Good-bye Sammy

Sampson May 1996 - December 2009

We know that anything with chocolate in it’s name must be sweet, good enough to eat right up, and produce an instant feeling of happiness and well being. Sammy, the big Chocolate Lab, did that for his whole life. He was even-tempered, accommodating, and serene, not counting the first year of his life when he was a bit of a wild child.

I remember thinking during that first year that my son-in-law and Sammy were not going to make it as a twosome. Sammy was a remarkable chewer and digger in his youth. He specialized in yard equipment. He ate a fence, various pieces of lawn furniture, a downspout and even his own doghouse. The tale is told that he consumed a Cracker Barrel style rocking chair right down to the last splinter.

I hate to make a big point of Sammy’s early delinquency, since he turned into such a good boy. The bond between man and beast was never really in danger. My son-in law demonstrated over and over his willingness to go to almost any length for Sammy’s comfort and well-being. Sammy, for his part, rewarded his person with obvious affection and loyalty.  There was nothing Houston could do that would not receive Sam’s total approval. Not even the doghouse weatherizing episode!

Since Sammy chewed everything, he was not allowed in the house. When it got to be winter, Houston worried about him being cold, and so he began to turn Sam’s doghouse into a totally warm, airtight space. First a shingle roof, because, above all, you need a roof. Then insulation, and a heat lamp walled off with breeko blocks (the world outside of Tennessee would call these cement blocks). Finally, a plastic flap was installed over the door. I suppose Sammy could have just chewed up all of these improvements, but it was so hot, and so wet from the built-up condensation raining inside, that Sammy wouldn’t go in. He just sat outside the doghouse and gave Houston the same approving looks as usual, probably waiting for him to fix whatever had happened to turn his home into a hellhole.

It’s very sweet, and sad, that in the last week of Sammy’s life the two of them had another doghouse episode. Sammy, who had been the king of the porch for many years, was able to keep track of the comings and goings of the family and the neighborhood from his Dogloo situated there. It was like an efficiency apartment for him with everything he needed within his reach. Ramps had even been installed so as Sammy aged, so he could get to the yard. Lately Houston observed that Sammy couldn’t turn around anymore in his Dogloo. Soon there appeared two new possibilities for assisted living, a crate and a bigger doghouse. Sammy gave Houston the same approving looks as usual, but said he really liked his Dogloo best. So Houston took a saw to the Dogloo and cut the top off so Sam could get in it and turn around.

Sammy had many health issues in his later years, including chronic skin problems, and once a spinal problem serious enough to take him to Knoxville to the UT Veterinary Hospital for treatment. Houston came through for Sam on that occasion, too, as he had on so many others. The skin  problem was chronic and irritating, but not life threatening. Houston, nevertheless, thought maybe a food supplement would help him, and found something at Petsmart. He thought the bottle was awfully small, but proceeded anyway to give Sammy a bath in it. It seemed sticky and wasn’t sudsy, but if there was a possiblity that it would help Sam’s skin, it was worth a try. Janet, our veterinarian, had just become a part of our family about the time that Houston gave Sammy the bath in the food supplement. Houston enjoyed the joke on himself, but Janet laughed so hard she cried. I don’t know if putting the food supplement in Sam’s actual food was ever tried. The food supplement bath, however, was useless.

Sammy had a well established place in my son-in-law’s heart and household long before William and Walker were born. There was no jealousy. He welcomed the babies with the same overflowing spirit that he exhibited for all good things, like running loose at Rock Island, and riding in the back of the truck. If I never wrote one word about Sammy, I think this picture that Houston took of William and Sammy in the boat would tell it all.

William and Sammy, best buddies.

William is now six.  He’s very emotional about Sammy’s passing, but he’s learned a lot about life from it. He was overheard describing the cycle of life to his three year old cousin, and he has put Sam’s dog tag on a little keychain he carries around. Houston made William a book with pictures of  William and Sammy together.  Six year olds have deep thoughts about life and death. Three year olds, not so much. Walker overheard Houston tell William that Sammy was going to Heaven, and Walker thought he said Sammy was going to see Kevin, and got all excited.  Kevin, as in Kevin the bird, in “Up”!   William had been very sad , but even he had to laugh at that, even though William tells us all the time that Walker isn’t as hilarious as we think he is.

Sammy & William, cruisin' down the river.

Sammy keeping track of all things happening on his porch.

Sammy meets Jelly the French Bulldog. "What is this thing?"

It has been a tough year for our pets. Janet’s Pokey, our Josie, and now Sammy are gone. I think they left us better people for having loved and cared for them.

Josie

Josie - ? to September 24, 2009

The routine of my day has begun, and, because of its absence, I realize how entwined my routine and that of our sweet Husky Josie have been. It has become a ritual based lately on the needs of an old dog with many health issues, but in earlier times she was the sweetest dog, who appreciated the comfortable life she lived with us.

Last night I didn’t stand at the open door clapping my hands and begging her to go outside before I went to bed. She hasn’t wanted to go outside for some time. Her hips were bad, and it was harder to go up the two steps to the yard. She must have always had bad hips because I don’t remember her going up steps or running without a hopping motion in her hind legs, like a rabbit. She never complained, just figured out ways to minimize the pain. Comfort was obtained of late by staying in a comfortable spot. I know there are many people like me who give in to the needs of elderly pets, and just put plastic down in the house rather than make an issue of forgotten (or rejected!) house training. That part of the routine is something I’m very happy to be without!

Last night I didn’t divide out the many medicines she’s been taking, for thyroid, for joints, for a chronic ear infection, for pain. The only thing that was really helping her was the thyroid medicine.  We started that a few months ago after discovering she was completely hypo-thyroid. For a time after starting the medicine, she began to lose the weight she had gained because of the thyroid condition (a good thing), but also to shed hair in massive quantities (a very bad thing). Soon she looked wonderful. She slimmed down, and grew back her beautiful, non-shedding, white coat. It was a great day when the routine didn’t involve cleaning up all that hair. It’s really impossible to describe the drifts that accumulated everywhere, the hairs that filled the air when a breeze from an opening door or sudden movement through a room stirred them up. I tried to keep up, but it was a losing battle.

This morning she didn’t greet me from her spot next to her bowls, slowly lifting her painful hips off the floor, her toenails making a little tap tap sound on the flagstones. My first job in the morning was to prepare her food. It had become a strange mixture over the years. We started with regular dry food, then added green beans and then a little bit of canned beef tidbits. I started with the green beans because  she told me I wasn’t giving her enough food. I knew she was too heavy, so I added green beans for bulk without the calories. Then at the start of her final decline this year she lost her appetite, so to entice her to eat, I added sirloin bits in broth to the dry food/bean mixture. Once started, they never let you stop that!

Today she’s not in any of the expected spots where I’m used to seeing or hearing her. She liked people, and would usually greet and check them out, then head immediately to her ‘undisclosed locations’ behind a couch in one room, behind a chair and table in another, under the bed in the guest room. When the little boys came over she would head for the backyard, or one of her locations. She liked them, but knew motion and noise usually folllowed their arrival, and preferred to remove herself before it got started. She was not a fan of drama.

Let's all be calm. I'll show you how to do it.

Josie was a rescue. A friend and I drove to Georgia to get her and bring her home the day before William was born in July of 2003. She was staying at the home of a lady who rescued Samoyeds, which is what I wanted after I lost my Sammies. No suitable Sammy was available, but the rescue lady said Josie, a white Siberian Husky, had been brought to her and she was a very nice dog. Josie had been well cared for at her rescue home, after a terrible time of fending for herself on the streets.  She had been treated for heartworms and neglect and was looking good, except for the sad proof on her ears of the misery she had endured.  Flies had chewed her pretty ears until they looked like they had been scalloped with pinking shears!

Jo wanted to come home with us.  She jumped into the floor of the backseat and gave us a look that said we weren’t backing out, and she was not getting out! No matter how well they’re treated at a rescue home, they all want a home of their own. She proved that to me one night a few weeks after she came to us.  The back gate had been left open (by the usual suspects, and I’m still mad about it), and she was way up the street by the time I discovered it and went after her. She didn’t stop when she heard me calling until three cars rushed by her.  The headlights blasting her must have reminded her what it was like when she was wandering the streets, and she stopped, turned around and ran to me, then past me into the driveway, up the steps to the open front door, and down the hall to the bedroom. It wasn’t possible to go any farther than that into the safety of the house.

Soon after that she let a visiting Beagle know that she considered this her house, and he didn’t need to act so possessive of it. I knew then that she felt like she belonged. We began six years of a placid, trouble free relationship. Trouble free unless you were taking her anywhere in the car. After she jumped from the backseat into the front and knocked the car out of gear, stalling it at the light by Wendy’s at 100 Oaks, I vowed never to take her anywhere without another person in the car to hold her. The short strap that hooked from her collar into the car seat buckle didn’t even work because, in her crazy maneuverings, she would step on the release button, leaving her free to hurl her eighty pound body into the front seat! I didn’t think of Janet’s clever solution soon enough. We were taking Jo to the vet clinic one time (I think this is when she was testing for thyroid deficiency), and Janet simply closed the back car door on her regular leash. She stayed put! And really didn’t complain about it!

I’ve been wondering lately when she would begin digging her winter hole in the garden. There was some alignment of the stars that let her know when to begin this activity in the fall, and when to end it in the spring. It was an an interesting process to watch. Sometimes she would look to be sound asleep, when suddenly she would get up, dig furiously, throwing sprays of dirt everywhere, and then plop back down and resume her nap. I poured wood chips in the hole every so often, which usually brought on another digging frenzy. She was not a bright, white dog by the time spring arrived.

Fall in the dirt hole

Winter in the dirt hole

She won’t dig any holes this winter. Yesterday we put her to sleep. Over the past month or so we have watched a steady decline in her health and behavior. She was clearly in pain that we couldn’t relieve. They said she was probably two years old in 2003 when we got her, which would make her eight. Be aware than they always say rescues are two years old. We believe she is much older than that. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if I knew she was four, or even older. She was a good dog. She and Mannix were friends. I hope they’re glad to see each other, and that she’s telling the Sammies how much I loved them.

The night before we took her for a last walk, or amble as her walks had come to be known. Usually she pulled on the leash to get to the street to begin. That night she went off the opposite side of the porch from where she usually goes, and went to stand by the  car. Yes, the car that she hates. She also knew that when she was hurting, we put her in the car and took her someplace where she was made to feel better.

I know you are feeling better, beautiful Jo.

Nicholas Ivan Snowbear

Nick 1988 - 2002

On April 23, 2002 we lost the second of the famous three Samoyeds. Nick was the best dog ever, and I will always miss him. The photograph was painted using Corel Painter oil brushes. This is the story I wrote about him.

NICHOLAS IVAN SNOWBEAR

Nick was the second of the famous three – Minka, Nick and Flash.

It was love at second sight. First sight was not promising. He arrived, pulling his owner on a short leash, hopelessly matted and tick infested. He looked huge and powerful and a little scary, not at all like the compact little Minka. His owner was moving to Atlanta and could not take Nick. His vet, and also ours, sent the young man our way, knowing that we had a Samoyed, and thinking surely we would want two. His owner, obviously upset, had waited until the last minute to make arrangements for his dog, and announced that if we couldn’t take Nick he would have to go to the pound the next day.

I was not in favor of this addition to our family, although nobody believes this. I sent the young man off, nevertheless, to get Nick cleaned up, and agreed to take him long enough to find a home for him. Nick was returned while I was not at home, and I dreaded walking in the house and finding the anticipated chaos. The front door opened to silence and I cautiously proceeded to find all people and dogs quietly watching TV. Minka had checked him out and found him acceptable, and he had found a comfortable spot and parked himself as though he planned to stay awhile.

So, there he was, a two-year old, sixty-five pound, outsized Samoyed with a coat like a lion and Elvis eyes. There was never even a hint of a discussion of finding him another home. He stayed with us for the next twelve years.

The opposite of a scary dog, he was gentle and sweet and very, very serious. He was so solemn that his nickname soon became Milhous. Minka bounced around trying to get him to play, but he didn’t know what to do with toys even when she hit him in the nose with one. He had his favorite spots and routes by which to reach them, but he always made his way with an unhurried amble, in direct contrast to the dancing Minka. It wasn’t that he wasn’t strong, because he could climb a a chain link fence, jump over a baby gate or thunder across the yard in record time whenever he had to investigate any dog that had had the temerity to approach the fence. Since he was never in a hurry, he didn’t mind stopping for you to give him a hug. We were used to Minka, who could not stand to be restrained in any way, not even for hugs and kisses.

He would take food and treats and barely brush his lips against your hand. When we had to take care of a litter of puppies whose mother (Minka) would not feed them, Nick hovered over them anxiously. After we bottle fed them, we would hold them out to him, and he would lick them just like the mother was supposed to be doing. Unfortunately, the puppies were all sick, and despite our and Nick’s efforts, they all died.  Minka’s instincts had told her this all along.

Sometime before he came to live with us he had developed a fear of storms. He thought he was safe with us, so when he sensed a storm (about when it passed over Memphis) he searched for us. Ninety pounds (he’d gained a little weight) of dog arriving abruptly in your bed was a sure sign of an approaching storm. One day I developed the same fear. Tornadoes were dropping out of the sky all over middle Tennessee. I cleared the coat closet in the hall under the stairs and took all three dogs and a cell phone in for safety. Nick pushed his way to the back of the closet ahead of all of us and took up residence. He was sweet, but not inclined to share refuge. Minka didn’t care anyway, so she volunteered to the the one half-in and half-out of the door. When I called the all-clear, Nick didn’t believe me and stayed in the darkest recess of sanctuary. From that time on he would stand by the closet when a storm made him anxious.

Samoyeds are Siberian sled dogs, so naturally, they revel in cold weather. Nick would sit outside in his corner in freezing temperatures like it was a day at the beach. I used to laugh when the weather person announced some arctic temperature (in Tennessee that starts at about thirty-two degrees), and issued the warning to be sure to bring pets inside. One freezing, rainy day he came in such a mess that I hauled him to the tub. After I had washed the mud off, a section of 2 x 4 lumber floated into the tub from where it had been frozen to his belly.

In the spring, however, there came that day when the combination of temperature and humidity became unacceptibe to Samoyeds, and the annual shift to lying on the air conditioning vents occurred. That signaled time for the summer haircut. Minka looked darling. Nick was ridiculous. Although short hair was too informal to suit his personality, Nick’s thick coat was a nuisance and prized at the same time. The 2 x 4 was the heaviest object to get caught in it, but he collected some impressive branches and other assorted forms of plant life, bringing about the nickname of Chief Leaf in his Tail.

I found a bird nest in our yard, carefully constructed by mama bird with strands of Samoyed hair. The long, guard hairs were woven outside and the downy, soft undercoat formed the inner lining. A friend in the Handweavers’ Guild took bags of fur from summer haircuts to weave into cloth. We think nothing about cloth from sheep’s wool, but we all carried enough dog hair sticking to us without deliberately making our clothes out of it!

At age fourteen, Nick was physically worn out. His joints weren’t supporting him very well, stairs caused him pain and breathing was difficult. Finally he developed a terrible sore on his elbow that was going to require surgery to repair. We didn’t think he could tolerate that.  He missed Minka, and on April 23, 2002, we let him go with her. We will plant another dogwood near Minka’s in the backyard and bury his ashes there.

Minka Bear

Minka Bear 1989 – 2002

Thoughts of dogs are weighing on my mind.

Our little friends are wearing out and leaving us. Josie has been suffering with old age issues for some time, and Sammy the Lab doesn’t do much except sleep. The boys are being prepared for his passing. Janet is keeping Pokey alive through some miracle. Peyton, Poppy and Mannix have all gone to their doggie reward.

Do they know how much they become part of our lives, and how stories of their antics and how much they meant to us are told over and over? Through stories they are with us again for a little while. That is why I write a story about each of my pets when they pass, to keep them with me for a while longer. Sadness goes along with the stories, but also smiles as I reminisce on each of their funny quirks and personalities.

It’s time to publish the stories of the famous three. One of William’s and my back seat conversations was about how hard it is to lose our pets, and how writing about them helps me. William is only five, but I could help him write a story about Sammy.  I want him to know that the art of writing or drawing often helps when life hits too close to home.

This is the story I wrote about Minka, a little Samoyed with the heart of an athlete, smiling and crying as the words spilled out of my memory.

MINKA BEAR

Minka was the first of the famous three – Minka, Nick and Flash.  A small, white puppy from middle Tennessee who had rolled in the red McMinnville mud with the rest of her litter until she looked more Chow than Samoyed. She rode home in the front passenger seat of my car in November of 1989. She would steal glances my way out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head.  She was apprehensive, probably very frightened, but I knew it would be fine.

At our house she discovered steps, which she had never had to negotiate, and a half acre backyard, somewhat more vast than the small pen where she had lived. Undaunted, she tackled the stairs with what became her signature determination and decided stairs were good, but flying would be better. And so she began regular laps around the perimeter of the backyard, bounding like a lamb, stopping on a dime, and seeming to turn around in midair. Effortless. Thrilling, even. Running, she would look around as if she was enjoying the sights along the way. She became known as Minka Baryshnikov.

She was very pretty, with a tiny little body underneath a giant mass of fluffy, white coat, a bottle brush tail that she carried like a flag over her back, black eyes and nose, little eyebrow indentations, soft, pointy ears, and a pink tongue. She was known as Minka Monroe.

She was the boss, a modern woman. She didn’t like to be fussed over. She was alert and on guard at all times, even when in repose. She liked to go to her doghouse during storms, even asking to be let out of the shelter of the house when a storm approached. You would see her nose poked out just far enough to keep from being pelted by raindrops There was an air of expectation that she set the rules and that was the natural order of things. It was hard keeping things in order in the house as well as in the yard.  She went from one to the other every time someone went by the door. She was known as Princess In and Out.

She had a penchant for carrying things around in her mouth. What a sight to see a little dog strolling around the yard with an 18″ x 18″ toss pillow in her mouth! She was death on plastic eyeglass frames, and if you were foolhardy enough to ignore the warnings and leave your glasses in her part of the world, you had better have your prescription handy. She also like to fish gum and breath mints out of purses, and not a few shoes were rendered useless. Mealtime with actual dog food never interested her much. She ate only what she needed and sometimes nosed ten or twenty pieces of dog food out of the way before she found the one she wanted to eat. I never saw a dog drink like she did, putting her whole snout under water and biting mouthfuls of it. She did like to take food from the counter, and could stretch her body and turn her neck to reach farther than you thought physically possible. A tuna casserole and a buttermilk pie succumbed to her contortions before we found the spot far enough back to thwart her remarkable effort.

She was a disappointing walker, at least from a human perspective, turning pigeon-toed, straining at the leash and crushing it against her windpipe until her breathing sounded like a foghorn.  She didn’t care that a female Samoyed was the lead sled dog on the first expedition to the South Pole. Heritage be damned. She preferred the “free” run, and wasn’t keen on teamwork.

Mention should be made of her ability to turn herself into a disappearing act. She could and would slip through an open door or gate even when you thought she was in another room and you had your eyes on the door! Finding her way home, however, was a problem. With all her abilities, tracking wasn’t among them. A memorable sight was Minka flying over the crest of our street away from the highway to the sound of my panicked call, after she had taken advantage of a brief opening in our front door as a painter went out. He had no inkling the dog had gone out the door along with him. Less than one week before the end of her life she walked through a gate past two men laying stone not four feet from the gate.  They never saw her go.

She loved toys and worked hard at throwing them to you exactly right so that you would stay and keep throwing. She never tired of the game, and went on a mission to find a toy to throw every time someone sat down in a chair. How many times did a squeaky hamburger or shoe land in a book or a newspaper you were reading? Plastic hamburgers and shoes were purchased at Kroger’s as staples like milk.  She really only liked them when the squeakers still worked, and as she got better and faster at disarming them, they  had to be replaced more often.  We would find bits of discarded toys all over the backyard where they had been shredded by the mowers

Minky thought Nick should play with her, but Nick had no interest at all.  She threw toys at him and nosed them close to him to coax him into  a game. When that had no effect, she began a campaign of out and out provocation, jumping at him and running in circles around him until he had no choice but to respond.  Minka made the rules and play ruled.

Then Elizabeth Shelley gave her the white teddy bear. It became the singular toy of choice. It went where she did, inside, outside, under a paw when she slept. Sometimes she would come up the steps from the yard without it in her mouth, and you would know to wait while she stopped, then turned around to retrieve the bear before coming inside.

Today is Tuesday, March 19, 2002. We put her to sleep this morning after a series of seizures marked the end of quality of life for her. She will be cremated along with her teddy bear and her ashes buried under the big Oak in the corner of the backyard.  I’ll plant a native Dogwood in the spot.  Nick asked where she was when I came home. Flash, for once, was without an opinion.

They both know she is gone, but I bet they still follow the rules.

Paper or Plastic?

Let’s see who’s passed by since yesterday.

I have just returned from ambling the dog.

I grabbed my sunglasses, keys, cell phone, three plastic grocery bags, and, of course, the dog, and headed down the street in perfect temperature, with a gorgeous palette of spring green against blue sky surrounding me. I did not have a care in the world, not even about our slow pace and the hundreds of times we stopped while Josie checked out the traffic that only her nose would recognize as having passed since yesterday’s amble.

Along the way, I noticed that there are many people who do not leave the house with three plastic grocery bags, and that started me thinking about compost. That is not merely a nice word for dog poop. It is something that starts out as a mix of random vegetable peelings, dirt, weeds, and yard trash. After a long time (even longer than Jo’s walks) of adding stuff to it, worms crawling through it, and rain rotting it, it is transformed into a loamy, sweet smelling, nutrient rich substance. I was thinking philosophically about all that trash turning into something ready to nurture and sustain life, when Josie reappeared from her exploration of a storm drain, bringing me back to reality.

It is always interesting to see what my brain can find to do on these painfully sloooooow ambles. I often have conversations with my departed grandmother. Her presence becomes so real I can do contour drawings of her face in my imagination. Sometimes my brain thinks it’s funny to make me try to recite poetry I learned years before. It frustrates me when I can’t remember much of it, but my brain says it’s all in there for me. Other times, like today’s musings on compost, I have deep thoughts, and solve thorny problems with such clarity that I amaze myself.

Ooops! Speaking of deep things!

Paper or plastic?  Plastic, please.

Good Boy, Mannix!

Mannix 1996 - 2007

A year ago, December 19, 2007, Mannix had to be put to sleep.  He had developed degenerative myelopathy and was at the point where he could not stand up or walk, a condition that was terribly upsetting to him, his dignity, and to all of us. Janet handled his passing in the most compassionate way possible. He was tranquilized early in the afternoon, and the people who loved him sat by his side giving him unlimited food treats, pats and caresses. We let him know how much he meant to us, and when it was time for the final shot, he was calm, and ready to go to a world where he could chase cats again. Chuck, from Faithful Friends, arrived to take Manny’s body for cremation. We were lucky to have this gentle, dignified, intelligent and faithful dog as a member of our family.

Mannix was an elder statesman when I painted a Corel Painter portrait of him.  He was sitting under a Hackberry tree enjoying the heat from the sun when I took the picture.  He always looked regal no matter what he was doing.

Mannix wasn’t just a companion pet. He had responsibilities that he took seriously, like being there in times of trouble, alerting you to all movement in the yard, and protecting babies in the family. He was incredibly sensitive to what his humans wanted and needed from him. He had a self-assigned post by the babies’ cribs while they slept, and alertly watched them when they were awake.  He had to be semi-retired, however, when they got to the crawling and toddling stage. They had always stayed in one place up to that point on his watch, and he was very nervous when they sprouted little wings. He was a Shepherd, after all! He had to perform his toddler shepherding from the other side of a baby gate, but he could resume his watch during nap times. He made it clear with his disapproving looks that we hadn’t convinced him we had a better plan for these babies than he, Mannix, the Great Herder.

Mannix as a young dog

Mannix was sensitive to human moods, responding to worry or sadness with extreme concern. He was as gentle as a soft breeze unless he sensed danger, and then he became a mighty protector. We all felt secure when Mannix was with us in the house, or on a walk, yet, if he had to wake you at night, he would quietly stand beside the bed and put a paw ever so gently on your arm until you realized he needed something.  He could take a piece of food from your fingers without you feeling anything except a soft brush of fur.

Mannix was left at my house with a dog sitter once when the whole family went out of town. Funny that we didn’t have any worries about the sitter coming into the house to meet Mannix after we were all long gone, but Mannix knew the difference between people who were doing their jobs and those who weren’t. The same with dogs. No problem with invited dog guests, but, watch out if an unauthorized canine had the audacity, and considerable courage, to challenge him. And cats. Oh, my. He simply could not help the urge to…….well, I’m not sure. I don’t know of any cat he actually caught, unless he was so good that he hid the evidence. His rap sheet did include several squirrels and at least one Possum. The Possum was double-teamed in my backyard by Mannix and my Husky, and had the foresight to play dead.  Maybe he was just scared stiff. Either way, Manny and Jo lost interest and the Possum survived the ordeal. Strange about the cats, because his best friend in his younger days was a little cat named Rudy, who could do no wrong in Mannix’ eyes. The answer may lie with the fact that Rudy was an authorized cat.

The dog sitter reported, by the way, that when she came in, she called his name several times, and finally found him under the dining room table.  She was a tiny little thing, hardly bigger than Mannix, and when I told her a Shepherd would be at my house when she came, she said she wasn’t worried a bit, she had grown up with Shepherds.  No worries.  Indeed.

Robert says that Mannix always tried to hide how intelligent he was, but that he just couldn’t help his brilliance showing through. I think that’s true, that he let us treat him like a dog because he thought we enjoyed it. Sometimes, however, he had to take on human ways in order to set us straight.  I remember a time when he stayed with me for a week, and as I took him home I was congratulating myself on everything going well, and not once losing him through an open gate or door.  When I reached his house, I carefully hooked up his collar and opened the car door to take him inside. He stood still in the street for a minute, looking intently at the house next door. Too late I realized that he was concentrating on a cat in the neighbor’s yard.  Before I could do anything to stop him, he quietly backed his head out of the collar, looked at me as if to say he was sorry, but he had something he had to do, and then took off like a streak after the cat. The amazingly  fast cat somehow found a safe haven. Mannix went about his mission quietly, but the cat and I were quite vocal. Robert, responding to the commotion, came out of the house and retrieved the Cat Menacer. I was left standing in the street holding an empty collar, pondering that serene week we had had, capped by a surprising and brief moment of chaos.

Who can forget the Mannix-Jelly wars? Mannix, the Shepherd, and Jelly, the French Bulldog, rolled and pawed, blocked and parried, mouthed and threw their bodies at each other for hours on end, from one end of the house to the other. The Frenchie, totally oblivious to the fact that Mannix could finish him off with a single motion if he wanted to, never gave quarter. Mannix relished the battle, but never hurt Jelly in the slightest, in spite of sometimes holding the Frenchie’s entire head in his mouth!  The Frenchie attacked from every angle and never tired.  In spite of his size and strength advantage, Mannix had to be vigilant to remain in the game.  Jelly perfected several effective strategies, one of which involved running under the bed where Mannix didn’t fit.  When Mannix laid down on the floor to watch her, Jelly would run out and taunt him, then duck under the bed again. Mannix knew he was being outmaneuvered, but couldn’t figure out how to regain the offense when Jelly did this. They were well matched with neither one willing to throw in the towel. It was quite a show.

Foxy

I owe one of my best photos to Mannix.  He spied a fox in the yard one day while he was staying with me.  I would like to think he came to get me so I could take a picture, but his plan was most likely for me to open the front door and let him at the fox!  I don’t know which of the two would have emerged victorious in a match-up, but Mannix had to be content with standing beside me quivering while I got my photo.  Foxy’s photo reminds me of Mannix whenever I look at it, very much like the red tennis ball he loved that even a year later shows up in different spots in the yard. Does Mannix come back in the night and move that ball from the south garden to the side by the gate, or is he fulfilling his heavenly herding responsibilities from that world where he is whole and his legs let him chase cats and tennis balls again?

Manny’s tennis ball

I should have used Mannix as an example when I was talking to William about the loss of pets.  We wish we could have kept him longer.  The pain of losing him was intense, but who would choose to miss knowing such a good boy?

Pet Portraits – Bella

Bella

Bella is famous!

Her picture is on page 26 of Raquel Wynn’s book, Stretch Your Dog Healthy, a Hands-on Approach to Natural Canine Care, where she is demonstrating the shoulder extension stretch.  Raquel asked me to be her photographer for this book, and I got to meet many great dogs and their owners in the process, from the beautiful Mastiff Bella, to Merle, the Hound.  I was glad my job was to manipulate the camera rather than Bella’s shoulder.   The name of Bella’s breed isn’t Mastiff for nothing!  Bella loved her stretch, however, once she figured out what was going on.  All the dogs loved their stretches.  They get aches and pains and frozen joints just like humans, and stretching is as valuable for them as it is for  us.  Raquel shows how to do it in her book.

In addition to dogs with their limbs in various stretching contortions, and humorous poses (like Bo’s Ear Pull!), I took some shots that I intended to paint in Corel Painter, like this one of Bella.  I completely changed the bright red background, and then under-painted the whole area that Bella was to occupy with a bright blue as complement to her orangy coat.  Bits of blue only show up when Bella is enlarged, but  the eye knows it’s there.  Color theory informs us that the eye seeks a color’s complement, and that complementary colors side by side brighten each other.  I would never have figured that out, but seeing is believing.  I used Painter’s Oil Brushes to complete the painting.

Conversations from the Backseat

I often drive my grandsons.

The arrangement, of course, is for the child in the back seat to be heard but not seen, and the driver in the front seat to pay attention to keeping his/her precious cargo safe while listening to everything from the absurd to the sublime.

I realized one day, from the front seat, that William was going through a significant time in his life.  The conversation began with the announcement, “I’ll never see J. again.”  He was referring to a boyfriend of his older sister, who had been very nice to William, but who had recently become an ex-boyfriend.  I said he might see J. again. Who knows? But the loss of J. was only the beginning. William was leaving his pre-school for kindergarten in another school in the fall. “I’ll never see my old school and my friends again. I can’t remember  L’s face.”  Long pause. “All I can remember is her smile.” I knew it wouldn’t help to tell him he would make new friends, and besides, the smile comment was tugging at my heart. “Sammy’s getting old.”  The sad commentary coming over my shoulder was getting serious, and nothing can make me tear up faster than a child grieving over loss of a pet.  In what I hoped was a light tone, I reminded him from the front seat that Sammy wasn’t dead yet, and we never get to keep our pets as long as we want because they don’t live a long time. We are very sad when they die; but it’s better to have the pleasure of pets for a short time, than do without because of the pain of Iosing them.

Then I told William about my three Samoyeds, and how I lost them all from old age within fourteen months. It’s very bad planning to have three dogs the same age. To help me get over the grief, I wrote a story about each one of them. Sometimes I reread their stories, and even though it still makes me cry a little, it also makes me happy. William didn’t have any further examples of loss to fill me in on from the back seat, so maybe I gave him something to think about that made him feel better. More likely he passed his sad feelings to the front seat and rode the rest of the way in contentment thinking about Transformers, light sabers or ice cream.

All I could think of was going home and rereading my stories about my dogs.

Pet Portraits – Herbie Sings

Herbie Sings

Doesn’t this little guy warm your heart on a cold December day? This is the third pose of Herbie that I painted in Corel Painter. The others are Herbie on His Purple Blanket, and Herbie Listens.

Pet Portraits – Herbie Listens

Herbie Listens

In September I received a letter from Herbie’s person saying that it had been four years since he and his wife had rescued Herbie and that he had given them a ton of love since then. Herbie had been diagnosed with Lymphoma and his person wanted to have a portrait and some note cards made to give to his wife for Christmas. He ended by saying Herbie didn’t have a lot of time left.

My level of sympathy for people losing pets is very high. I have found that an occupational hazard of doing pet portraits is that you are asked to memorialize quite a few beloved pets. I am honored when asked to do this, but I shed a few tears in the process.

I did three different poses of Herbie from photographs his person sent me. This one is Herbie Listens. Herbie on his Purple Blanket and Herbie Sings will be posted tomorrow and the next day.