Pupsters- our buddies and their abbreviated lives

I've had many dogs in my life. In the early formative years, we were a Basset hound family, starting with Wadsworth (mom named her thus because she was such "a Longfellow"), aka, Wadsy, Melvin her disinterested mate and a rather cranky sleeper, Myron (my buddy), Jesse, Snerd, Smedley, Eustace, and Mabel. In between a few of those floor-cleaners were some taller pooches, Clifford, or 'Cluff-a-dawdle-doodle', Maggie, a loyal, smart, and joyful lab-springer mix. My parents had a Dachsund named Heiste Von Hund long before any of us were born. Lots of cats, a bunch of ducks, geese, three tortoises, all bearing the name Yertle (I, II, and III), a handful of rabbits, various county fair goldfish, and, of course, one pony appropriately named Eeyore fit themselves in there too, but it was the dogs, our lovable barking buddies who I really connected with, and subsequently felt the greatest loss when they died.

Cliff's & Maggie's lives were cut short by car wheels, while the others met their untimely fate from the basic end-of-life system.

Mabel, the last Basset my mom had lived her final year down here in Oakland. Mom moved into an Assisted Living facility and couldn't take her with, so I adopted her. Initially, she could hardly walk the entire block around my house from basic lethargy from the lack of exercise living with my mom and her lung-cancered husband. Within a couple months, though, Mabel's ears were flopping and flying over the dirt paths in the East Bay hills, her shoestrings of slobber picking up stray insects and dried pine needles. She died of a bladder cancer, but at least she was happy in the end. On her last earthly day, she rolled on some worms and chased the mailman across the street, wagging the entire time. Her eyes glistened with complete happiness as did mine even during her last moments here.
Dogs have a way of conveying that love and trust of us, especially when they finally turn and make that decision to allow Us to make That decision. It's like they know that we won't make it at the right time. Sometimes, because of all that pure contendedness they've brought us, we humans just aren't ready to let them go, and perhaps this is when our canine pals take that step, get a little sicker, or just go to sleep forever, and make it a hair easier for us because they know we can't always make the right decision about ending their soulful lives which have added so much zest and vitality to our own. Dogs know and they try to make it a little easier for we bi-peds.

Other than Myron, the black and white spotted and pudgy Basset who was my best pal during adolescence, Abby was my girl. A 21st Birthday Gift, she was a black lab (shimmering with natural gold highlights) with one black and three pedi-dipped white paws and a tiny white star on her chest. Brilliant dog, she and I were inseparable. Pure heart and affection, she knew me better than any human could, or should I say any that I allowed. She grounded me with her solemn presence and thumping tail. An old soul in a youthful body.

She had a certain affinity for finding a ball anywhere. Anywhere. Sure she could swim in the rapids of a spring run-off river, and, she ruled the house, chased after cats, squirrels, fish, and ducks on any pond or lake (even wanting to chase after some migrating fowl on the frozen Clark Fork River) but it was her ball sense that really set her apart.

Once, we went camping in the Mendocino Nat'l Forest. Never been there before, so the adventure was fresh, engaging, and each duel with all the gargantuan biting horseflies became regular, human vs. nature comedy acts. Abby was happy as a lark, running along the trails with her buddy, Ren, a shepherd-pit mix with a sensitive heart and endless energy. They chased scents and, of course Abbers endlessly chased down pinecones until she disappeared in the thicket. I couldn't even see her wagging tail, usually an indication of something fabulous to roll in, poke, or dig for. Ren stood on the trail, perplexed at his sister's disappearance.

Five minutes later, my little black, 4-legged ground-force returned all wags and happy amber eyes. Leaves, burrs, thistles, and a few ticks covered her gold-flecked fur. Dust clouds wafted from her allegro-metronome tail for one and only one reason: in her mouth was a musty, hardly-yellow, mottled tennis ball. No bounce remained in its rubber. It hit the ground with the same buoyancy of a stick. That didn't matter to her, though, because it was all about the ball, the true hunt, the spherical objet d'arte that enhanced her daily life there. This made the camping trip beyond worthwhile, not only for her, but for me, the proud, beaming human who brought her here.

Abby was a life force for me. She grounded me with her placid nature, she energized me with her joy and her ball chases. She astounded me with her intelligence, able to cross the street with enough knowledge and awareness of approaching car proximity. Often she'd step out into the street, heading for the other side, and I'd call her back. She'd just stand there and look at me, then up the street, where the car was slowly rolling. It was like she did a mathematical story problem in her head, figuring the rate x time = distance, and solved how long it would take pokey-joe driver to arrive at our location. It was clear that we humans were the uninformed and unlike her, didn't do many math story problems in our dreams.
Abby was the Alpha, no doubt about that. During rainstorms, she chose the hike or walk route, which usually indicated a longer distance than what I, or any other human wanted. Soon, I learned to appreciate the rain as much as she. Loved the water, being in or near it just as I did.

When I moved to Montana, I actually drove out of my way because she woke up, stuck her nose out the passenger window and started whining. The highway sign indicated there was a lake nearby. Abby being Abby, and me being me, I obeyed (hmm, now we really see who was Alpha here!) and drove 10 miles out of my way to get her to the water. Was it an inconvenience? Well, when we see our puppies romping, swimming, smiling, and wagging rib-to-rib as they stand in the water, can we count this as annoying or bothersome? Horseflies, yes, but Pure-doggie-joy is never, no never an annoyance. A couple of her front teeth were a bit chipped from her other fave game: chase the rock! Streams, ponds, and rivers bore out this delightful game: she'd dig up a rock, then I'd toss it into shallow water where she'd blow bubbles and waggily dig it out again. Whenever I drove from the Bay Area up to Oregon, we always stopped at a mountain stream near Mt. Shasta. Not only was she content to wade and swim in the water (btw, the season didn't matter) but this Abby-reinforced rest stop settled my nerves a bit. She took care of both of us, as most dogs tend to do.

Abby died at home in 1996 at 12 years of age. She'd developed a large mass on her spleen and despite surgery, the complications that resulted were too much. Her normally Wide-Load body (she always carried a bit of that "puppy fat") was thin from not eating for more than a week and what the i.v. fed her before and during her surgery. When she died, she turned away from me, faced the wall. Part of me turned away too, unable to face the loss of her, the loss of a friend, and a little loss of me.

HILLARY
About 15 years ago, Hillary, Karen & Kim's lab was born from her yellow lab mother, Bonnie (Karen's family pooch). Hillary popped out chocolate brown and wagging. She, like Abberoni had velveteen ears, an ever-moving tail, and a warm, nuzzling demeanor. She'd lie in the sun and, with her cat buddy, May, two years her senior and lying next to her, they'd watch hummingbirds, starlings, finches, and butterflies flit about their flowered yard. Peace between the factions, a kinship between old friends. They appreciated life, probably had those Far Side conversations about The good ole days when they'd chase after these critters, but the ole bones reminded them to just watch and reflect. The two pals were Zen masters in their own rights. Mind you, just a couple months ago, she tussled with a marauding raccoon. Because Karen & Kim live near the ocean, the beach became her favorite weekend romping ground: what could be better than soft, diggable sand, lapping waves, and flocks of just-out-of-range birds skimming the water's edge? Again, like Abbers' river-rock game, the beach was pure joy for Hill. This will be where some of Hillary will be released.
On Tuesday, March 10, age and pain got the best of Hillary. She thumped her tail, stretched her body out, and with the help of K & K's vet friend, Hillary joined Abby in the land of endless water and limitless chases.
Her velvet ears, snuffling snout, and adoring eyes will be missed. She, like so many of our little four-legged buddies, these beings that give us so much and ask so little other than kindness and dependability was cheated out of more years on this planet. At least now, up in Doggie Nirvana, all is painfree and pleasant.

A dog's life is such a cheat by Mother Nature. Most don't live beyond 12, some make it to 14, a few hardies stretch it out to 17, still these are mere portions of our lives: sometimes only a third, maybe even half, for some of us, these buddies live our entire (aware) lives then let go when we move away, or as we prepare to. Their purpose on earth served: to share goodness, to push our tolerance buttons (those "rare" chewing, digging, tearing-up moments), and to help us heal whatever wounds us. Dogs understand that loss of love, that failure, the anger and unjustness we feel from life's wrongdoings. But they're always there, lending a lick, a paw, or just a heavy sigh to let us know that we can rely on them. So why, oh why, Mother Nature must you mock us and keep their lives so short when these little guys give so very much? Parrots live 65-75 years. Why can't our pupsters have their abbreviated life-spurring presences extended a healthy decade or so? Only seems fair.

Alas, I must accept these losses in the face of the extraordinary gains.

Adios Hillary. You are and will be missed. Say hello to Abbers for me and give her a little nuzzle behind the ears. She always liked that. Please check in with Patch and Poppy, they'll help you out. The Sophster is a lot like Abbers, I'm sure you'll get along. Pahtu will show you what being a real Bernese lap dog is all about. Janie and Dylan will be wandering around too, hanging out in the sunny grass. Aspen might act like she wants you to stop playing, but she really wants to join in the fun. Look out for Bijoux, she's got a thing about being an alpha, but she'll probably share the buffet litter box -- and Beau will too, since that's one his faves -- or various discarded Kleenex's with you. Woody and Pete, will hopefully share some tennis balls and a comfy bed with you. Daisy, Duncan, Oscar, Lucky and Rags will be guarding your shins and shoulder blades from any unwanted marauders. Mabel might drool on you, but both she and Myron only do it out of kindness.
As with all our little buddies, many not even mentioned here, we'll miss you, your bark and your wag, miss cuddling with you, and really miss seeing your reliable, dependable, loving self every day.