You Were a Good Dog, Charlie Brown

Good-by…Charlie Brown Dog

As I reflect on saying “good-bye” to Charlie, I find a small patch of peace in the space between “too soon” and “too long”. The disease has done the work for me in assuaging the guilt I have felt while he was still feeling well despite the predetermined ending of this chapter of his life. Having let him go now relieves him of his discomfort and preserves memories of him mostly whole and healthy. To do otherwise, is unkind to a small creature who has cheerfully and unabashedly given loyalty and love beyond without guile or measure.

The young man I work with suggested I consider that my allotted time with Charlie is complete and that he will now be with Jim who has missed out on a shade over 9 years with him. It’s a comforting thought in a time of many tough ones to imagine the two bounding around the universe in search of adventures to share together.

This poem was found while looking for something to ease my heart on this last day of days.

The Power of the Dog
Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
But when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie–
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumor, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find–it’s your own affair
But . . . you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will
When the whimper of welcome is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone wherever it goes–for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ‘em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long
So why in Heaven (before we are there!)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Rest In Peace, my loyal loving canine companion.

I will remember you with tears for the leaving and smiles for the years and the memories.

You were a good dog, Charlie Brown.

You will not be forgotten.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

The time has come… The little voice whispers “no more” as simple things become increasingly difficult for my furry friend.

Time in love and kindness before the every day life becomes unmanagable for him. Time before the memories are tainted by the relentless march of the demon within.

No more camping trips, sunset walks by the lake, wading in the stream or gingerly picking his way through snow left by the odd winter storm.

No more little brown dog snarfing the kitchen floor for snacks or sitting, chin on my knee, silently anticipating any stray crumb that might “fall” from my plate.

No backward glance out the front door each morning waiting for Handyman to follow so that business can be done.

No more warm fuzzy body curled by my bed when I get up in the dark or squirming his way onto my lap in a needy moment.

Surgery bought time…time to think, digest and accept…time to remember… time to make new memories to be held in the days ahead

. 

The beast has won.

Friday will be Charlie’s final trip to his vet-doc.

I will hold him as he passes from this world into whatever comes next. I will cry at the loss of him in my life.  And I will be grateful for the steadfast companionship of that rambunctious little brown creature that has been my friend, travel buddy, silent therapist and crying towel since Jim bought him for me for Valentine’s Day 14 years ago.

I will remember him with love.

Coorie Doon *

Fall, with its brilliant changling leaves and green apple sweet-tart crispness to the evening and pre-dawn air, brings a sense of “coorie doon” to my soul.  A settling in of the bones for a time when the nights are long, cold and best passed under the warmth of a soft comforter.  A time for reflection of days past and those to come.

As I watch my Charlie Dog, I know the dark moment will too soon arrive when I have to let him go…to send him out of my physical life. This cancer is a death sentence for him with the timing being unknown and unwillingly orchestrated by me. There is no reprieve…no miracle spontaneous cure…not even a remission. And, yet he eats, sleeps, runs the yard, lolls in the grass, begs for treats, snarfs the floor for abandoned morsels and for all the world looks to be a healthy older dog.  Inside the beast eats its way across his mouth and tongue.

I do not look inside. I know what lives there. It returned too quickly and viscously even after his very capable vet’s best to remove the festering beast.  Instead I clean the wound and attempt to exert some control over the incessant licking that is the only indication of the pain he feels. (The vet was called today for meds…I am unwilling let him go yet.) I take him camping where he enjoys the new scents and attention paid by people unable to guess his breed (Boykin Spaniel).

Unaware of the monster within, Charlie is full of life. He is a cheerful dog…much like the stereotypical drunken Irishman with that ear-to-ear grin and bubbly boyish charm. He bounds up the steps, wiggles from head to toe when I come home, oft times getting so excited he has to bark to release the energy, and begs unashamedly for any crumb I am willing to drop or hand him. 

Charlie’s unabashed enjoyment of rolling in the grass…and thereby attaching any loose flotsam from the yard to his curly fur…makes me laugh. I have a vivid memory of him, staples still attached from back surgery, flipping over in the grass, rolling and twisting with what appeared to me to be a look of pure bliss. He is the first dog I’ve owned to exhibit this behavior; having seen it before only from horses in their pastures.

Charlie brings me joy and I will miss that and selfishly cling to his life for just a while longer.

In the end, I will have to do what is best for my four-legged, furry friend and companion of the last 14 years.

I just can’t do it today.

Today, I will coorie doon with him in the old feather comforter he loves, rub his curly head and remember days spent in the sun. I don't know what he thinks...I just hope he knows he's loved.

*Scot’s for snuggle down.

Life Ain't Fair

Truth is that I have not for any number of recent years harbored the misplaced illusion that life is fair.  Indeed, I have taught my children and grand that it is, in fact, most decidedly NOT.

Life is good; life is bad. It is happy; it is sad. As the saying goes “some days you eat the bear; some days the bear eats you.” Ups and downs, it is what it is and we do our best to play the hand it deals us with varying degrees of success.

And yet, just as when Jim died, I find myself railing at the fates that bring me once again to a point of staring death square in its relentless, unyielding, unbending maw.

It is not for myself that I mentally scream and shove my fists at the heavens in Scarlett O’Hara fashion this time, but for my furry companion of the last 13 years, my Boykin Spaniel, Charlie Brown Dog.

Charlie was a Valentine’s gift from my late husband, my crying towel and constant companion after Jim’s death. He has seen me through grief and my tango with Cancer almost 2 years ago. I have coaxed him back to health after surgery to remove a damaged vertebra and refuse the lower portion of his spine. Though he often walks like a drunken sailor, I am beyond grateful for the skill of the vet who facilitated the return of the use of his rear limbs. He can run, wallow in the grass, snarf up every crumb that lands on the floor, loll around like a goof and take care of his own business without outside assistance. We are kindred.

Now he faces his own near certain dance with that bloated, evil toad Cancer.  A vicious, sickly sweet smelling, coal tarred tumor grows inside the floor of his mouth. While not yet definitely diagnosed as cancer, his capable and compassionate vet will remove the tumor, biopsy the tissue so we do know for sure what we are dealing with and sew him back up. He will have quality of life again. Cancer or not, the prognosis is that it will more likely grow back than not.

This path was chosen for my 13 year old furry friend rather than subject him to the rigors of the excellent oncology vet we are fortunate enough to have one town over, who would remove both the tumor and his lower jaw as well as recommend reconstructive surgery even so there is a greater than 90% chance it will recurr.  This same clinic performed his spinal surgery 6 years ago. Also discounted was merely addressing the symptoms with antibiotics and steroids for the remainder of his days. Neither choice was palatable nor in the best health interest to Charlie.

His vet agrees that palliative care is the kindest option for my aged, four-legged friend. It Royally SUX in the worst way…big, sweaty, hairy donkey balls, as my son would say. I don’t have to like it (and I don’t), but I can live with this path…it is what is best for my sweet, wussy dog…and… in the end…me.

It is harsh to my soul to know the end game remains the same and that the time will come sooner than later that I have to make another choice for Charlie. My reality is that Charlie will not adventure with us when we leave the stay put life. He will, howsumever, have what ever time is left to us as a happy, relatively healthy, camp dog on our weekend jaunts as long as he is able.

So….here’s to you…Charlie Brown Dog…and to life as good as it gets for as long as we get it.

It's Just a Truck

First, let me say with all my heart...I'm grateful beyond words that my Grand and her BF are only nursing minor wounds and the man who hit her only had minor injuries.

Let me also say...it's just a truck...metal and rubber...it's just a thing...beyond repair, but still an object with no feelings.

She called me first...we had no reception where we were...I didn't hear the call until this evening...crying that she was sorry...about the truck. My son finally got through to tell me first off that she was OK, but that he thought the truck was wiped. Later, when I figured she had calmed a bit (and we had driven up the dirt road where we could get reception) she kept apologizing about the truck....Papa's truck. She was sorry.

All the way down the mountain I told myself it was just a truck...metal and rubber...I was fine because she was fine...

Which was all well and truly said until we pulled into the drive.

And there she sat...twisted and broken...and then so was I.

I could not stop the tears...tears of anger at the man who caused my Grand the terror of living through a wreck...tears of joy that she was only minorly bruised...and tears of anguish that his truck...his baby...sits in a warped heap in my yard as a reminder of one more stinkin' loss.

In the end...it's a truck...another something will appear at some later date and what remains will be pictures and memories.

For the moment...it's another stab in the heart to move through...another ending.

Sometimes shit happens and life, for a moment, stinks all over again.

Farewell Papa's truck.

Life Questions

My Tennessee friend has made me think yet again. She often does that when she is also thinking.

So…here are her questions and my answers for those who give one what I think and feel about them.

"You make me think about how one thing changes your life. Small or large, good or bad; one thing changes your life. Of course we all know that but one thing can change it for the better too. I remember the time when it was get up and get the day over with, now it is get up and fire up the day. Bring on the crazy, silly, boring, angry, happy, scared. Bring it. Because this is all I get.
 
So I guess this is calling you out and I hope you don't mind and I know if you do mind you'll ignore me. I know we talked during the surgery and after but looking back what were you thinking, in the part of your brain that wasn't dealing with the big C, surgery, healing, options? "

It’s all we get….but it’s what we do with what we get that’s the important thing. I can fold ‘em or I can play ‘em…but unlike the song, I cannot, in good conscience and honor to Jim, hold ‘em.

“You are keeping your house as a base, right? Is this going to be travel all the time or travel/home/travel/home? You know you have a resting stop in Tennessee.”

For a time…It won’t sell as fast as we want to leave and there’s fiddley bits yet to make it more sellable (without over doing).  So…initially it may be road/home/road…etc., especially since we promised family we would be on the East Coast for holidays.  And, thank you…there’s a big map dot on your river bend. (Among sundry other generous souls who have offered same.)

“Were you happy with how your life was?”  Yes…and No…I was happy, but there were things about me that I didn’t seem to be able to divorce myself from repeating.

 

“Did you change?” No…I’m still the same old rotten, crazy me…and yes…because there were things I needed to release from having power over me.

 

“I know the travel plans were set before the DX, did the plans give you a focus or make you angry?” Both.  First, I was angry out of fear the dream would be taken away. Then the relief that replaced both the anger and fear strengthened my determination to make it sooner than later. I am very focused on that goal. Every day is another day closer to making the dream truth rather than phantasy.

“Did it make you harder or softer?” Again…a bit of both. The softer is not easy to define…except that I think I do a better job of softening my reaction to others actions. With a few exceptions. Which is where the harder comes in. There are certain aspects of my life in which others keep trying to put/keep me in a certain box. I have broken that box and built my own. What I do or don’t do…I do because I wish to do it not because I’m either hounded or guilted into doing so. It’s been challenging for the folks involved to accept this new me and move along in their own lives. It’s been hard to step back…but necessary if they were going to grow, too.

 

“Did it bring worry or resolve?” Yes. Worry that I had waited too long and my life might end on an entirely different calendar than the one I had filled in. Worry that he might miss a cell and it would come back. For a time after Jim died life meant less than nothing to me. Death’s Dagger on my personal doorstep made me realize I placed more value on others lives than my own.  Suddenly, there was sharp edge endangering my life and I realized that I was not done with it. There were things I wanted to do, places to see, people to spend time with and I wanted very much to keep it.  I won’t say I never worry that it will come back. It can and it might not have the same outcome as it tends to be vicious on return. But, I am resolved that it will not prevent me from LIVING my life NOW. I can’t bet my present on a future that may not happen.

 

“I don't think you are ever the same after that, who do you like better pre or post Josie?” 

Agreed. I don’t think you can stare Death in the face without blinking. While I was pretty content with the Josie that was or was still becoming; those things mentioned in the above answers kept me from being totally at peace with myself. The post Josie has grown up (without losing that curious and eager inner child), let go and moved forward in a more positive way. (Although a few in my life think I’ve become a real royal pain inna arse bee-yatch.) The post Josie is stronger and more determined that life is short, precious and needs to be grabbed with both hands and lived. (Time McGraw’s song “Live Like You Were Dying” comes to mind.)

 

“Seems we wait for things to be perfect before we put plans into motion then something comes along to show us nothing is ever perfect, life will never fall into place, questions remain unanswered, options will all present problems so when do you say enough and act?” 

No…Life is never perfect. It does not wait for you to get around to living it…it moves whether we do or not. It changes on a dime and throw punches when you are not looking.  Facing Jim’s death brought things into a certain focus. The possibility of my own really opened my eyes to the fact that I can’t wait for life to be perfect or I’ll always be waiting.

I am a sandwich child. On one slice, I have a frail elderly parent whose is in the late December of her life. On the other is a grown child in crisis more often than not who is finally, but stubbornly and unwillingly, learning to deal with a world where this Mom says “No,” or “Yes” on her own terms (Hard for both of us…but necessary). Handyman has a frail, elderly mother also in the late years of her life. If our mothers die while we’re on the road, we’ll come home. If they become something else before we leave, we’ll consider whether we need to postpone or take shorter trips. 

The grown child…well…if it’s major…of course I’ll be there. But she doesn’t believe that yet and keeps trying to put me back in my old box with the strings, chains and locks. She needs to find her own place in life and step forward into it. Tethered to me she will not do so. Loosed from the bonds she has forged for herself, she will even if she falls a time or two first. Without the weakness of falling we cannot appreciate the strength of walking.

My son is working to find his place. Testing waters and making plans. Some he gets to incorporate into the Now, while others continue to percolate for a spell. But, he is constantly moving in that forward direction even when there is a side track or two. Given that he was once the boy who gave me most concern, he has grown into the man walking his own path with a certain sense of hard earned confidence. He gets my itchy feet and shares the malady inherited from my frustrated gypsy soul dad.

My grand is my major concern. She is young…looking for direction…has needs. I can put my plans temporarily on hold or modify them. I can be her roots but I cannot be her wings. Those she has to find on her own; test them and fill them with the rarified and exhilarating air of living.

The roots of my own life can be scarred, but not broken…I have found through Jim’s death that they run deep and they run strong even when hacked and scarred by grief…time and distance will not change that.  Wings, howsumever, have a certain fragility in that if they are not used they become withered and useless...dreams of what might have been. I’m not willing to let them wither nor am I willing to look back and say “shoulda, woulda, coulda.”

I have given my life for my children and my parents…even my job…some have taken more than their share…but, I allowed that and will no longer beat myself up for it. I lost a love that was immeasurable and most surprisingly gained another that has been an equal treasure. We share life, we share sorrow, we share joy and we share love. That’s pretty amazing when you consider that I thought my life would remain solo.

Time does not wait long for you to make up your mind…it will turn and change when you are not looking. It is time to look beyond “one day,” take those wings, open them to the winds and soar…that I also have a partner eager and willing to fly along is an unexpected and precious gift. (The unasked question is “yes” both of us have agreed that if solo is the course presented, the one left behind will still take it.) 

As hard as I tried not to go on and on and on and…etc…apparently I don’t know how. So…that…for what it’s worth…is now that.

Family Man

9 years today. You'd think I have run out of things to say.

Apparently not.

May 24, 2002. 

Jim died as he lived….a family man.

The final 7 years of his life were spent making memories…particularly with our young grand daughter after his first 2 heart attacks. He said he wanted her to always remember she was loved. She has.

His last week was spent making roadworthy a pop-up camper that spent a number of years living abandoned in a field that someone had given my daughter and her then fiancé. The plan was a family camping trip Memorial Day weekend to end his week of vacation before returning to work.

His final moments were spent thinking of others, killing the snake that in the end killed him so that the children who played in our yard would not be endangered by it. At that point he did not know the snake that slithered from beneath the axle and across his hand had, in truth, bitten him and assumed the nitroglycerin would do it’s magic and he’d soon feel better.

The last seconds of his life he looked into his son’s eyes and heard the final words to pass his ears…”I love you, Dad.”

In the space between heartbeats…he was gone.

He was my husband, lover and best friend; father to our children and Papa to his beloved grand. My life changed the day he walked into it and changed again when he left it.

33 years from day one to day last…a lifetime of memories.  9 years…another lifetime without him. I will always love him and I will always miss him.

From Craig Campbell "Family Man" Lyrics

“They're a world my world revolves around
My sacred piece of solid ground
The flesh and bone that gives me strength to stand
They are a fire in my driving on
The drive behind my coming home
The living, breathing, reason that I am
A family man

What keeps me keeping the faith
What makes me believe I can
Family man

There's a fire in my driving on
The drive behind my coming home
The living, breathing, reason that I am
A family man.”

Today, I think and remember all that he was to all of us who were graced to have him in their lives and how his legacy lives on in the children we created together and the grand who was the light of his life. We were blessed and we are grateful.

To my Family Man…Jim Ingle – 12/3/1950 – 05/24/2002….you are loved and forever remembered. Your life does, after all, mean more than your death.

Family Man Video 

The Magic of Ordinary Days *

 Most people recognize days that are extraordinary either in their goodness or equal awfulness. They stand out as amazing in their impact or depressing in their having been survived yet again. They are stamped in the memory…burned in the brain.

But, what about ordinary days?

You know…the ones where you get up and you feel Ok, havva cuppa, pet the dog, go to work and it’s…eh…neither good nor bad…just another work day. You come home, have supper, maybe watch the telly a bit and then toddle off to bed. Perhaps you went shopping, stopped at the library, had lunch with a friend or walked the dog after supper.

One of those days you’d note in your diary with nothing much more than “it was Wednesday and nothing bad happened.”

There is magic in those days…those moments of no particular import…magic in that they happen at all, let alone rather regularly if you look on a year’s worth of them. They flow one into the other until you glance backward and realize a number of them have gone by almost invisible in their having passed.

When Jim died I thought for certain that every day following “that” day would rotate in equal measures of pain, sorrow and disbelief. It was simply unimaginable that a day…a moment even…would disappear almost unnoticed…and that I would find comfort in the retrospect of it.

Truth is that an inordinate number had gone by before I noticed that I wasn’t immeasurably miserable every freaking day. To be sure, there were stand out days in which I felt, saw or touched life with a sense of I AM going to survive this and I WILL be happy again…eventually. But, the equal truth is that they were hard to come by in the beginning.

It is those unremarkable days that segue us from one day of import to another. It is the unnoticed days that allow us to draw in rest, relax and rejuvenate our hearts and souls. It is those ho-hum days that allow us to have special, memory invoking or making moments to savor at a later time.

Here’s to the magic of ordinary days.

* from the 2005 Hallmark movie of the same name.

SNOW DAYS

  We got SNOW.

Beautiful, downy soft, powdered SNOW yesterday.

It has been years....Prince Regent was in grade school....since we had a snow like this.

It's been gorgeous to watch, though treacherous this morning as the scraped roads have turned to ice and the yards have a thick glaze on them.

Snow Days used to be ones full of kids...mine and most of the neighborhood...soggy gloves, coats and hats, boots strewn across the entryway, hot chocolate, grilled cheese and the sound of the same gloves, coats and hats thumping in the dryer.

It is quiet in this neighborhood now as most of the kids have grown and left the neighborhood. What few remain play on different streets now.

I realized yesterday as I sat by the window sipping my hot chocolate, wrapped in the soft silence watching the flakes gently coat the landscape as the cardinals played under the lone pokeberry bush overlooked in the fall clean-up that I missed the chaos and cacophony of children coming and going....reddened noses and cheeks punctuated by squeals of laughter across the yard. Even the dogs remained inside except for necessary trips outside.

I wasn't so much sad as reflective of the changes life brings us and smiled in the memories of days gone by. I thought of my widowed Tennessee friend who couldn't wait for her 16 year old son to wake up so they could go outside and play. She hates the cold, but she has found joy in bundling up and going outside rather than staying inside and whining about being cold. I admire this woman. I have watched her grow from frightened to fearless. I also love this woman. When I have fallen back she has helped pull me up just by her example as well as the occasional “get yer head out of yer ass” when I also needed that. She has told me it was OK to be weak and scared went cancer reared its ugly head, though she remained steadfast that the ugly toad would be beaten. It was and I’m glad she was there when the armor threatened to crack. But, I digress.

Eventually, Mr. Man went outside to finally have the chance to use that huge snow shovel he brought from NJ when he moved to NC and then here. I teased him about that. Now, I'm grateful he has it. Funny about stuff like that. As I watched him work I was struck by what a gift it is to have him here to share this part of our lives.

Some enterprising young man later in the afternoon got out on his bobcat and plowed all the roads here in our little ignored by the state and county subdivision. While it rather ruined the pristine look of the land, it will most certainly melt faster once we are above freezing again. Dunno who it was. He never stopped, never asked for money, just up and down and up and down until it ended up a pretty nice scrape job. Bless him for that.

 Tomorrow it will be back to the world of work and chaos of a different sort.

Snow Days aren't the same, but then neither is my life.

Still….it was a good day.