As are 6 ft. fence boards, which Cin picks up and runs around with, just a dog playing fetch…or a Force of Nature in level four hurricane mode.
Funny thing is he’s only in the 110-120 range. While that sounds big to people not used to big dogs, it’s really quite a normal weight for any large breed. Big labs and German Shepherds can push that range easily, to say nothing of the very large dogs, like St. Bernards, the various mastiffs, Great Danes and Newfoundlands. While he is clearly not in those weight classes yet, he just as clearly will be.
Allow me to illustrate. A ditch runs behind my parents’ house, and it serves as one of many causeways between their neighborhood and the hills that surround them. He was making his presence known to some passerby’s, standing on two back paws, with his front paws hanging over the top of the 6 ft. fence. His frame is ridiculous. As a disclaimer, we feed him exactly what both his prior kennel and our vet recommend, plus treats, but one can still count every rib in his body. His shoulder blades look positively bony. He’s all legs, and folds up in ridiculous tangles when he lays down.
He is giant, loveable, terrifying, and above all, just a puppy.
Of course, if his appearance is goofy/scary then his antics are both inane and insane, with a silliness exponentially magnified by his size. You know how dogs, especially puppies, pick up sticks and run around with them? Well, so does Cinder, except he picks up big sticks. Brooms, rakes, and shovels are his playthings, all full-sized, and scattered around the yard at a puppy’s whim. As are 6 ft. fence boards, which Cin picks up and runs around with, just a dog playing fetch…or a Force of Nature in level four hurricane mode.
Funny thing is he’s only in the 110-120 range. While that sounds big to people not used to big dogs, it’s really quite a normal weight for any large breed. Big labs and German Shepherds can push that range easily, to say nothing of the very large dogs, like St. Bernards, the various mastiffs, Great Danes and Newfoundlands. While he is clearly not in those weight classes yet, he just as clearly will be.
Allow me to illustrate. A ditch runs behind my parents’ house, and it serves as one of many causeways between their neighborhood and the hills that surround them. He was making his presence known to some passerby’s, standing on two back paws, with his front paws hanging over the top of the 6 ft. fence. His frame is ridiculous. As a disclaimer, we feed him exactly what both his prior kennel and our vet recommend, plus treats, but one can still count every rib in his body. His shoulder blades look positively bony. He’s all legs, and folds up in ridiculous tangles when he lays down.
He is giant, loveable, terrifying, and above all, just a puppy.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
The easy job
My job is awesome. Sure the petroleum scene can be high-stress, the hours can be long, and working till seven every night can be limiting, but I’m grateful for it. It’s interesting, virtually never dull, and, most importantly, where I work, no babies die.
My wife’s job is not so wonderful. Rather it is quite dreadful. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather shovel human refuse or process Soylent Green than hang around in her nursing unit for a living. I’ve long said that I couldn’t handle her work for a half hour. Last Saturday I got first hand proof of just how true that is, when I joined her to attend the funeral of one of her patients, a little guy who fought like a tiger but didn’t make the 20 day mark.
Now I’m not stupid. I knew full well going into it that a funeral for a baby was going to be terrible in every way. I prepared myself for boundless depression. Unfortunately my focus was on the macro view of the situation, where, as in life, it was the little details that made all the difference. I was okay pulling up to a funeral home, seeing the dozens of friends and relatives of the unlucky couple, gathered under the cloudy gray sky, passing along sincere condolences. I could handle the Biblical readings and candle lightings, classic funeral hallmarks that were as surprising as passing on third and long. I was not ready, however, to hear the baby’s two year-old “big sister” calling his name during the slide show of him.
That’s the kind of thing that kills you. My wife, of course, was destroyed by it, as were most of the attendees. She had cared for this baby, she’d spent hours with him, trying to keep him alive. I didn’t know single person in the room other than my wife, but even my eyes brimmed. By the end of the PowerPoint, I had pulled off the one-teardrop-down-cheek movie cliché. Maybe 40 minutes in, and I had already technically cried for a complete stranger.
Unbelievably, that wasn’t the toughest part of the afternoon, as that bar was placed pretty darn high later. It wasn’t even set when the baby’s dad thanked people, including my wife, by name, for all they did for his forever resting son. Nor was it when he then thanked his baby son for what he had done to bring so many together, both that day and beyond. (Side note, go ahead and chalk up “burying my 17 day-old son” right above “beating up Fedor” and “outrunning Usain Bolt” on the list of things I know I could never be man enough to handle) No, the most devastating moment of the afternoon and of 09 thus far was watching the parents throw dirt on their baby’s briefcase-sized casket.
I know few people have seen less of the infinite skies of tragedy than I have, but I’m willing to bet a mother’s wails for her baby compete with any of the worst sounds ever heard. It was the song of abject despair, the soundtrack for rock bottom. As we released the baby blue balloons, several never made it past the tall evergreens around the cemetery. Not all hopes make it. Not all dreams come true.
But some do. Driven by the wind, blowing from the East for the maybe the second time in my recollection, the remaining multitude idled far less than balloons tend to. Soaring into the sky, they reached up into the first azure break in the clouds in two full days, inexplicably directly in front of the sun, blue towards blue, light towards light, and hope towards hope.
There was none of that “one teardrop” fortitude this time around.
My wife’s job is not so wonderful. Rather it is quite dreadful. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather shovel human refuse or process Soylent Green than hang around in her nursing unit for a living. I’ve long said that I couldn’t handle her work for a half hour. Last Saturday I got first hand proof of just how true that is, when I joined her to attend the funeral of one of her patients, a little guy who fought like a tiger but didn’t make the 20 day mark.
Now I’m not stupid. I knew full well going into it that a funeral for a baby was going to be terrible in every way. I prepared myself for boundless depression. Unfortunately my focus was on the macro view of the situation, where, as in life, it was the little details that made all the difference. I was okay pulling up to a funeral home, seeing the dozens of friends and relatives of the unlucky couple, gathered under the cloudy gray sky, passing along sincere condolences. I could handle the Biblical readings and candle lightings, classic funeral hallmarks that were as surprising as passing on third and long. I was not ready, however, to hear the baby’s two year-old “big sister” calling his name during the slide show of him.
That’s the kind of thing that kills you. My wife, of course, was destroyed by it, as were most of the attendees. She had cared for this baby, she’d spent hours with him, trying to keep him alive. I didn’t know single person in the room other than my wife, but even my eyes brimmed. By the end of the PowerPoint, I had pulled off the one-teardrop-down-cheek movie cliché. Maybe 40 minutes in, and I had already technically cried for a complete stranger.
Unbelievably, that wasn’t the toughest part of the afternoon, as that bar was placed pretty darn high later. It wasn’t even set when the baby’s dad thanked people, including my wife, by name, for all they did for his forever resting son. Nor was it when he then thanked his baby son for what he had done to bring so many together, both that day and beyond. (Side note, go ahead and chalk up “burying my 17 day-old son” right above “beating up Fedor” and “outrunning Usain Bolt” on the list of things I know I could never be man enough to handle) No, the most devastating moment of the afternoon and of 09 thus far was watching the parents throw dirt on their baby’s briefcase-sized casket.
I know few people have seen less of the infinite skies of tragedy than I have, but I’m willing to bet a mother’s wails for her baby compete with any of the worst sounds ever heard. It was the song of abject despair, the soundtrack for rock bottom. As we released the baby blue balloons, several never made it past the tall evergreens around the cemetery. Not all hopes make it. Not all dreams come true.
But some do. Driven by the wind, blowing from the East for the maybe the second time in my recollection, the remaining multitude idled far less than balloons tend to. Soaring into the sky, they reached up into the first azure break in the clouds in two full days, inexplicably directly in front of the sun, blue towards blue, light towards light, and hope towards hope.
There was none of that “one teardrop” fortitude this time around.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
An empty wishing well
Come Thursday night, Parker will be all better. No more pain, no more aches, no more bleeding.
It’s time. The chemotherapy bought us eight more months to love him. He spent that time as happy as possible. He got an extra summer of playing hose. He picked up an autumn of trotting in leaves and chasing small woodland creatures. When both Manda and I worked he spent days at my parents, pursuing Bounder in the hills, splashing in the creek running through the canyon. He ate treats and was petted and hugged and kissed countless times, by me, by Manda, by family and friends.
But the time has come to let go. Parker doesn’t chase bunnies any more; he can only jog across the house. He doesn’t fly over or through sagebrush these days; I lift him into the car. His claws have grown longer, no longer worn down by the asphalt and dirt passing beneath his paws. His fur is more sparse, thinned by drugs and his system responding to those prescriptions. In the last two years, Parker lived a perfect dog life. In the last eight months he squeezed every drop of life from his time and body. But those wells have run dry. There’s only so much to give, and only so much for which to live.
“I love you” means being willing to say good bye. “I love you” is keeping him alive in happiness and health, not in agony and defeat. It's tough to do the right thing, but his happiness is fading. It's about 9:30, and I'd guess his time at 44 hours from now. He'll be loved every second of it, and he won't go alone. Our vet, wonderfully, is coming to our house to let him go to sleep at home. Don't worry, we'll hold him until all the pain is gone.
It’s time. The chemotherapy bought us eight more months to love him. He spent that time as happy as possible. He got an extra summer of playing hose. He picked up an autumn of trotting in leaves and chasing small woodland creatures. When both Manda and I worked he spent days at my parents, pursuing Bounder in the hills, splashing in the creek running through the canyon. He ate treats and was petted and hugged and kissed countless times, by me, by Manda, by family and friends.
But the time has come to let go. Parker doesn’t chase bunnies any more; he can only jog across the house. He doesn’t fly over or through sagebrush these days; I lift him into the car. His claws have grown longer, no longer worn down by the asphalt and dirt passing beneath his paws. His fur is more sparse, thinned by drugs and his system responding to those prescriptions. In the last two years, Parker lived a perfect dog life. In the last eight months he squeezed every drop of life from his time and body. But those wells have run dry. There’s only so much to give, and only so much for which to live.
“I love you” means being willing to say good bye. “I love you” is keeping him alive in happiness and health, not in agony and defeat. It's tough to do the right thing, but his happiness is fading. It's about 9:30, and I'd guess his time at 44 hours from now. He'll be loved every second of it, and he won't go alone. Our vet, wonderfully, is coming to our house to let him go to sleep at home. Don't worry, we'll hold him until all the pain is gone.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Homecoming
Returning home after getting away for a long weekend at Lake Tahoe, the dogs made it pretty clear that they were not happy about the separation, and they were quite glad at the reunion.
Their jubilations were so emphatically ‘dog’ as to be nearly stereotypical, but the sincerity of it all nearly brought tears to my eyes. No matter how much you love your dog, chances are it’s one of many parts of your life. An important part, certainly, but still just one piece in a very full life. On the reverse side, our dogs literally live for us. I was happy to see my dogs, and thrilled to pet and wrestle them immediately upon entering the house, but their reactions were of another sort altogether.
A cyclone of mutt enveloped me as I opened the back door. Tails were wagging, and tongues were hanging out in that incredibly refined manner that is the hallmark of a happy canine. Having knelt to repay their affections, it was literally seconds before my work clothes were more hair than not. In addition, every inch of available skin had been met with wet noses and doggy kisses time and time again.
It never ceases to amaze me that I could be so loved. I think we all know a little too much about ourselves to really love everything inside. We know our weaknesses, and our failings, and so to apply unconditional love, whether from a beast or a human, to such an imperfect object runs contrary to everything fair in the world.
Still, ours dogs love us so.
Their jubilations were so emphatically ‘dog’ as to be nearly stereotypical, but the sincerity of it all nearly brought tears to my eyes. No matter how much you love your dog, chances are it’s one of many parts of your life. An important part, certainly, but still just one piece in a very full life. On the reverse side, our dogs literally live for us. I was happy to see my dogs, and thrilled to pet and wrestle them immediately upon entering the house, but their reactions were of another sort altogether.
A cyclone of mutt enveloped me as I opened the back door. Tails were wagging, and tongues were hanging out in that incredibly refined manner that is the hallmark of a happy canine. Having knelt to repay their affections, it was literally seconds before my work clothes were more hair than not. In addition, every inch of available skin had been met with wet noses and doggy kisses time and time again.
It never ceases to amaze me that I could be so loved. I think we all know a little too much about ourselves to really love everything inside. We know our weaknesses, and our failings, and so to apply unconditional love, whether from a beast or a human, to such an imperfect object runs contrary to everything fair in the world.
Still, ours dogs love us so.
Friday, May 30, 2008
The Parent Dog
As you have probably gathered by now, my dog Parker is a special creature. Creatures with his capacity to love are truly rare and incredibly invaluable to those lucky enough to know them. Last week, I was reminded of another facet of his, well, love.
Parker is a parent to all puppies. I first experienced this first hand when my wife's sister brought over her new bulldog pup, Murphy. Or as my sister calls it, "the fat one". Now this animal is your classic English bulldog, in that it is so ugly it is cute. Seriously, it looks like someone bashed in the poor dog’s face with a flat shovel. Now my parents have a wonderful mutt named Bounder, who also came equipped with a capacity to love that is infinite. But he does get a tad jealous every now and then. With a new puppy at the house, and that pup being, shall we say, un-snipped, Bounder came awful close to putting the hurt down on Murphy. Parker and Bounder are steadfast friends, yet when Bounder strode towards Murphy, with intentions fully bared, Parker intercepted, and walked shoulder to shoulder with Bounder, guiding him away from the pup.
It was no accident, and the scenario replayed in similar form several times that night. Gentle but steadfast, Parker didn't let the pup get what it arguably deserved. My family and I were in awe.
A couple weekends ago, we brought Parker to my wife's brother's house to meet their new puppy. As Parker's former owner, my brother in law was thrilled to see him (who wouldn't be?), and it was a homecoming party and puppy introduction in one. Not lost in the human interactions, however, were the dog ones. Their new puppy Katie is also an American bulldog, virtually all-white to Parker's tiger-stripe brindle. A sweet dog (what puppy isn't?), she was terrified of Parker, and sat literally shaking in the lap of my sister in law. Parker seemed to understand the poor dog's fear, and he set about teaching her dog interactions.
When he approached, at first she would growl, and he would walk on. Obviously not intimidated, Parker just didn't want to scare her. As the night progressed, every fifteen minutes or so, he would pause by her, wait till she would tremor or growl, and then continue on. There was no pressure, just the option. Then he'd go and lie somewhere else, enjoying all the attention from his former owners.
At the end of the night, as we got up to leave, he walked past her one last time. No growl. Longer pause. Katie nervously stretched forward to sniff him. Statues move more than Parker in that moment. He then turned, slowly and softly, every move deliberate, and gave her a small sniff. She then stepped forward, out of the lap of a human, to meet this non-threatening entity. As they sniffed we couldn't help but laugh. He had taught her rule #1 in canine etiquette, and in a way so clear and effective it couldn't have been real. As we walked away, she half-followed, going to the door to watch Parker go.
I can't tell you how blessed I am to have this dog. I swear he teaches me new things every week. Oh, and if you were wondering, he's still whipping some cancer butt.
Parker is a parent to all puppies. I first experienced this first hand when my wife's sister brought over her new bulldog pup, Murphy. Or as my sister calls it, "the fat one". Now this animal is your classic English bulldog, in that it is so ugly it is cute. Seriously, it looks like someone bashed in the poor dog’s face with a flat shovel. Now my parents have a wonderful mutt named Bounder, who also came equipped with a capacity to love that is infinite. But he does get a tad jealous every now and then. With a new puppy at the house, and that pup being, shall we say, un-snipped, Bounder came awful close to putting the hurt down on Murphy. Parker and Bounder are steadfast friends, yet when Bounder strode towards Murphy, with intentions fully bared, Parker intercepted, and walked shoulder to shoulder with Bounder, guiding him away from the pup.
It was no accident, and the scenario replayed in similar form several times that night. Gentle but steadfast, Parker didn't let the pup get what it arguably deserved. My family and I were in awe.
A couple weekends ago, we brought Parker to my wife's brother's house to meet their new puppy. As Parker's former owner, my brother in law was thrilled to see him (who wouldn't be?), and it was a homecoming party and puppy introduction in one. Not lost in the human interactions, however, were the dog ones. Their new puppy Katie is also an American bulldog, virtually all-white to Parker's tiger-stripe brindle. A sweet dog (what puppy isn't?), she was terrified of Parker, and sat literally shaking in the lap of my sister in law. Parker seemed to understand the poor dog's fear, and he set about teaching her dog interactions.
When he approached, at first she would growl, and he would walk on. Obviously not intimidated, Parker just didn't want to scare her. As the night progressed, every fifteen minutes or so, he would pause by her, wait till she would tremor or growl, and then continue on. There was no pressure, just the option. Then he'd go and lie somewhere else, enjoying all the attention from his former owners.
At the end of the night, as we got up to leave, he walked past her one last time. No growl. Longer pause. Katie nervously stretched forward to sniff him. Statues move more than Parker in that moment. He then turned, slowly and softly, every move deliberate, and gave her a small sniff. She then stepped forward, out of the lap of a human, to meet this non-threatening entity. As they sniffed we couldn't help but laugh. He had taught her rule #1 in canine etiquette, and in a way so clear and effective it couldn't have been real. As we walked away, she half-followed, going to the door to watch Parker go.
I can't tell you how blessed I am to have this dog. I swear he teaches me new things every week. Oh, and if you were wondering, he's still whipping some cancer butt.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Beautiful Day
First, some back story. Shortly after my first post on this blog, we learned my dog Parker had lymphoma. The weeks since then have been tough, to say the least. From chemo to his weight loss, incontinence, and exhaustion, I really haven't felt like writing about it, so I didn't.
But throughout the process, there has been hope. The swollen lymph nodes in his neck that originally got me to take him to the vet immediately shrank back down. His white blood cell count has remained high enough that we have been able to pursue chemotherapy in a fully aggressive manner. For a while he just didn't know he needed to go bathroom, but that, too, has passed.
About the only issue left has been his exhaustion. From a dog that would sprint up and down hills non-stop for an hour to one who couldn't match my walking pace, it has been devastating to witness his weakening. He was still happy, but he just couldn't do what he loves to do. No matter how loving he was, and how happy I thought he still was, I couldn't help but question if I was making him suffer for selfish reasons.
Today, Parker struck back. With a week and a half since his most recent chemo appointment, Parker has gotten stronger and stronger, more and more like his old self. Taking him up into the hills for a bathroom stroll this morning, he was his old self. After over a month of only walking, we had running. He was jumping over bushes, traversing hillsides and sending birds flying from every bush and tree. Instead of me slowing down my walk so he could keep up, it was me jogging and yelling for him stay in my line of sight.
So maybe he still didn't have 100% of his explosive power back, maybe not even 80. And the hike only lasted about 20 minutes, instead of our old hour long treks. I don't care. Because for the first time in over a month I had my dog back, and I got to see that making him fight the cancer was the right choice, with absolute evidence. He's been hanging tough the entire time, and we've done everything possible to keep him strong and healthy and, finally, I saw the tide turn. Yes, today is a beautiful day.
But throughout the process, there has been hope. The swollen lymph nodes in his neck that originally got me to take him to the vet immediately shrank back down. His white blood cell count has remained high enough that we have been able to pursue chemotherapy in a fully aggressive manner. For a while he just didn't know he needed to go bathroom, but that, too, has passed.
About the only issue left has been his exhaustion. From a dog that would sprint up and down hills non-stop for an hour to one who couldn't match my walking pace, it has been devastating to witness his weakening. He was still happy, but he just couldn't do what he loves to do. No matter how loving he was, and how happy I thought he still was, I couldn't help but question if I was making him suffer for selfish reasons.
Today, Parker struck back. With a week and a half since his most recent chemo appointment, Parker has gotten stronger and stronger, more and more like his old self. Taking him up into the hills for a bathroom stroll this morning, he was his old self. After over a month of only walking, we had running. He was jumping over bushes, traversing hillsides and sending birds flying from every bush and tree. Instead of me slowing down my walk so he could keep up, it was me jogging and yelling for him stay in my line of sight.
So maybe he still didn't have 100% of his explosive power back, maybe not even 80. And the hike only lasted about 20 minutes, instead of our old hour long treks. I don't care. Because for the first time in over a month I had my dog back, and I got to see that making him fight the cancer was the right choice, with absolute evidence. He's been hanging tough the entire time, and we've done everything possible to keep him strong and healthy and, finally, I saw the tide turn. Yes, today is a beautiful day.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Unconditional Love
It's quite a concept. To love with absolutely no reservations or limitations. I am not sure humans are capable of it. I don't have kids yet, so I know I am missing some key information, but I'm just not sure it is possible for our species. I love my wife, but there are things either of us can do that would more or less force the other to terminate the marriage. God willing neither of us ever will ever do any them, and I don't believe we will, but these actions are conceivable from a scientific what-is-possible perspective.
I don't think that qualifies as unconditional love. I truly love her, as she does me, but their are conditions to our relationship. Such is not the case with our dog.
My dog unconditionally loves my wife. He loves me, and I love him, but he will just gaze into my Beloved's eyes for literally hours. He falls asleep as near to her as he can possibly get. He loves to collapse with his head on her shredded, dancers feet at every opportunity. She adores him, and loves him as much as one can love a non-human, but even if she didn't, I think he would live for her. She could abuse him in the most horrible ways imaginable, but I think he would keep coming back to her. There is simply no end to his love for my wife.
Given my jaded perspective of human nature, it gives me hope to see that kind of love. Hope for us as a whole. As if the mere fact that love like that can exist means that maybe, just maybe, we can make it in this cutthroat world without literally cutting each others throats. I'm usually pretty realistic, but it nice to know there are some things that are absolutely perfect, literally without flaw. Such is that kind of love. I'm glad it is possible.
I don't think that qualifies as unconditional love. I truly love her, as she does me, but their are conditions to our relationship. Such is not the case with our dog.
My dog unconditionally loves my wife. He loves me, and I love him, but he will just gaze into my Beloved's eyes for literally hours. He falls asleep as near to her as he can possibly get. He loves to collapse with his head on her shredded, dancers feet at every opportunity. She adores him, and loves him as much as one can love a non-human, but even if she didn't, I think he would live for her. She could abuse him in the most horrible ways imaginable, but I think he would keep coming back to her. There is simply no end to his love for my wife.
Given my jaded perspective of human nature, it gives me hope to see that kind of love. Hope for us as a whole. As if the mere fact that love like that can exist means that maybe, just maybe, we can make it in this cutthroat world without literally cutting each others throats. I'm usually pretty realistic, but it nice to know there are some things that are absolutely perfect, literally without flaw. Such is that kind of love. I'm glad it is possible.
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