Wilderness Dog Sammy

For the past few years, the last thing I’ve done each and every evening has been to pick him up from his bed in the living area, carry him down the back deck’s steps into the yard for one last wobbly constitutional, and then return him gently to his kennel in my office for the night. Only then have I been ready for sleep.

It’s the most mundane things that you miss.

In time, such things become threads in the fabric of your life. The staying subconsciously tuned to any small noise that might suggest that he’s caught in a corner or under a chair. The listening for his small raspy breaths to try to keep track of which of the many pet beds, scattered about the house, that he's settled into. The responding to any whimper that might suggest the need for a trip to the yard. The juggling of meals and medications and subcutaneous fluids that have kept him comfortable and with us. A geriatric terrier takes some attention.

And yes, there were "good" years. Many. The stories I could tell. But the last have also been good in their own way, our lives woven more tightly through a dependency and a dedication and a tenderness that is hard to comprehend, much less describe. Man and dog intertwined by needs at their barest. But the threads have been pulled and our cloth has unraveled. Things here just don't fit quite the same.

Now there’s no reason to keep the door to the basement stairs closed, lest he tumble down them. No reason to excuse ourselves from the party every three hours to run back to the house for a moment of relief. No reason to take each first step with care in the likely event that he’s settled underfoot, just to be close to us.

For the past few years, the first thing I’ve done each and every morning has been to ask “Is Sammy awake yet?”

It will take some time before the answer settles in.

Godspeed, little Wilderness Dog,

Scourge of squirrels, chaser of deer, defiler of tall weeds.

Go run with the big dogs once again.

We Went Awalkin'... Again

Prelude: I turned sixty last week and, quite honestly, I've spent the past several days trying to come to terms with it. I've started a handful of posts - some humorous, some more introspective - but I simply have not yet wrapped my head around this milestone. My mind keeps returning to something I'd written nearly three years ago, so, with apologies to you who have been around that long, I think that I'll fall back on it now. It's as true today as it was when I wrote it, and just a little bit closer to real.

We went awalkin’, Sammy and I, up the ridge, along the narrow gravel road that passes our woods, over the ridgeline, and through the tunnel of redbuds, so robust and full in the spring yet now so gaunt and so naked in winter's approach. We went awalkin', Sammy and I.

His vet would be pissed.

We’d taken Sammy to the local country doctor, fearing that age, arthritis, and the effects of a life-long liver condition had finally begun to squeeze the joy from the feisty little terrier. She made the expected pharmacological recommendations to ease his aching joints and suggested that, with limited activity, he should be comfortable for the foreseeable future. But she knew.

We know.




He sleeps a lot. And we carry him down the steps to the back yard so that he might sniff the 'coon tracks, stare into the woods, and unsteadily mark his now meager boundaries. It’s still his turf, after all, though he squats like a girlie dog, his leg-lifting balance gone the way of eyesight and stamina. And, at the end of each constitutional, he stands and looks up the drive, towards the road, up the ridge, to the redbuds, where we’ve walked together a thousand times - but walk no more.

Today, instead of just looking, he began to climb the hill, like before.

I called to him, to steer him back to comfort and ease, but he did not hear. Maybe he can't. More likely, he pretended not to. I called again, more urgently, and he stopped, but did not turn. Instead, he paused, then looked back over his shoulder as if to say, “Are you coming?”

I sighed. And I came.

For a half-mile he was Wilderness Dog Sammy again - scourge of squirrels, chaser of deer, defiler of tall weeds. There was spring in his step and sparkle in his eyes, his ears and tail pointed to the brilliant blue sky. He led and I followed, noticing that his haunches, once as sturdy and full as the redbuds in spring, were as thin and bony as the stark, bare canopy above. But, for a half-mile, he was the alpha dog once more. For a wonderful half-mile...

… until he slowed. I called his name, like before, and he stopped, waited, and allowed me to pick him up – a concession unimaginable in times gone by. His walk was complete, miles short of his good days, but he accepted my bearing without shame. His ears remained perked, his nose thrust forward as if to lead us along the path, his spirit taking us where his legs could no longer. We walked our old haunts together, one more time. Even in my arms, he was still the Wilderness Dog.

And, on occasion, he looked up and licked my face, his eyes still sparkling despite clouding lenses, and he seemed to say “Isn’t this glorious?”

It was.

This evening I expect that Sammy will pay for the excursion, the drugs unable to blunt the ache as it does most nights. He’ll lie in his bed, at out feet, and hurt a little more than usual, but I’m certain that the discomfort will be more than compensated by his restored canine dignity, by the walk through his old woods. I regret his pain, but I’m glad that we went for we both were able to remember the Wilderness Dog, if but just for a little while.

And, if you please, do the same for me. When my vitality wanes, when my life is diminished by whatever prostration chips it away, I hope that on that day when the woods call to me once again, you allow me to answer. Allow me to follow that ridgeline as far as I am able - wisdom and doctor be damned. I will accept assistance, if offered, on return, but first let me go. I will accept the inevitable pain, the price, but first let me go. Let me relive the fullness of my spring, the redbuds in bloom, for just that little while, and then I will again accept my limitations, accept the arrival of my winter. But first, let me go.

We went awalkin’, Sammy and I, up the ridge, through the tunnel of redbuds.

The Photo Bin - September 2013

Some months the Photo Bin is easy.

Lots of odds-and-ends images to choose from.

Lots of things to share.

This month ain’t one of them.

This month you get one.

One that reflects precisely how I feel about the dearth.

Me, and Wilderness Dog Sammy.

Perhaps next month's selection will be better.

How can it not?

The Photo Bin - April 2012

I know, it's only been a couple of weeks since my last "monthly" photo bin. But the rest of April looks to be rather full (more on that in a minute) so I thought I'd sneak this month's edition in early. Besides, there's always an odd image, or three, floating around here to share.

Spring raced through here at a breakneck pace, as though Ma Nature wished to be done with it and move straight to summer with no more than a howdy-do. The trees went from bare to lush, seemingly overnight, but I did manage to shoot the emerging mottle of greens, posed against a crisp Carolina sky - a wisp of the moon for added interest.

And Wilderness Dog Sammy's always good for a cameo. He's been doing reasonably well of late, despite his age and arthritis. We finally seem to have found a decent balance between un-medicated joint pain and drug-induced stupor - a balance which makes for a livelier and more active little guy as well as happier dog owners. Here he's taking an Easter stroll in the yard of our friends' lake house, lookin' for the big dogs.

Finally, in preparation for that "rather full" rest of April, referred to earlier, I've spent a few evenings at the vice, tying a couple of Bugger Barns full of clousers and sliders that I hope will appeal to some South Padre redfish.

Yes, Texas, here I come. You'll be hearing more of that in the days to come.

Consider yourself warned.

Oh, and a spot of Maudite and the Allman Brothers channel on Pandora make the flies fly by nicely.

So, to steal my buddy Tom's post-closing convention, see you on the Gulf.

Pee, No Poop: Notes on the Countertop

We had to be away for the day and our geriatric terrier could not come along. His "aunties" offered to look in on the little old man throughout the day. Before we departed, Mary left a note on the countertop:

Hi Aunties!
Sammy's food is in the little ziplocs in fridge. We've given him meds and will do 2nd dose when we get home.
Thanks & love you,
M & M & S

We arrived home late to find a contented dog and a handful of updates. From Auntie Robin:

noon report -
15 min outside
Pee, no poop -
a little wobbly -

Below it, from Auntie Jan:

Happy Hour Report -
15 min outside
Poop & Pee - WOOHOO!
We sat on side porch a while enjoying the evening - what a day.
(You have salamander eggs in your pond!)

And finally:

Hey Mary -
Unfrozen chicken & carrots in refridgerator.
Caroline

So I sit here with the smell of fresh, simmering chicken wafting from the kitchen and I wonder. Has any little dog ever been better cared for? Have any little dog's owners ever been better cared for? Would I wish to live anywhere else? The answers are easy.

Thank you, Aunties. We, all three of us, love ya ...

... and your notes on the countertop.

We Went Awalkin'

We went awalkin’, Sammy and I, up the ridge, along the narrow gravel road that passes our woods, across the ridgeline, and through the tunnel of redbuds, so robust and full in the spring yet now so gaunt and naked with the approach of our winter. We went awalkin', Sammy and I.

His vet would be pissed.

We’d taken Sammy to the local county doctor, fearing that age, arthritis, and the effects of a life-long liver condition had finally begun to squeeze the joy from the feisty little terrier. She made the expected pharmacological recommendations to ease his aching joints and suggested that, with limited activity, he should be comfortable for the foreseeable future. But she knew.

We know.




He sleeps a lot. And we carry him to the back yard – down the steps – so that he might sniff the 'coon tracks, stare into the woods, and unsteadily mark his now meager boundaries. It’s still his turf, after all, though he squats like a girlie dog, his leg-lifting balance gone the way of eyesight and stamina. And, at the end of each constitutional, he stands and looks up the drive, towards the road, up the ridge, to the redbuds, where we’ve walked together a thousand times - but walk no more.

But today, instead of just looking, he began to climb the hill, like before.

I called to him, to steer him back to comfort and ease, but he did not hear. Maybe he can't. More likely, he pretended not to. I called again, more urgently, and he stopped, reluctantly, but did not turn. Instead, he paused, then looked back over his shoulder as if to say, “Are you coming?”

I sighed. And I came.

For a half-mile he was Wilderness Dog Sammy again - scourge of squirrels, chaser of deer, defiler of tall weeds. There was spring in his step and sparkle in his eyes – ears and tail pointed to the brilliant blue sky. He led and I followed, noticing that his haunches, once as sturdy and full as the redbuds in spring, were as thin and bony as the stark, bare canopy above. But, for a half-mile, he was the alpha dog once more. For a wonderful half-mile...

… until he slowed. I called his name, like before, and he stopped, waited, and allowed me to pick him up – a concession unimaginable in times gone by. His walk was complete, miles short of his good days, but he accepted my bearing without shame. His ears remained perked, his nose thrust forward as if to lead us along the path, his spirit taking us where his legs could no longer. We walked our old haunts together, one more time. Even in my arms, he was still the Wilderness Dog.

And, on occasion, he looked up and licked my face, his eyes still sparkling despite clouding lenses, and he seemed to say “Isn’t this glorious?”

It was.

This evening I expect that Sammy will pay for the excursion - the drugs unable to blunt the ache as it does most nights. He’ll lie in his bed, at out feet, and hurt a little more than usual, but I’m certain that the discomfort will be more than compensated by his restored canine dignity, by the walk through his old woods. I regret his pain, but I’m glad that we went forth for we both were able to remember the Wilderness Dog, if but just for a little while.

And, if you please, do the same for me. When my vitality wanes, when my life is diminished by whatever prostration chips it away, I hope that, on that day when the woods call to me once again, you allow me to answer. Allow me to follow that ridgeline as far as I am able - wisdom and doctor be damned. I will accept assistance, if offered, on return, but first let me go. I will accept the inevitable pain, the price, but first let me go. Let me relive the fullness of my spring, the redbuds in bloom, for just that little while, and then I will again accept my limitations, accept the arrival of my winter. But first, let me go.

We went awalkin’, Sammy and I, up the ridge, through the tunnel of redbuds.

Thanksgiving's Gone to the Dogs

Cooper - The Grand Old Man

It's become a happy Thanksgiving tradition to spend the holiday with friends and family at Jo and Dewey’s home on the lake. One of the particular joys of this gathering is the attendance of everyone’s four-legged friends and this year we had them in packs. The house was filled with the festive patter of a dozen folks and their eight canine companions. It was a dog’s day.

Dimes, Dogs, and Dear Ones

“Well, I think we’ve figured out what’s wrong with him” said the emergency veterinarian as she snapped Wilderness Dog Sammy’s x-rays onto the lightboard. And while I’m no animal doctor myself, it seemed pretty clear to me as well. His discomfort, no doubt, had something to do with that shiny coin-shaped object, lodged mid-dog.

Dammit, Sam. What were you thinking?