We sit in the dark... ( a funny doggy tale/tail )

It started sometime last year.   The day would pass peacefully and normally and the night usually mirrored the day, but sometime last year things changed.  At first it wasn't a big change.  It was a little annoying, and certainly very much attention getting, but it only lasted a few minutes and then it was all done.  One night, some unknown thing startled him.   It wasn't a bark from a dog on the television, and it wasn't the sound of the neighbor's firecrackers that set him off, and there was no delivery at the must-be-barked-at-if-there's-someone-there front door to trigger the panting, the panic, the can't-sit-still, gotta-go-out, gotta-come-in, let's-go-upstairs, no-let's-stay-downstairs, pant, pant, pant that can now last for hours in this darkened house.

It did happen once in the daylight.  It was a Sunday afternoon and he just wouldn't calm down.  Pant, pant, pant, up the stairs, and down the stairs, scratch the dirt in the garden, scratch the (perceived) dirt in the carpet, scratch (the hopefully only perceived) bugs in the bed.  He was in a panic.  I thought it was the precursor to a cardiac event so off we went to what I was sure would be an event leading to euthanasia.  Turned out (after a couple of hundred bucks in emergency vet bills) he really just wanted a ride in the car.  We determined that because he was perfectly fine at the emergency vet hospital.  

You know when you take the car in for repair because it's been making that funny noise, but you can't quite describe the funny noise to the guy at the car repair shop, and it stopped making the funny noise about two minutes before you got to the car repair shop, and the guy at the car repair shop drives it around town and it still won't make that funny noise, and so the guy at the car repair shop takes your car home (his home, not yours - which also explains why you see your mechanic driving around town in some very fancy cars that kind of look like the cars your friends own) to see if it will make that funny noise , but that funny noise just won't reveal itself to the guy at the repair shop, and so the guy at the repair shop charges you $89.75 for his diagnostic ministrations (but he usually charges the other blokes $125 so you kind of feel better)?  Well, it was the same thing with the dog.  The dog was fine at the emergency vet, and he was fine when we brought him home, but who wouldn't be fine after getting a $75 shot of valium in their forty-five pound body?   Oh, and don't bother asking if the vet can hook-you-up with a quick shot of Demarol for your shattered human nerves: apparently they're only licensed to hook-up the animal kingdom, inter-species doctoring being severely frowned upon by those who administer the licenses of the vets who are charging you a week's salary for shaving a one inch square section of fur, to 'have a look' at the bump or lump 'that might' be the cause of today's palpitations (the dog's palpitations, not your own palpitations.  Your palpitations are easily explained by the avalanche of symptoms exhibited by the dog, and the palpitations brought on by the all-too-predictable-but-unexpected tsunami of cost attached to this veterinary visitation).

We bring the dog home, and we both attack 'Dr. Google'.   If you look hard enough, look long enough, and are persistent enough, you can validate pretty much any physical (for better or for worse) condition on the interwebbynettythingy.   If you want to confirm that you're at death's door, you can find someone, somewhere who has had that same pimple in the same place with the same headache, cough, and anal leakage that you've been experiencing simply by consulting the internet.   Having confirmed that you're at death's door, you now want to deny the reality of your own mortality by doing a search for remedies, palliatives, ointments and unguents that will relieve one of the headache, clog the anal leakage, remove the pimple and restore good health (relieve wrinkles, and restore a youthful glow) to one so deserving of good health and long life.   With Dr. Google, off you go down that well-worn path of denial, bargaining, anger, depression, and acceptance that is the right and privilege of those whose day's are numbered, and then you can go back out into the 'doctor market' to find some doctor who will agree with your diagnosis and relieve you of $500 but not relieve you of your pimple, headache, or anal leakage (which you later discover can all be cured by two aspirin, a pair of tweezers, and a cork that are found at Walgreens).

According to the interwebbythingy, this old dog is suffering from Cushing's disease.  Well, kind of, but not really.   He has 'this', but you really need 'this' combined with 'that' for it to be Cushing's disease.  He's never had 'that', but the 'this' portion of a Cushing's disease diagnosis he has in spades.   He has so much of the 'this' part of the Cushing's disease diagnosis that you convince yourself (because Dr. Google is telling you right there, in print, before your very eyes) that 'this' can really only be Cushing's disease, and just because he doesn't seem to exhibit any signs of 'that' doesn't mean he won't be doing 'that' real soon, and honestly, maybe he's been doing 'that' for months in some private place in your house or yard where you can't see 'that' - after all, just because the dog's every waking moment is spent at your side (as God intended), like I said, just because he's at your side constantly doesn't mean he doesn't take a few moments off from his watching-you-duties to have a little personal moment of 'that' for himself.  Does it?

The emergency vet says he'll calm the dog down with a shot (you'll have to calm yourself down with a shot of tequila when you get home thank you very much) but he's more than happy to do some blood work and do an X-ray.  Oh sure, 'he's happy'!   He's happy to see a $60,000 off road vehicle (that attacks a speed bump at Target at three miles an hour as if it were made of crystal and they were driving this $60K crystal off road vehicle across the Alps like one of the vonTrapp's more desirable children) in his parking lot with two guys (Gee, are you two brothers?  You look so much alike...) two guys who have clearly never missed a meal, and whose wallets are clearly encumbered by limitless credit lines given by Visa, MasterCard, American Express and Discover, and just by chance this happy vet happens to accept all four of those major credit cards, which is convenient because you're gonna max out every one of them if you take the sucker's-bet and go for the in-house blood work, and X-ray that are so generously (?) being offered.

Being no fool (well, not being the biggest fool in a world of fool's) we accept the drugging of the doggie, and decline the 'convenience and immediacy' of the offered bloodwork and X-ray.   After all, our own vet had to downgrade from a stateroom with a balcony to a regular (outside) stateroom for his last cruise, and we want to be supportive of his business, and we want the vet to have first class vacations (while we sit at home because we don't have money for vacations) so we'll take the dog to him (our vet) the next day.

Which is exactly what we do...

The regular vet has just spent a hundred grand on a machine because the tax laws gave him a generous break on such machinery, and it's a really great machine, and wouldn't we like him to use this expensive machine on our dog to diagnose that which would explain why he has 'this' and not 'that', but might also reveal that he's been doing 'that' for a long time and I've been too much of a lunk-head to notice 'that'.   This machine, when combined with $800 worth of bloodwork will, without doubt, without question, with no uncertainty, determine that the dog is on his last legs, or determine that his ailments are indeterminate in nature, and aren't you happy that he doesn't have anal leakage?

Which is exactly what the expensive machine, and the expensive bloodwork, and the expensive examination determine: this dog is (kind of) fine: except for doing 'this' (but not 'that') and being very annoying during the hours that we've generally determined to be time for sleeping (9:00 p.m' through 4:00 a.m.).  During the examination they've noticed some skin tags (doggie equivalents of pimples).  One of them looks like Hiroshima on a bad day in August, so let's just whack that sucker off.   Now, I've been picking at this thing for months, and it's the kind of pimply-growth-kinda-thingy that your finger nails just can't resist.  Five minutes of picking at this fleshy Vesuvius is always productive and weirdly satisfying (said the Marquis de Sade).  The dog can't feel my pinching of this monstrosity, and according to Dr. Google I can strangle this thing off his body with some dental floss and a tourniquette.   However, I'd much rather pay another $600 to remove this pimple by a professional pimply-thingy-removal guy, and since he doesn't exhibit anal leakage I'm that much ahead of the game (if he's suffering from headaches I'll never know).

He's an old dog.  At least sixteen years old, and there have been more than a couple of times in the last few years that we thought: "This is it, he's not going to pull through this event....".  Fortunately, medical science and thousands of dollars later, he's still here.  It seems to me that dogs weren't as expensive to have as they are today.  The vet who has set up shop here in our swanky neighborhood is a nice guy, and a great vet, but man is he expensive.  How the hell do poor people have dogs?   Well, I guess they have them, but they don't have them for sixteen years like I do.   Our other dog died in my arms (a heart attack) one September afternoon, and while I miss that old dog (he was nearly twenty) I sure can use the money (nearly five grand a year) that funded our vet's luxury accommodations on whatever cruise ship our vet vacationed on in those lush, hundred dollar a barrel oil years!

The vet has given me some medication that is supposed to relieve us of the 'this' symptoms.   Every evening, the dog gets a Xanax.   Actually, he gets a half of a Xanax.  Exactly what kind of a world is it when the dog is on Xanax and I'm not?  At first, the Xanax worked, and frankly there have been a couple of recent world events where I may have slipped a Xanax into my own Alpo to get through the night, but now, his Xanax wears off at about 11:00 p.m. and we're enjoying pant, pant, pant, in and out, up and down, 'this' but not 'that' throughout the night (well, at least until 4:00 a.m.).

The dog is now boasting a three inch square section of shaved skin.   It's kind of growing back, but it's doing so in a very odd way.   It's been four months since the initial shaving, and it's been four months of panting, out, then in, then upstairs, no downstairs, and none of this, absolutely none of this can, will, or does occur during business hours.   I'm kinda wishing I hadn't removed that doggie pimple, picking at it would give me something to do in the wee hours of the morning while I sit in the dark.

No, all of this panting, up, down, in and out needs to be done between his business hours (he apparently prefers working the night shift - 9 p.m. to 4 a.m.).  I'm trying to convince the dog that he can do his business during daylight hours and not bother anyone, but you know what they say about teaching an old dog new tricks.  Besides, part of his pleasure is in making me get out of bed an additional four times a night to attend to his needs (supplementing the eight times I'm up in the night to attend to my weakened bladder or supplementing the twelve times a night I'm up if I've dared to have more than two ounces of liquid after 4:00 p.m.).

Back in September, I just wasn't quite ready to let go of this dog.  So I made a deal with the devil, and he's still here.  In the morning, I get up (if I'm not already up like this morning) and make the coffee.  He rolls on outta bed (he's too old to jump on the bed so he has to be picked up to be put there - six times a day, and four times at night), and he rumbles on out to whatever part of the house I'm loitering in.  All he knows is that he's done his night's work, and it's the start of a new day.  He's always wagging his tail, and last night's 'this' is a thing of the past.   That I wanted to kill the beast sometime around 2:00 a.m. for the panting, the in, the out, the up, the down, the 'this' but not 'that' is also forgotten.   After all, it is (or soon will be) a new day.

In the meantime: we sit in the dark.   He wags his tail, I sip my coffee.   He wags his tail, I lament the world condition.  He wags his tail, I worry about money.   He wags his tail, I worry about health issues (mine, yours, ours).  He wags his tail... we sit in the dark!

That feminine touch..... (A Christmas Story)

Frisky Barrington shared his king size bed with three other pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that he called 'family'.  Sometime around midnight these mismatched objects of his affection would find their comfort zones and the night would (then) pass peacefully.  Until midnight arrived, the war (actually, a series of mini-battles that when gathered together for review, could justifiably be called a 'war') anyway, the war for bedding real estate was fierce and combative.

By morning's light Frisky inevitably found himself on a sliver of the bed, with the lamp table on his side being annexed for the repose of his head, left shoulder, and whatever else had been pushed, shoved, jostled, scratched, clawed, punched, or otherwise manhandled during the night.

Frisky was a side sleeper.  He favored no particular side.   Left side, right side, with an occasional changing-things-up by sleeping on his back or (rarely) sleeping on his stomach.  Observers to his nocturnal habits could bear witness that all four of the major positions and at least six of the minor positions were exhibited throughout the night.  Along with the four major sleep positions and six minor positions Frisky (being a creative sort) inserted a few variations on this nightly pas-de-quatre which made the nightly  'tableau' more interesting for all involved.

This particular night, was no different from the other nights.  It may have been the night before Christmas when this occurred (it would make for a nicer story if it was the night before Christmas), but, it could have been sometime on the 4th of July (post fireworks) when both dogs and humans are finally assured that the last cherry bomb has been exploded and quiet once again reigns in their neighborhood.  Maybe it was the night of Halloween, when the last of the trick-or-treaters had come and gone.   It could very well have been no special night at all - a night like any other night.   Not a weekend night, nor a mid-week night, not a payday night, not a night where a birthday or anniversary had been celebrated.   I suppose the actual calendar date is immaterial.   But, it was that special moment of quiet that is generally more noticeable when an event of importance shatters the day-to-day humdrumness.   That special moment of quiet when the guests have all left the party, and the hosts are left with nothing but cake crumbs, dirty dishes, and half empty (or maybe half full - depending upon one's point of view) bottles of wine or champagne. 

On this particular night, at this particular moment of quietude, when the weather outside was: well, if we start describing weather conditions, we'll be here all night.  On this night, 'it' started with everyone claiming a generous portion of the bed for themselves, while politely (an insincere 'Bless-your-heart' politeness at best) leaving space for the others.   The real action generally started under cover of darkness; when the lights were off, and the glow and the noise of the television were clicked away by an always misplaced and hard-to-find remote control. 

On this night, Frisky turned this way and then that way.  He fluffed the pillow, pulled the blankets, tugged at the sheets, stuck one foot out, then one foot in, was simultaneously too hot, and too cold, (but not too rich nor too thin) and at some point, he turned his back on the assembled masses (or messes) on those who shared/fought-for his bed.

And then (most good stories have an 'and then') Daisy placed her right paw upon him.  No, Daisy didn't just place her right paw upon him - her paw, with complete intent, and with what appeared to be calculation, fell upon his back.  I suppose 'fell' isn't quite the correct description.  One would not intentionally 'fall-down-the-steps' (unless one was a paid stunt person).  'Falling' is an action that is happenstance, coincidence, something that occurs without thought or premeditation.  Daisy's paw did NOT just 'fall' upon him. 

Having raised doubts about whether Daisy's paw 'fell' upon his back, we must now question whether it is accurate to describe the placement of this paw upon his personage as being so general, so meaningless, so unimportant as to cavalierly describe the placement of this paw upon a place so specific that a place as large and non-specific as 'his back' dishonors the intent of the gesture.  Furthermore (complicating things that were already too complicated to describe) Daisy's paw did not and could not possibly be accurately described as having 'fallen' upon Frisky's shoulder.   Daisy's touching of Frisky (on this night) was done with intent, and with meaning.  The touch was not accidental, it had intent, purpose, a reason.  It was done in such a way that any intentions could readily be explained (and whisked away) by the anthropomorphism that Frisky (and others) were so frequently guilty of!  In this regard Daisy (like anyone testing a love that might be unrequited) and Frisky could both deny the depth of their feelings to a public that is quick to find fault and make mockery of things such as this.

Daisy did not 'reach' for Frisky.  She had not 'grasped' for Frisky.  The spot that benefited from Daisy's delicate gesture was not a back nor a shoulder (per se).  Even though a shoulder is oftentimes considered as part of one's back, it was not the shoulder that attracted Daisy's reach.   A paw upon the shoulder would have suggested a neediness that the ever-independent Daisy was unlikely to reveal.  A paw upon the shoulder would have been more grasping in nature.  Suggesting that Daisy did not want Frisky to leave.  "Frisky please stay, I need you, I want you, I love you..." might well be emotions that this terrier felt, but terriers (much like humans) are unlikely to reveal such raw emotions because of the disadvantage that such revelations would create in future relationship issues.

The paw was not on Frisky's spine.  That might have suggested a 'pushing' type of action: "Frisky, I like you, and sometimes I love you, but could I please have some space?"   If one needs space (emotional or spiritual) any chiropractor will assure you that a little spinal pressure is the best place to begin in the movement of an object that once seemed immoveable.   Pushmepullyou is a wonderful creature and unlike the double headed Pushmepullyou in Dr. Doolittle,  Daisy boasted only one head .   Frisky had spent a lifetime in relationships with people who loved him and hated him (often within the same millisecond).  Whether it was a Mister or Miss Pushmepullyou (Pushmepullyou's being rather genderless) Frisky danced their dance, pushing, pulling, twirling, jumping, twisting and shimmying to the beat of their drums.  Along the way Frisky had become quite savvy about issues where 'no' meant 'yes', where 'go away' meant 'I need you to be closer' and this touch from Daisy was neither push nor pull, not come hither nor shove.  It was not insincere.  It was quite the opposite: a rare moment of unguarded, unplanned sincerity between two entities.

The placement of this paw can best be described as somewhat clavicle-adjacent.  A spot somewhat near one's (physically) beating heart, but a spot best defined as definitely near one's ever-beating emotional heart!  An acupuncturist could readily identify this spot.   A chakra specialist could also better describe the location.  A reflexologist might be better suited to explain why this particular spot on Frisky's back (when touched in just the right way) sent Frisky into paroxysms of peace, and of pleasure. Unlocked were emotions as sublime as a movement in a Beethoven Sonata, Choral Fantasy or 9th Symphony and emotions as complicated as a Rubik's Cube.

The anointment of Daisy's paw upon Frisky's back could not accurately be described as more than a whisper.  Nor could it be said that this touch was heavier than a feather.  When Daisy wants to be held, she feels like cotton candy. She is as light as air.  Sometimes (when she wants it to be) she weighs no more than the weight of a cotton sheet drying on a clothesline in a soft summer's breeze.  She is the weight of a dream, the weight of  a thought (even a heavy thought accurately describes the lightness of being Daisy).  She is the weight of the moon, of the stars, of the sky and the clouds.  Oftentimes, she lays her head in the crook of Frisky or The Jimster's elbow for a moment of repose.  At those times, she is as light as the aforementioned clouds.  She is ethereal, ghostly, weightless.  When the moment has passed, and it becomes necessary for her human friend to go about their duties, that same weightlessness is magically turned into twenty tons of inert, immovable, you're-not-going-anyplace, dog.

When  Carol Barrington became ill, and just before her passing, she commented to Frisky that her sister Minnie had visited earlier in the day.  Carol knew her situation to be hopeless, and unfortunately, home care was simply not possible at this stage of the disease.  In circumstances that are out of one's control, one must take control of that which is controllable.   There was no hug, no embrace, no massage, no medication, no ointment, that could stop the cancer's spread.   However, there were still small comforts to be enjoyed.  A big arrangement of flowers was nice, but the showy flowers in the showy arrangement(s) that Frisky presented faded quickly and the last few surviving blooms were plucked off to be placed in a cup of water to be enjoyed, examined, and reviewed in search of clues to the true meaning of life.  Those last few flowers never kept their secrets long, and in their simplicity, they did, they did reveal the true meaning of life.  

Minnie could do no more for Carol than to minister to such things that helped Carol to retain some dignity in a situation that offered little dignity with its bedpans, sponge baths, catheters and other intrusions.  Towards the end of one visit, Carol drifted in and out of sleep.   The pains that morphine could not overcome often inhibited the deep sleeps that Carol had so often enjoyed.  Minnie had fluffed the pillow, tidied the bedside table, and now smoothed the bed linens, tucking Carol into the bed like a love letter into an envelope.  Little else could be controlled and their educations at the hands of nuns at Little Flower made neatness the one controllable element of this horrible circumstance at which they had arrived.  Frisky entered the room as Carol awoke (Minnie having left sometime earlier).  With rheumy eyes, but clarity of mind, Carol said to Frisky:  "There's nothing like the feminine touch..."

It was a decidedly feminine touch that Daisy presented to Frisky that fine and memorable evening. Men can touch gently, softly, caringly, but no man, can ever duplicate the touch of a woman.   Daisy's cotton candy ministration to Frisky's personage struck a lonesome chord on his heartstrings, and he remembered with fondness (a long lost memory) of summer nights in Dentdale when Carol tucked him into line-dried sheets after a bubble filled bath in the ball-and-claw footed bathtub of the Barrington Avenue home... 

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Frisky and The Jimster have both submitted their DNA for examination by one of those 'ancestry-r-us' companies, so we'll soon know how much Irish contributes to the stubbornness of those two fellows.  I wonder if dogs have nationalities?   Well, there are Irish Setters and German Shepherds.  French Poodles and Staffordshire Terriers.  Daisy is a terrier of some sort.  If there's an Irish terrier, Daisy would be one.  She's very smart, very opinionated, very sweet, very kind, easily hurt, quick to defend, ready to smile, sometimes she'll cry (quietly).   She likes to smile, and is oftentimes offended by the smallest of events, gestures, or opinions.  She is empathetic, sympathetic, and sometimes just pathetic.  She is strong, indomitable, unbeatable, and sometimes a bully (but in a Cowardly Lion kind of way).   She cries (for what once was, and for what could have been), and laughs (at the absurdity of what once was, and what could have been).  In this regard, she is much like Frisky, who can oftentimes, (recalling some moment past or present) be found in full-sob in the fresh vegetable department of the local grocery, and who is only moments later laughing with the cashier as his comestibles are bagged, and his grocery bill paid.

Like many of the Irish, she thinks that her emotions are her secret.  As anyone who has ever spent any time around the Irish knows: there are no secret emotions when it comes to Irish people.  On this night, at this moment, a secret passed between Daisy and Frisky.   Like two elementary school children experiencing their first crush:  Daisy loved Frisky.  Oh yes, it was Daisy and Frisky sitting in a tree.......  Daisy revealed her hearts desire: she did not need Frisky, she did not want Frisky.  Frisky did not need Daisy, nor did he want Daisy.  It was love, it was hate, it was sweet, it was sour.  It was of-the-earth, and yet ethereal.  It was a lightening bolt of emotion between the two of them - a moment of Godliness, a moment where the fleeting nature of life, life's problems, life's rewards, life's burdens, life's exaltations, life, life, life.....

'It' lasted for several moments, and some other movement in the bed changed the spirit (but not the intent or meaning) of Daisy's touch, her embrace, her gesture.

In the morning's light, both Frisky and Daisy exchanged knowing, somewhat guilty glances between themselves.  It was not the love that dare not speak its name, but it was not a love that could be explained by song, dance, poetry, or rhyme.  Some things in life just 'are'. 

The ending of this story has not yet been written.  If life is fair (and life is never fair) soon (possibly sooner than later) Daisy will turn around and Frisky will be gone.   The Jimster and Daisy will walk back to the limousine (the hearse having left only moments before) and there, on a beautiful sunlit morning, the traffic on Allen Parkway will zoom past Frisky's grave, and Glenwood Cemetery will add a new member to its community. 

Daisy will place her paw gently, caringly, knowingly, upon Jimster's knee and on that long ride back to the Houston suburbs that is now absent of Frisky's presence, they will both feel a feather-like touch, and they too will know that they were loved.....