WHAT IS IT THAT HAPPENS TO US

I got a call last night. A friend's dog, Elder Clara, had bloated and died. It was a call that was not entirely unexpected: Clara was almost 17 years old, and for a Basset that is a phenomenally old age. Way beyond anything we have achieved with ours.
But as with all calls like this, expected in some halfway house of our brains, we never REALLY think we'll get it. Somehow, things will go on as they always have. Nothing will truly change. The people we love will live forever: the children we cherish will be healthy and happy: the dogs and cats and horses and birds we cuddle and love and adore will go on and on, and the day of reckoning will not come.
Some of us, more realistic than others, know in our souls this is not true. We think we are prepared. We know the dog has cancer and will not beat it. But when the time comes, and the dog is stumbling or wailing in  sudden, unbearable pain, and we know the end is right there in front of us, close enough to touch, we are stunned. Stunned into freezing time: nothing moves.

What happened? What happened? An hour ago everything was fine and now-- nothing is right at all. How could it happen so fast? Was it my fault? Did I do something wrong? Did I miss a subtle sign, a change in the tectonic plates of the dog's health? What could I have done? Should I have waited or did I wait too long? I saw this coming: I never saw this coming. Someone else would have known, would have seen it, but I didn't, and the cost was too high to even count. No one could have seen it. I didn't miss a thing, I swear.....

Yesterday --was it just yesterday? They were Puppies with their Mother. How could he have been 12 today? Their Mother is gone, too-- and now this....

What happens to us? Why do our brains fry every time we lose one, even though we know the day we bring the puppy home that time with her is limited? And why didn't the earth stop and the cosmos come to a momentary standstill, and the birds quiet in despair? Do we love our human companions the same way?

There is a purity of the bond between dogs and people. It does not exist with other humans-- there is too much baggage. Too many disagreements, too many moments of anger and mis-match that does not occur with an animal. They are simply there, all the time, ready for almost anything, willing, happy to see you, eager to please, happy for a handout, never disappointed in a birthday present forgotten or angry at the Boss. Never unemployed: dogs and other pets have permanent positions in our lives. (I am not speaking here of the abandoned and the cruelly treated.)

So what happens now?
Slowly we pick up the pieces that yesterday was a complete life and today is shattered. Through the tears we remember something funny and giggle, and then feel guilty, but it was funny, wasn't it? And we go on. Never forgetting, with yet another hole in our hearts to try to fill in again. For some the pain is too great and they never have another pet. For others, having another is the only answer. We get through. But always there is that question: what happened? What on earth happened?

For those who have gone before: Walker, Quiller, Zelda and Mitchell. We never forget.

THE SEVENTH'S STAGHOUND

My Mother taught me to read when I was 4. When I hit Kindergarten (no pre-school in those days) I could read. The school told me I was reading using the wrong method, and that I shouldn't read until they taught me to do it properly. I was hysterical. Once you can read, how do you unread? And if you can read, how can it be the wrong way? My Mother just laughed and went to visit them at the school and that was the last I heard about not being allowed to read until I could read.

Back in those days the Libraries had "branches". Down the street and around a couple of corners lived the "Waveland Branch Library". It was small, but it was a world.

I practically lived in the Library. I believe I got a Library card before I was actually supposed to. I think I had to read something to the Librarian to prove I really could read; Mother standing in the background, armed crossed, watching. Otherwise, as I recall, you had to wait until you were six. Mother and I would walk to the Library and I would come home loaded with the 6 books I was allowed to take out. Two days later I would be back for more. I practically ate books.

But I had a children's card. I was allowed only those books marked for children. I can tell you how the Library was laid out. You walked in the door which faced University Avenue, and to your immediate right was the Librarians desk. To the left were the beginnings of my world: the children's books. They ran down the wall to the corner, around the corner to the door at the back of the Library. On the other side of the door began the Adult books, where I was not to go.

Near the back wall of the children's section was a round table, with books on it, where you could sit and read if you wanted to. There were some tables on the adult side as well. (There was almost always a book on the round table  called THE BLIND PONY which I refused to read, never did.)

Nearest the front the books were easy: they got harder to read as you approached the back door. About midway along the Children's wall was history, and I mention this because it was a book I found here that started all this nostalgia. A book with a red cover and crossed sabers on the front by Fairfax Downey and illustrated by Paul Brown (not the football coach) titled:
THE SEVENTH'S STAGHOUND. A discussion with my husband about George Armstrong Custer is what started this, and what dogs he had, and whether the dogs went into battle with him (yes) and what they were ( not one single breed but several--some were Lurchers, some were "staghounds"-- usually a cross between Deerhounds, Wolfhounds and possibly Greyhounds. Looking  at a photo I found of Custer with his two dogs, the Staghounds were mostly like a deerhound cross, altho there is a greyhound clearly in the photo.) and that is what sparked my hunt for the book.

And I wanted to know: did I make that up? I could, in my head, see the illustrations quite easily. Paul Brown illustrated at least 50% of the dog and horse books I ate up as a kid. I have collected some. I didn't make it up. There it was on Alibris.com, for $20 bucks.

I probably will not buy it. Knowing it is there is fine. It is described as having a red cover with crossed sabers on it. I may forget who my children are, but I will always remember a good book about a dog or horse.


(Custer in Montana, 1876)

THE CHANGING OF THE TIME

Tonight we go back...no, forward-- to daylight savings time again. No  more getting up at 4:30 for ME! Nossir. I get up at 5:30, now. John, who gets up about 8 or 9 (he is up until 1 or 2 in the morning, reading) says "It won't be light out." What? Does he think it is now?
Lit by the ethereal glow of a half dozen night lights (to avoid tripping over dogs) our house is well lit during the night. The Bassets, except for Llewis, are crated, but the black dog, who is impossible to see at night no matter how many night lights we have, camps anywhere. Llewis, with his white tail tip, is spottable.

When I was the kennel manager at the Clinic, I would put signs up days in advance, hoping my Sunday Morning team would actually remember to change their clocks and come to work on time. Sundays were crucial because we had so little time in which to get everything done. Supposedly we did not open until 10 but we never turned anyone away and so if there was a Vet there and someone pounded on the door, we opened. (If there was no Vet and it was an emergency we opened and called the Vet in, meanwhile taking instructions over the phone.) We closed at Noon, which meant all dogs and cats had to be fed, cleaned, exercised, cleaned, watered and clean by noon. By the time I retired, there was room for 220 animals to  board, in runs or regular built-in kennels. I was no longer Kennel Manager and very happy that I wasn't.

They still open at ten (ha hah) (More like 9) and close at noon (more like 1pm)
I do not miss Sundays in the kennel.

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Today on the way to visit the taxman, I was in a line of cars that stopped for several deer that burst out of the bushes by the highway and danced across the road, followed by the relentless predator that had sent them fleeing for their lives--- someone's Beagle.

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It's been a tough day.

MY DOG

When we got our first dog, we got a Basset because my husband had always wanted a Basset and instead his parents bought him a Beagle thinking a kid would not notice the difference, I think. He did.
Always he wanted a Basset.
When I met him his girlfriend had a Basset. That's all I'm gonna say about that.

This is how we ended up with Bassets. We started with one and now have 3 and are down in numbers from 4 Bassets.
And then came the Belgians. Because I wanted a dog for memememe. One that could do obedience (Bwaahaahahahah) and other doggy things with me. One that was trainable.
So there have been Belgians. And the Belgians are MY dogs. The Bassets are too, make no mistake. But the Belgians, with their long legs and instant response time, they're MY dogs.

So now I have Cooper. And someplace a couple of years ago, after Mitchell and Zelda died, we got Conley. A Basset. Definitely a Basset. But Cooper was MY dog. He travels with me. He goes in the Van with me. He goes to the Gallery with me.

He's my boy. He's my sunshine. He's my protector, my companion, my soul.

Except that nobody told Conley.

And he decided that he was MY dog.
He slept next to my bed. He slept under my desk when I was working. He sits in the kitchen when I cook. He is the first to greet me, shoving all the others aside including Cooper, now that he only has three legs and isn't quite as agile as he used to be.
I never told Conley he was MY dog. Nigel loves John, loves to sit on his lap, loves his chair, is the first to say hello to him when he comes home. Llewis loves everyone sort of, in a strange, Llewis kind of way.

I make a lot of room for Cooper. I take him wherever I can. He loves the Gallery and goes with me there. Today I went to the Gallery without Cooper, just for a brief business huddle with Pat, and when I came home, John said Conley cried at the window the entire time I was gone. Uh Oh.
Conley cannot go to the Gallery until Cooper is gone. The Gallery is Cooper's place to be with me, without the others. Do not think for one moment that Cooper is unaware of Conley's efforts to usurp my affections. Raised hackles and nasty insults are commonplace from both. Eyeballing. Posturing.

Cooper will always be MY dog, until the day he dies. Conley may suspect this is true, Cooper knows it is. I am just not sure Conley knows who is watching.

NO WORDS

Blogging Along

There is not much going on here that I can write about. Some of it involves a person who may or may not read the blog and about whom I prefer not to write. You can always email me to find out these things, but I am not putting it out there publicly. I learned my lesson the hard way about that.

Never ever put anything in a blog you don't want the world to know about.

You would think someone as paranoid as I am who grew up with a lawyer for a Father would know that instinctively, just as I know to duck when someone throws a baseball in my direction. I mean, catch it? Are they crazy? (I was not a big athlete in school.)
My son-in-law is writing a blog for the Chicago Tribune online edition, called "The Cub's Den". It is, obviously, about the Cubs. His allegiance to the Cubs is something I suppose he cannot help. He is otherwise such an amazingly wonderful person that I guess I will forgive him this one vice.

http://www.chicagonow.com/blogs/cubs-den/

If you are interested.


Nigel has crystals in his urine. He is on an acidifier but is still peeing in the house from time to time.
Conley is his usual irrepressible self. Llewis bounces all over and Cooper continues to supervise everyone, including the mailman, the UPS guy and FedEx.

I told you there was not much going on.

Don't Forget!!
March 25, 26 & 27 there will be an exhibit of handblown glass from
Marble City Glassworks. The exhibit will be in Park Forest, IL at 294 Main St.
Drop in-- it's free. There will be food. No booze, sorry -- we don't have a license for it.

ALL KINDS OF STOFF

We weathered the International Kennel Club without much success. Two red ribbons (please don't ask how many were in Open.) We saw some lovely dogs and some really awful ones. The first day Conley got lotsa belly rubs but by Sunday he had had enough, and I kept him crated most of the day.

Attendance was way down-- both in entries and spectators and even vendors. Getting in wasn't hard but leaving was the usual hassle. (If you have never tried to get a dog and your equipment out of McCormick Place along with probably 1000 other dog people, I cannot possibly explain it.)

I took my camera but largely ignored it. Sunday, I didn't even take it along. There was a new dog there, the Icelandic Sheepdog, with which I fell in love. I did not get a photo because I never found them. I would see them now and again and Saturday I looked all day and couldn't find them. (I could have used the catalog, but what fun is that?)

This Pyrenees was benched next to us and I have always liked them.

But I was not inspired this year, either by 99% of the dogs I saw or photographically. My first catalog from this show is dated 1966, the first year I was married and we came into town for the show. I probably have photos of relatives of many of the Bassets being shown today. My first set of photos was from a Polaroid!!

This is Katie and her Wheaten Terrier.  I never mastered the art of holding the dryer under my chin, aiming it accurately, and brushing all at the same time, muti-tasking training. Katie's last name escapes me but I have known her off and on for years. Once upon a time she worked with Jackie, my breeder and co-owner (of Conley) but now she is on her own and quite capable. She had a lovely Basset puppy there.

Around in back, on the other side of the bench, I found one of my favorite dogs, altho from what I gather from the Judges I have spoken with, the temperanent is "iffy", and that is a Skye Terrier.

I think they are stunning. However. I am not, really, at heart, A Terrier, but a herding breed first and a hound second.
second.  That said, here is Jackie's little dynamo, her wire-haired doxie. In the hound group but really have the personality of a Terrier.

And last. My favorite photo from the show. I do not know who she was and I certainly hope she had no expectations of privacy. I did not get a waiver. I think she must having something going with a Corgi. Just a wild guess.

Maybe next year.                                                                                                                                                                                                                   .