My little lieutenant

Over the years we’ve both shared the loss of two immediate family members, two corgis, a senior chihuahua, one cairn terrier and a hospice cat.

My boy Tuck’s definitely not a kid, but his exact age is unknown.

Thirteen maybe?

Perhaps older.

Tuck was found 11 years ago as a stray traveling country lanes in Missouri,
not too far from a puppy mill.

The pads on his little feet were worn down from his life on the road.

“Probably dumped because he was no longer useful as a breeding dog,” my kindly vet had speculated back then, shaking his head

I’m seeing more gray hairs now framing Tuck’s face with eyes increasingly cloudy as he sits next to me this morning.

Just where he’s chosen to be.

After all, Tuck’s always been my loyal little lieutenant.

He’s also been my anchor in an often stormy sea the last decade.

They’ll likely be a sunset before too long when I’ll have to lift that anchor and finally set Tucker free.

But in the meantime, I’ll be celebrating this courageous and constant companion and the great comfort he’s always given me.

It seems this senior pup finally found his purpose.

How lucky am I?

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Cuddling with a corgi

The night after my corgi Maddie passed away, I stopped by a big patio adoption event just to cuddle with the one corgi who was scheduled to attend.

I scratched the sweet dog’s soft ears.

And rubbed her roly poly belly.

Then I gave her one big hug.

I got my corgi fix.

I know it definitely helped with the grief.

I was thinking again about Maddie this week when I came across another very special event.

This time it was a dog event only involving corgis.

Come “pet a corgi and take a picture,” a Facebook post beckoned.

It was a fundraiser for a rescue group I know well.

As my friend and I walked briskly today towards the brewery where the event was being held, we were surprised to see a long line going all the way down the block.

Then suddenly we saw excited corgis and enthusiastic owners everywhere.

Some corgis were in tutus, others in bow ties and bright t-shirts.

One or two were even neatly tucked into back packs.

Inside the brewery there was a party room in back where I was told more than 50 corgis were already assembled and available for pets, paw shakes and photos.

Once inside, my friend and I skipped the packed party room and hung out in front where other corgis ‘on stand by’ were mingling with the crowd along with the occasional Boston terrier, bull dog, or bichon who mistakenly stumbled in.

I was thinking that maybe we just love our corgis like crazy in the midwest, or maybe we know how to warm ourselves up on a cold winter’s day.

But what I do know is if all dogs go to heaven, my girl Maddie was looking down at me this afternoon and definitely smiling.

I know that I was for sure.

Sweet Passage: Part One

“…So their work is mostly us, their families. They stay close, pay close attention, watch over us, and are always available to us.”

Book author Jon Katz wrote those words in a post last week about smaller dogs.

I smiled as I read it, and I also cried some as well.

My 14 year old corgi Maddie had just passed away last Monday.

It seemed I’d become Maddie’s purpose over the years after a brief stint as a breeder dog.

And she handled her role with grace, love and compassion always.

I often felt she’d become my own unique caregiver over the last decade as I dealt with the loss of both my parents and husband from Alzheimer’s and other dementias.

She’d calm my constant rage with the cruel disease by simply offering her belly for scratching or even a soft ear that would just listen.

Sometimes it was a just a big, wet button nose to kiss.

Maddie’s whole face wore joy so well, even in her final months.

She radiated happiness in her pet stroller as we’d navigate around the lake in the sunshine.

And Maddie looked even happier as we’d stop at the nearby bakery for free sugary smells and fresh samples.

Yet she was also very content just keeping an eye on me from her cozy dog bed in the kitchen in her final days.

After all, she still saw it as her job till the end.

Those big round eyes were so full of soul, yet often they were mixed with just a little mischief.

No wonder everyone loved Maddie, both man and beast.

The morning after Maddie passed, my Chi pup Rex was blue and refused to eat for the first time.

And my Yorkie Tucker, hid under the bed.

He’s never done that before either.

Yet this week we all seem to be moving on.

I know Maddie’s in a good place. And as I told the rest of the canine clan this morning, “Don’t worry, she’s still watching over us.”

I like to think they agreed as we looked up at the sky while walking out the door into the beautiful day before us.

Country musings

It was a short trip to the country, long overdue.

I know you can’t go home again, and my final destination never actually was my residence.

But in my heart it was home, especially in summer.

My grandparents once lived in the little Minnesota town I was fast approaching. My childhood memories there are still ripe with picking rhubarb, fresh corn, Grandma’s lemon pies in the oven, and porch swings.

My final stop was to be a rural cemetery in the corn fields just about a mile beyond the town’s Main Street.

My brother, parents, and grandparents are buried there, along with a host of other relatives.

It’s my tribe.

I recall a great aunt softly grabbing my arm and walking me through the place at my brother’s burial service many years ago.

She introduced me to each and everyone of his new neighbors there. And it seemed I was related to them all.

The main purpose of my trip was to check on the state of my family’s monuments and pavers.

And also to pay my respects.

It was a lonely, cold and gray morning at the cemetery. Memorial Day had already come and gone, just like the northerly wind.

There was just me and the morning doves around.

I noticed looking across the grounds that flowers on the graves were very few.

Perhaps those who used to plant the red, white and blue petunias on the burial sites of their elders had now passed away themselves.

But as I walked around I found some unexpected gifts.

A small bunch of yellow silk forget-me-knots adorned my brother’s grave. They were faded some, but lovingly placed perhaps by a stranger who cared, or was moved by the words ‘beloved son’ engraved on the tombstone.

I also discovered sheaves of corn placed around his grave and those of many others.

There is an old custom of placing these sheaves on the burial ground of those who once farmed.

Though no one in my immediate family had worked the land, it was still in their blood.

I pulled my old down vest tighter as I battled the chill back to my car.

Driving again through my grandparents aging small town to enter the highway back towards the city, I became a little blue. I noticed the downtown looked a bit dead with many vacant storefronts.

And I realized too that this trip out in the country had lacked the charm I used to know. The once proud red barns were now decaying and swaying in the breeze. And many of the other small towns along that highway looked lost and weathered as well.

I longed for any signs of life in traditional small town America and rural America.

And maybe just to see a farmer in bib overalls, I thought.

Suddenly I pulled the car over at the sight of something familiar, yet a bit different.

To my right I saw that the old Victorian funeral parlor, sitting kitty corner from my grandparents’ old place, was filled with life again.

There were tricycles and toys in the front yard. Maybe a growing family lived here or it was a bustling day care center I hoped.

Then I looked to the left.

My grandparents’ former home was shining brighter than ever with a fresh coat of paint.

And a few minutes later as I was driving back on the highway, I finally saw my farmer in bib overalls coming out of a dollar store.

I smiled for a moment.

I was happy.

At least it wasn’t a big old Walmart.

Good dog

So gentle and kind.
That heart warms my soul.

Her days weren’t all easy.
A few took their toll.

Yet strong my girl is.
Though she cannot walk.

She still speaks of peace.
As her eyes still can talk.

Then she kisses my hands.
To prove up her love.

While I whisper “good dog.”
Until called up above.

Burying those ‘Bah Humbugs’

I was having one of those ‘Bah Humbug’ moments.

I’d just lost a mitten while shopping for my kitten.

I had been busily stocking up on emergency supplies at the store up the hill as a winter storm was coming.

Buying replacement mittens definitely was not on my shopping list.

But kitty litter, bread, milk, and lots of chocolate were. And all were fortunately within easy reach of the Santa cookie tins and one available smiling clerk humming “Let It Snow.”

I’m thinking their placement was geared towards keeping my spirits bright.

However, it didn’t.

I soon caught myself uttering another “Bah Humbug.”

Christmas fell off the top of my favorite holiday list way back when I was six.

That was the year the new doll smell and curly blonde hair of a baby doll delivered by Santa attracted the attention of our young beagle. Our dog thought she made the perfect chew toy.

The doll and my Norman Rockwell holiday were never quite the same.

It seems the annual arrival of frigid sub-zero weather with the holidays hasn’t helped my attitude either or all that crazy commercialism and greed.

Even family celebrations have grown a bit more bittersweet year by year.

It’s hard to forget the Christmas Eve when my late dementia stricken mother stared at her grandchildren across the dinner table and blurted out, “So who are you?”

Or the memories of sharing hospital meals of wilted salads and frosted Christmas cookies with my husband while he was in hospice three years ago.

But things really are beginning to look up.

Even in a year when peace and joy seem a bit hard to find.

Luckily, I just found that favorite mitten.

And I’m playing Santa for a few seniors, an animal rescue group, and the young children I work with.

I’m also hoping to share many more last minute smiles before the big day.

You see I once saw a flying Santa in the skies do the same.

It happened a few years ago.

I’d awakened at 6:00 a.m. to hysterical laughter on a holiday flight returning from Amsterdam.

The plane was packed full of travelers of all colors and nationalities. Many didn’t speak English.

It didn’t matter.

Everyone was looking up at the same movie screen smiling, sharing just a few brief moments of comfort and joy.

As well as those chuckles.

This time of year, no matter your beliefs, perhaps that’s what matters most.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=aFgLrWiNHFc

A little heartbeat

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“My little dog – a heartbeat at my feet.” – Edith Wharton

A friend asked me when I adopted Rex back in December why this little guy is so special to me.

I think I may have found my answer in the quote above while reading on my porch love seat this morning.

Living with intention has never been one of my strengths, though I’m working on it.

However for Rex, it surely is.

The day I first met Rex I’d only stopped by the shelter to pick up a few pet supplies.

Rex however had other ideas and trotted that 6 pound body over to me to offer his assistance.

He seemed to sense I needed to get my empty heart beating again after some losses in my life.

He seemed to know I needed a younger, active pup to get me exercising for my health.

And Rex has now learned that sometimes in the early morning hours, all I need is to hear is that little heartbeat at my feet.

He’s one very smart boy.

And I’m one very lucky girl.