Missing Loved Ones

"Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy."

~Eskimo proverb

A New Face a Comin'

The cat's out of the bag. Or rather, the dog that is. If you read my November 9th Pet Tales column in The San Francisco Chronicle, you know that I caved in. The clean house, free time and extra money just got to be too much. I couldn't stand it any longer.

I had to get another dog.

So I got on the horn with Stu Homer of Golden State Greyhound Adoption and submitted my request for an ex-racer greyhound. Other than requesting a small dog, since Elvis is already a big boy, I had no idea what I might be getting. That is, until Stu phoned last week to tell me my new dog had been selected. I'm pretty sure he said it was a female and I know he said it was brindle-colored and coming from Florida. I don't remember much because only his last words made a real impression:

"She's Lucy's cousin."

Now, I know that this fact doesn't amount to a hill of beans. And yet, it matters. I'm thrilled that my new dog is related to the sweet pup I lost to a wicked liver disease this past July. Even if it's nothing more than invisible doggie DNA, a little piece of my beloved girl will continue living in my home and soon, in my arms.

Because she arrives today. Stay tuned....

Missing Lucy

In August 2009 my beloved mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer. And I remember coming home from that horrible appointment with that horrible doctor (Alrighty then! We have Cancer! How are we feeling today!) and going into some type of manic-cleaning rampage.

I swept, mopped and dusted. Took out the trash, polished figurines, rearranged knick-knacks, changed the linen, pulled weeds. Only later, after reading books about grief, did I learn that this type of reaction is typical. It's the subconscious desire to restore order in a life that has suddenly been turned upside down.

After euthanizing my sweet Lucy on Tuesday, I found myself again going through similar motions. Only this time I realized what I was doing. Throughout my home there were too many painful reminders of the dog that was no longer there, so I started cleaning. And cleaning.

I washed and stored Lucy's ceramic food and water bowls with the cute blue paw-print decorations. I took off the Fosters & Smith sofa-saver cover and the multiple blankets I'd added underneath as extra protection. I removed the Fosters & Smith bed scarf that she would lie on while resting her head on my chest as we slept, and put away the spare doggie-pillow that she used on nights when she didn't hog my bed. I collected her squeaky toys, the ones that Elvis doesn't like, to give to a neighbor's dog. I swept and vacuumed, white dog hair flying everywhere.

In the backyard, I removed several pots and artifacts that had been strategically placed to keep my naughty girl from digging holes. I took a bucket of bleach-water and scoured the yard, removing all traces of the toxic diarrhea that her disease-ridden body had spewed during her final hours. I scrubbed, hosed and sanitized.

Hours later, I was done. The house smelled like lavender, floors shone and tabletops sparkled. Rooms were now airy and spacious without the second set of beds, bowls, blankets and toys. There was no evidence of the many accommodations I had made when Lucy joined me and Elvis in my tiny townhouse after my mother died. The house was immaculate, order restored.

And I cried. Missing the chaos, missing the dog hair, missing the mess. Missing my little girl.

RIP Sweet Lucy

"Don't be sad because it's over. Smile because it happened."
~Author unknown

And Lucy made me smile more times than I can ever begin to count. Read about my little girl in the July 2011 issue of Northside Magazine.

My heart breaks for this sudden loss.

A Confirmed Diagnosis

"Save your money," Stu Homer told me. As the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, he's almost as knowledgeable about dogs as a veterinarian. Over the past 15+ years, with over 1,000 adoptions under his belt, he's certainly seen everything from corns to Cancer.

"If it's a liver infection, you'll know in a few weeks when the antibiotics start working," he advised when I told him about Lucy's recent diagnosis. "Don't bother with X-rays or a biopsy because if it's anything else, it will be terminal and there will be nothing you can do."

Harsh, but true.

I couldn't stand not knowing though. And so today I took my sweet Lucy to see Dr. Arnott for a liver ultrasound and biopsy. Turned out he couldn't do the biopsy. The ultrasound showed a liver so shrunken and hardened, a biopsy was impossible. Without any symptoms whatsoever, my happy, spirited, mischevious little girl had been ill for at least six months.

"She has end-stage hepatitis," Dr. Arnott told me. "It's just a matter of time. I'm so sorry."

And once again, the tears are flowing in my household; for what was and what is about to be.

A Good Walk Spoiled

"Grace under pressure" is a quality I've always admired in people who face adversity. Somehow, they manage to rise above their difficulties and become even kinder and better human beings.

I am not one of those people.

I fold like an umbrella in a hurricane. I get angry, confused, bewildered and stressed. Especially stressed. Last night my sweet Lucy, diagnosed with liver disease just two days ago, vomited black bile and has been having massive diarrhea. She's not eating or playing with her toys, and I am sick. Sick with sadness, sick with fear, sick with stress.

Which might explain why I snapped at that woman near the park this morning. I was taking Lucy and Elvis on a very slow, brief outing when this young woman, walking her dog, came barrelling down the sidewalk behind me. When my dogs turned around and started barking at hers, I saw that she wasn't about to slow down. So, I pulled Lucy and Elvis across the bushes and we waited on the street so the woman could pass. And pass she did, with nary a word of thanks. God help me, the words came out before I could stop myself.

"You're welcome," I said.

Ah, then she found her voice. "Why should I thank you?" she turned around and snapped. "You're the one with the vicious dogs!"

"And you're the one without any manners," I snapped back. "Just because you own an animal doesn't mean you have to behave like one."

Off we went. After a few foul exchanges, I finally crossed the street because at that heated moment, I felt capable of acting like an animal myself-a rabid wolverine to be exact--and biting her damn head off.

Really, folks, this is not me. And I suspect this may not be her either. As I resumed my walk, now crying, from across the street I observed her making a U-turn and returning home. Clearly upset, she never made it to the park to use the Ball Launcher she had intended to play with her dog.

I hope I see this woman again. I want to apologize and explain why I snapped at her. She has no idea what's going on in my life and--concurrently--I have no idea what's going on in hers. She could have lost her job the day before, fought with her husband minutes earlier, or hey, maybe she's just the animal I accused her of being.

If she rejects my apology, fine. At least I'll have tried. My best friend Pam likes to say that we can't let other people dictate how we behave, and she's right.

It may not be a shining example of grace under pressure, but I'm trying here folks, really. The best that I can.

Dog Day Afternoons

My mom was fond of saying that when you wake up in the morning, you just never know how your day will end. And not in a "whoohoo, I just won the lottery" kind of way. She was a bit of a pessimist, my mom.

But she was right. Just consider the events of this week.

Sunday morning I enjoyed a wonderful, invigorating 6.5 mile hike with a good friend. I later learned that at a barbecue that evening, she had a near-death experience when she choked on a piece of steak that defied all Heimlich maneuvers. She swears she's still here today only because a higher power stepped in and told her "it wasn't her time yet." I believe her.

On Wednesday, my sister and I indulged in a lazy, relaxing hot summer day at the beach (see evidence in previous post) that felt like a slice of pure childhood. Just hours later, on our way home, we found ourselves stranded with a flat tire on the three-inch shoulder of a blind curve on a crazy-ass, winding, narrow two-lane highway known for speeding and accidents. That sweaty, balding, overweight tow-truck driver never looked so good.

However, today's situation may not turn out so well.

Yesterday afternoon I took my greyhound, Lucy, to the vet. She hasn't been eating lately, which I attributed to our heatwave, but just to be safe I made an appointment. Really though, I wasn't worried; she's always been a picky eater and the 90+ degree heat has killed even MY appetite.

It wasn't the heat.

Blood work revealed a serious, life-threatening liver disease. What, we don't know. If it's an infection, the antibiotics she started today may buy her time. If it's anything else--Cirrhosis, Cancer, Hepatitis--it will only be a matter of time.

I am sick. Sick.

Lucy holds a special place in my heart because she was my mother's dog. When Mom passed away in 2009, I never thought twice about adopting Lucy, even though my townhouse HOA only permits one dog per home and I already had my other greyhound, Elvis. If busted, I would sell my home and move if I had to. Relinquishing LucyBelle, as I call her, simply wasn't an option.

And it still isn't. Only this time I may have no say in the matter.

Sigh...you just never know.

We Have Lift-Off

When my mother passed away, there was no question about it, none whatsoever. Of course, I would adopt her white greyhound, Lucy. I could no more give up Lucy than I could my own beloved fawn greyhound, Elvis.

Lucy is a sweet and affectionate little dog who curls up alongside me on the sofa and has invited herself on my bed. An unhygenic no-no, I always thought. That is, until the first time she snuggled her head in the crook of my neck and heaved a contented sigh. Not only did I not have the heart to push her off, I found I didn't want to.

There has been one major challenge, however: Lucy has been deathly afraid of the doggie door. No amount of bacon bits, begging, cajoling, pushing and pleading has convinced her to push the flap with her nose and go through the door. Like it was a doggie Guillotine or something.

And so, for almost four months, despite watching Elvis use the door, Lucy has gone through it only if I've Velcroed the flap open. Not a good thing in warm weather when flying insects are rampant. Or in the winter, with my furnace serving as a heater for the entire backyard. But it was either leave the flap open or come home to find my Oriental carpet transformed into a $600 pee pad.

Until this morning.

At 5:27 am came a moment to remember. After finishing her breakfast, Lucy tentatively approached the doggie door. Stopped. Sniffed it. Stepped back. Turned around and looked at me. “Good girl,” I coaxed her softly, using the word a trainer had advised. “Outside! Outside!” She stepped towards the door again. Sniffed it. Tapped it with her nose. And then, as I held my breath, she gently pushed the flap with her nose and stepped outside.

ALLELUIA!

And while it may not mean much to anyone else, I'm embracing it as the most subtle of signs that 2010 is off to a promising start.