Good Dog

It was August, 2001. I was still working at the big health insurance company. Our children were grown, and our proverbial "nest" was empty. Our home housed my husband and me, and our cats. While we have had several dogs in our lives, at that point we had no dog--our beloved English setter having died the year before.

We had been invited to visit with friends at their summer cottage in Thousand Island Park. During our stay, we decided to spend a day in Clayton, NY, a charming little town right on the St. Lawrence River. We had just come out of a small art gallery when I saw a woman walking a puppy. I have told this story before, here, but in brief I said--what a cute puppy. Whereupon the woman asked if we wanted her, as the puppy needed a home. On an impulse totally uncharacteristic for my husband and me, we agreed.

That's how we got Tipper.

Right after we got her, our friends and we stopped for lunch. My husband stayed outside with our newly acquired dog. Through the window, I could see him sitting with her and talking, occasionally wiping his eyes. When lunch was over, I asked him--what were you saying to her? Well, it turns out he was telling her about our prior dogs, and telling her that we would take good care of her, until that day that death would take her away from us.

Well, friends, that day has come.

About 10 days ago, Tipper suddenly stopped eating mid-meal. Very unusual for her. Then the next morning she was very lethargic. As I was checking her over, I noticed her gums were very pale, almost white. I knew enough to know that was a problem, an indication that not enough blood was circulating to keep her gums nice and pink.

We took her to our vet, immediately. She was diagnosed as being anemic. Blood tests showed that her red blood cell count was greatly depleted. The question was--why? There are various causes--for example, a tick-born disease. Or it could be an auto-immune reaction. For unknown reasons, her own immune system might be destroying the red blood cells.

She was immediately hospitalized in the vet hospital, given an IV to replace fluids, started on antibiotics (in case it was a tick-born disease) and given high doses of steroids, to knock down the immune reaction. By the weekend, she was not getting better, so we transported her to the emergency weekend vet hospital, where she received a blood transfusion. Her red blood cell level was so low that, in her excitement seeing us, she fainted on the spot, legs going out from under her.

While the transfusion briefly raised her red cell level, by the time we took her back to our usual vet, her red blood cells number had dropped again. And she fainted a second time, losing consciousness for several seconds.

Clearly, we were losing the battle, and losing her.

Tipper was such a wonderful dog. In some ways, it almost seems like she was a person who just happened to wear a dog suit. Her eyes were wonderfully bright and knowing. A part border collie, she was a mouthy opinionated dog. She told you what she thought! She had to inform everyone entering the house that this house was HERS. She hated delivery trucks--the engine noise set her off. She would bark furiously at UPS or FedEx trucks, hearing them even before they entered the neighborhood. Anything that moved fast set off her chase response--a bike whizzing by, a child on a scooter, another dog. We always kept a firm hand on her leash, otherwise she would try to run after whatever.

She thought it her duty to police situations. Our two cats, who do not like each other, occasionally spit and spat at each other. Tipper would rush in, take the side of her favorite cat, and tell the other cat--back off. When our son and daughter-in-law visited with their dog Sonnet, Tipper was insanely jealous if Sonnet played chase with her toys.

Tipper was a people dog--every person she saw she wanted to approach. She just loved being petted, especially having her chest rubbed. She was more discriminating with dogs. When I took her to the dog park, she was always unnerved by the rush of the other dogs who circled around the "new" dog. Tipper did much better one-on-one with dogs. She had her neighborhood favorites. The factors for her choosing which dogs she liked and which ones she didn't was never clear to me.

She loved car rides. She would sit up, completely alert, looking out the window. She seemed to be taking in all the sights, processing as we drove along. She would only whine when she saw the streets turning into our neighborhood, as she knew we were returning home.

And now she is gone. When she failed to respond to the treatment, we asked our vet the odds that she would recover if we prolonged treatment. He was very cautious, but I had read enough to know the odds were very bad. It turns out she had developed autoimmune mediated hemolytic anemia--cause, unknown. She had previously had, two years before, autoimmune thrombocytopenia which caused the destruction of her platelets. The two conditions are not identical, but related. Poor girl just had an awful run of bad health luck.

So, we let her go. And, just as my husband had promised, we were with her at the end, telling her what a good dog she had been.

Gathering at the River

We have friends who have a summer cottage along the St. Lawrence River, and this last weekend we drove up to spend a couple of days with them.

The St. Lawrence is a magnificent and amazing river. It is completely navigable by deep sea-going vessels, from the estuary entrance at Quebec City, all the way to Lake Ontario, where it links ocean-going vessels to the Great Lakes.

We have visited the Thousand Islands area (where our friends have their cottage) off and on for many years. When our daughter was little, and we were on a family vacation with her and our son, she wanted to see a real castle. So we went to see Boldt Castle (not a castle by European standards, but enough for a four year old, at the time).

About 7 years ago, when we were also visiting our friends, we went into the little town of Clayton, NY--and encountered a woman walking a puppy that needed a new home. VOILA--our dog Tipper (so named because of TIP=Thousand Island Park. . .and for the white tip on her nose!).



So, to get to our destination, we cross the Thousand Island Bridge, which is a treat all in itself. From the top of this bridge, you can begin to see the charm of the Thousand Islands area--where individual cottages are built on tiny islands.





We arrive at our destination--our friends' cottage. The above photo of Tipper (and her master) is taken on the front porch of this cottage.



Our first evening meal--a cookout eaten on this lovely picnic table.

And then, our evening entertainment--a boat ride on the St. Lawrence to view the lovely sunset.

The soft pastel hues of the St. Lawrence are famous--and local pottery features these peachy, bluesy sunset hues. You bet I am going to make a large print of the photo immediately above and frame it.





Waiting for us at the cottage--our friends' new kitten (held by a little neighbor girl), and our friends' dog--Ada.



On our second day, we headed out to a local gift shop on an island. The shop is cleverly named The Boateak! We always find some whimsy there that we buy and bring back home.

The house is immediately next to the gift shop, and is the residence of the shop owner.

These crested white ducks were part of a flock that the shop owner had. Domestic ducks, they were reluctant to swim in the little pond next to their pen!

The loon planter is the type of item the shop might sell. This one, with the iridescent begonias, was NOT for sale.

A frequent sight on the St. Lawrence--a freighter passing by, as we shopped.

The dock at the shop.

And then, the weather began to turn--as it does shockingly fast along the St. Lawrence. We zoomed back to our dock--with us heading LEFT out of the photo! The rain held off until we got back.


The summer has been rainy there, and the flowers are thriving.

A few other sights--an osprey nest, seen on our first evening out.

An American kestrel has been visiting the island this summer.

Finally, on Sunday--our last day there--we headed to the Tabernacle where services are held: first Catholic and then Protestant. The Thousand Island Park was originally a Methodist community, established at the end of the 19th century.

A favorite hymn for Sunday services is "Shall We Gather at the River"--hence my title.

Snubbed by a dog

Any animal owner will have stories about her pets--here is just another entry in the on-going pet tales that I have accumulated!

When we got our dog, Tipper, we knew we were signing on for walks every day. She is half border collie, and while she doesn’t seem to have the high drive to “work” that a typical border does, she loves to walk.

She is a very sociable dog. In fact, if she weren’t so sociable, we might not have her. Did I ever tell the story of how we got Tipper? In the summer of 2001, we were in upstate New York visiting some friends who have a cottage on Thousand Island Park (called TIP). We spent a day in the small town of Clayton, cruising around the charming shops and local galleries. As we exited one such place, I saw a mother and daughter walking a very cute puppy down the street. The puppy was very friendly, and I said—what a cute puppy. Without hesitation, the woman said—do you want her?

Since our old dog had died a bit more than a year before, we had debated getting another dog, but still hadn’t. I turned to my husband as he came out of the store, and said—this woman wants to know if we want this puppy. My husband, who is not typically given to spontaneous decisions, said—sure. Well, it was completely legitimate. The woman had to move from her house, and no place she looked at to move would take a dog. So she needed to find this puppy a home.

We ended up naming her Tipper (for the white tip on her nose and for TIP, the place we came to “find” her.)

Back to the walks. Tipper may not have sheep to herd, but she wants to interact with every person or other dog she meets. Some she likes, some she doesn’t. As a friend of mine once remarked of Tipper—she seems to think it is her job to tell everyone else what they should do. It’s true—when kids have come to swim, Tipper races around the pool barking at them. Then she runs to me and barks, as if to say—look, there are kids in the pool Are they allowed? Or when the cats fight, Tipper rushes into the fray and barks. She is taking up for Cassidy, with whom she has bonded. Allie, the new cat, can just bug off.

So the four times daily walks are a chance for Tipper to check out a bit more of the world. If she spots another walker, or a dog in the distance, she becomes fixated, and heads toward that potential friend.

One of our walking routes takes us under a row of trees, most welcome on summer days, and then around the corner. At this house, there lives a dalmatian and a beagle. The dalmatian, Maddy, was a great doggy friend of our old dog. Every day, Maddy waited for Wanda (our English setter in photo) and loved to see her.

After Wanda died, there were several months when I took few walks past Maddy's house. Then, the first time I walked along that road with Tipper, Maddy came rushing out to greet us. She took one look at Tipper, turned her back and walked away from me. Six years have now gone by and she still consistently does this.

She is snubbing us. It is as if she is saying—I don’t know what you did with that other dog, but I liked her. I don’t like this new dog, and I won’t look at you until you get the old dog back.

Sorry, Maddy—Wanda is long gone. And Tipper is here to stay with us. Dogs! Long memories.

Two Dog Day

Occasionally, we have our son's dog come to visit. When she does--her name is Sonnet--she and Tipper instantly bond. In fact, before she arrives, we can say to Tipper--Sonnet is coming--and Tipper perks up and actually seems to get excited.

Maybe I am anthropomorphizing. But I am convinced Tipper understands the word "Sonnet"--not as in "would you like me to read you a sonnet" but as in "Sonnet is coming to visit." (Tipper also understands "walk" and "biscuit" and "ride.")

This morning, Tipper awoke at 5:30 a.m. She does that many mornings, but since today is Saturday, I had human thoughts of sleeping a tad longer. Oh well.

I got up, dressed, and brought Tipper downstairs. Then, of course, I had to get Sonnet. I got each of the dogs leashed up, and away we went for a nice long walk.

My duty during this walk--keep moving, and wave my arms about managing just barely to keep the leashes from tangling. Each dog has her desires--go here, sniff there, etc.

Bodily processes seem to bring out the territoriality in each dog. Sonnet pees--so Tipper has to remark the territory. And so on, the whole way around the block.

I am now back at the house, exhausted from untangling dogs. And ready for a nap!

Thanks for the Memories

Last evening, as I was sitting in the glassed-in sun porch we have, I watched a squirrel run by three separate times. The last time, the squirrel had a mouthful of leaves, and I watched as it climbed a tall Douglas fir all the way to the top. Thinking I might be able to get a photo of the nest in progress, I headed out with camera in hand to take a shot up the tree. After a vertiginous head tilt to see the nest, I took a photo. What I got was not a view of the nest, but an instant flood of memory of how my husband and I met. It involved climbing just such a tree. Perhaps more on that memory in a future post.

One of the signature aspects that separates humans from other mammals, or for that matter other animals, is our ability to recall, to remember. And with that remembrance to anticipate future events.

My dog has a memory. For one certain thing, she knows she doesn’t like the camera, when I get it out and aim it at her, her ears go down. We live in a relatively small neighborhood with less than 50 houses. There are three blocks total to our neighborhood, and the walking routes we take with our dog vary between the “lower” block or the “longer” block. She knows which routes we tend to walk at certain times of day, including which direction to head out away from our house. On the lower block there is a house where a family lived with a black and white shih-tzu named Oreo.

Tipper took an interest in Oreo, who took an instant dislike to Tipper. Every time we walked past, Oreo went ballistic, hurling himself at the window, barking furiously. Tipper responded by prancing rocking horse fashion by the house. But the family moved away and Oreo along with them. Tipper does not know that—she only knows that that house is where Oreo lives/lived. And every day she prances by. Of course, no dog hurls itself against the glass, as the current owners have two cats, no dogs. So my dog’s memory has imprinted in a particular fashion that doesn’t include the flexibility to alter the memory based on new information.

Of course, other animals have memory too, but it is humans that can consciously and knowingly recall memories. Memory plays such an important role in our lives. Recently, when I was visiting my father, he remarked that the older he gets, the more he is inclined to ruminate on memory. I completely understand that. I am not as old as he, obviously, but I too find myself replaying memories.

I have mentioned previously that after my mother died, one of the activities that really seemed to help my father through the process of grieving was that he began to write his memoirs. His life has been unusually full. He titled his memoirs FROM MODEL Ts TO MODEMS: Keep Lying to a Minimum.

Thankfully, he has given each of his children copies of these memoirs, so that we have a source for exploring some of the stories of our lives. One of the first things he acknowledges in his memoirs is that the memories he taps into will be HIS memories. Psychologists are aware that two or more children growing up in exactly the same circumstances and environment can have different memories of those events. So, my father’s recall may not be shared by all who experienced his life events with him.


I am astounded at the level of recall my father has. He recalls names from many of the contacts he has had all through his life. I sometimes find myself hard-pressed to remember my students’ names from one semester to the next! And some of the stories that my father tells are simply wonderful. Herewith an example from when he was 18 years old:

We were on a two lane highway and had been going downhill and uphill, like the highways are in western Pennsylvania. We crested the top of one hill and I saw we had a long straight stretch down that hill and up the next. And I thought I would let the car and trailer roll. I had been coasting like that quite a bit in western Pennsylvania, holding the clutch down, then letting it out again.
But for some dumb and inexplicable reason this time I foolishly slipped the car out of gear. We started rolling, faster and faster. By the time I realized my foolishness we were going too fast for me to force the transmission and get the car back in gear. So I just hung on to the steering wheel, freewheeling down the hill at an ever faster and faster speed. Part way down the hill a car was coming toward me up the hill. And he started nosing out into my lane to pass a slow moving truck. I lay on the horn and the car pulled back in, and we went whizzing by. I was afraid by then to try to brake because we were pulling this trailer, and I was afraid the trailer would start to whip or saw back and forth, or jack knife. As it was the trailer followed as true as a die with no whipping or
sawing. By the time we got to the bottom of the hill we were traveling 80 miles per hour, a 1930 Chevrolet with five sleeping passengers and one just turned eighteen year old boy, a very apprehensive driver, trailing a two wheeled trailer. The hill up the other side was quite long and we had slowed down to about forty miles per hour when we crested that hill, enough that I was able to "rev" the engine and slip clutch the car back into third gear and regain full control. And the whole family slept through it all.

As people age, one of the greatest fears many of us have is losing our memories. Or just our memory—our ability to store information from day to day and to recall it at will. That, of course, is one of the worst symptoms that characterize various types of dementia. I remember visiting a great-uncle of mine in a nursing home. He had always been a wonderful scholarly courtly man, but as he aged, he suffered from some kind of dementia. When I would step into his room, he had no idea who I was.

Our conversation went like this:
Uncle: And you are. . .?
Me: Donna.
Uncle: Donna?
Me: Yes, your brother John’s granddaughter.
Uncle: John? PAUSE. Oh, John.

After a minute, he would say again: And you are?

Most sad.

The long running Broadway musical Cats had a fantastically decorated theater, humans in costumes mimicking every possible type of cat, and little plot. But one stand-out song emerged from the musical: the song Memory. While the song is sung by an old once glamorous cat named Grizabella, the lyrics of the song resonated with every person who has ever had that twinge of recognizing that, as time passes, we lose much but if we are fortunate we can retain memory.

Monday Morning Updates

In some of my recent blogs, I wrote on topics that readers have commented on. Herewith a few updates.

TIPPER
The most recent blood work results show that her platelet levels are holding steady. So the vet said to cut back her prednisone dose. It was 20 mg. tablets, which I now cut in half so she gets 10 mg. daily. BUT, and here's what is strange, she is more hungry and thirsty than before. My husband, half jokingly (I think), wondered if cutting the pill in half releases more active ingredients. For now, Tipper is doing fine. Next blood test--in one month.

SUGAR LEVELS
I am doing fine too. Now that I am back to regular blood sugar testing (only once a week), I continue to get feedback that diet alone is controlling blood sugar levels. So far I am hovering around 100--which is the target. Next doctor appointment in less than a month--TRUTH time!

OLD FRIENDS
Out of the blue (well, not quite--given the emailing high school classmate), I got an email from one of the threesome of the anti-clique clique. What a delight! In our emails back and forth, we have exchanged brief brushstroke details of our lives over the past. . .OMG. . .45 years. No, can't be. But it is. 45 year high school graduation anniversary on the horizon. And, except for meandering aches and pains, I don't feel a day over--let's make it 50.

GHANA
Now that my daughter is home, you would think I wouldn't be paying much attention to things in Ghana. However, an old friend is currently there doing 3 weeks of nursing work on a hospital ship. She is sending daily emails of the travails of non-stop surgery. And in the brief moments when she gets out into parts of Ghana, she is experiencing the chaos and wonder of that country.

Peanut Butter, Pills, Pup & Persistent Cat

Today is a non-pill day for our dog, Tipper, who is on prednisone to suppress her body's over-zealous elimination of her own platelets. Most every day, she gets a 20 mg. pill of prednisone, but, since today is a teaching day for me, I skip giving her the pill. (The side effects of prednisone are increased hunger and thirst for the dog, so, with her in her crate while I am gone, it seems cruel to afflict her with urges that she can't satisfy in her confinement.) ANYWAY, as I got out my usual morning vitamin, the dog hears the rattle of the bottle and ASSUMES this is for her.

You see, I have learned that a dog will take any pill, almost any size, as long as you coat the pill in peanut butter. So she came running for the morning dose of peanut butter. Awww--puppy, sorry to disappoint you. But then, she (being a very smart half-Border collie) made an excellent point--she could force herself to have a taste of peanut butter WITHOUT the pill! So, herewith!

Problem solved!

So, my next step in morning processing is to read the newspaper. And here begins another predictable ritual. Ever since our one cat Cassidy was a kitten, he has loved to crawl up on the table and position himself just so on top of . . .you guessed it. . .the newspaper. I can spread the paper out and be all ready to read, Cassidy is nowhere around, and SUDDENLY he materializes (like all cats I have ever had, he time travels--I first read about the ability cats have to time travel in that wonderful children's classic Time Cat by Lloyd Alexander).

I will be sitting there pleading, no, no, not my newspaper, and Cassidy, utterly oblivious to my pleas, plops himself right -- on -- the -- page -- I -- am -- READING. I groan, pick him up, deposit him on my chair (since I am now standing) and hope he will stay there. If he does, I continue reading, while standing until the newspaper is done. And, of course, Cassidy consents to letting me pet his ears, while he sits on my chair, and I try to read the newspaper.

Note, Cassidy is NOT sitting on the ad side of the newspaper, which I can easily skip reading; oh no, he is plopped (and really that is what he does) right on top of the text.

Midnight Snow

Yesterday afternoon, I watched the sky as dusk approached. I was hoping for a lovely sunset, given the prolific clouds. So, I took this "before" shot hoping the "after" would be spectacular. Well, the clouds kept gathering and the sunset went pfffftttt! But the late afternoon light was great to see.

It finally feels as though winter has arrived. About time--it is January, after all.

But it wasn't until the middle of the night that I could really revel in winter. Our dog is on prednisone--our vet has determined that she has a low platelet count due to Immune-mediated thrombocytopenia. The cause of this disease is unknown, the effect is that she can begin to bleed and not stop, and the treatment is sufficiently high enough doses of prednisone to get her body to stop destroying its own platelets. ANYWAY--the medication causes her to be ravenously thirsty (and hungry). So she drinks alot, and wants to eat as much as we will feed her. You guessed it--what goes in must come out. That means getting up in the middle of the night to let her out.

Last night, I climbed out of bed, put on my long down-filled coat, and took her out. Wonder of wonders, it was snowing lightly. In the dead of night, swirling snow is a wondrous sight. And, given the dark, it is not really photographable (is that a word?) but utterly beautiful. Despite the cold, I stood watching the snow for a while.

Then, of course, I went back inside with the dog. As I snuggled under the covers, warmed up a bit, I kept seeing lovely fluffy snowflakes in my mind's eye. Midnight snow!