Rose's Cantina

For the past two weeks, I've been coming up with all sorts of schemes to make Gordie the pug's life better. He can't stand to pee anymore. He poops while sitting. He can't eat without me propping him up between my legs. Yesterday, I decided to build him a little skid to keep him up on his feet, one that rolls around so he can get places, like to the food bowl or to his water. He still loves to eat and he has a wonderfully silky coat, so he still has life in him, right? I knew I was kidding myself. I've been in this space before with Hannah the retriever who was so riddled with cancer that the only respite she found was lying in a snow bank or on the tile floor. And also with Ming whose eyes became wild as she fought to breathe. When I look at pictures now, I see a different story. Look at this photo. Lovely Hannah, still smiling on the outside while wasting away on the inside. She was dead six weeks after that Christmas. These are lies we tell ou...

  I always love watching this video of Gordie and the late Hannah and Ming. It doesn't make me sad. I think Scott captured their spirit on that day so long ago.

    A kid never forgets her first dog or the first time she pees herself in public. I got my first dog in my sixth year. It was also the year I couldn't get to the outhouse in time to relieve myself and found myself standing in a puddle of wee, in my best dress, in front of granny's house. This is first memory of life on this planet. My mom named my dog Penny. She always gave our dogs plain girl names, not like mine which was Rosalie. Why, I always wondered, did the dogs get better names than I did. Penny was an adult Golden Retriever we got from one of those families that dumps their dogs on a farm when they are too much trouble. She was an excellent, good natured dog, as all Goldens are -- unlike Labs, mentioning no names Finnigan. She was the color of sunshine and she lit up my lonely little existence. My Uncle Vern used to hook her up to my wagon and troll me around the property. I felt like a little princess in second hand shorts. Trouble with...

One day, not long ago, my son Nicholas posed this question: "Do you ever wonder why, after you had two of the nicest dogs ever, you ended up with these two?" He was speaking about the black bastard Finnigan and his faithful pug sidesick, Sophie. The first iteration of dogs -- Hannah, the golden, and Ming, the pug -- were amazing, quiet and sweet as apple pie. We couldn't have found two more terrific dogs. Finn and Sophie, on the other hand, are punishments from God. Take yesterday. My friends Roger and Jennette arrived for our weekly gabfest on the deck. Roger is frail having nearly died a couple years back. Jennette is a little less frail, but weighs about 100 pounds soaking wet. It's never easy to accept guests into our abode. The Levetts have always been good sports, but even they find the new group of dogs challenging. A successful visit usually involves my refrigerator-sized, former linebacker husband holding Finnigan while I put Sophie in the house...

On a wintery morning last November, I opened up my laptop and read the following post from the writer Jon Katz on his blog, Bedlam Farm: Rose died on Friday evening, euthanized after a long and severe wasting disease that left her in pain and without spirit. She died in ease and comfort...her head resting on my arm. I let out an unexpected and mournful sob which brought Scott running into my little office off the kitchen. Oh, no, I thought, not beautiful Rose, the nearly mythical Border Collie who inhabited many of Jon Katz' books. Not Rose of Washington County, defender of hearth and home, manager of sheep, donkeys and even geese. I thought Rose would live forever. She was a dog in a book. But, alas, Rose was not a fictional dog; she was Jon's very real companion, who was always by his side as he struggled to find himself in middle age, in the midst of personal crisis, as he tried to morph from city slicker to gentleman farmer. She died alright, just...

After Hannah left us, I was curious to see if anything would change in the dog-family dynamic. Would the pugs be despondent? Would they be searching for Hannah, wondering what happened to the old goof ball? Things changed alright, within hours. Ming, our 12-year-old pug, became a whole new dog. Our little toothless wonder actually found a chew bone and started gnawing at it. I hadn't seen this sight for many, many years. She happily chomped away on one of Gordie's pre-chews, then started bouncing around the house like a new puppy. I realized what an impact Hannah had made on the dog politics of the household. Just by her sheer size and goofiness, she dominated the scene from morning until night. She spent a lot of time herding Ming. It was as if she were on defence making sure that Ming couldn't score a goal. I had a troubling memory last night. Ming was having little fainting spells a few months back due, we think, to sleep apnea. Ming would sit bolt upright on ...

We  took away Hannah's bowl and her favorite pillow, and today we're going to undertake a good and proper vacuum. But we can't exorcise her spirit from the house. She was into every activity, standing beside me as I minced ham for the egg white omelette; up on the bed hovering over me, waiting for her first constitutional of the day; greeting guests with a teddy bear in her mouth, nearly knocking drinks off coffee tables; and chilling beside the barbecue while Scott made his famous ribs. There is still evidence of her in the yard, waiting to be cleaned with the first thaw. There are tufts of hair in the corner. Toys on the floor. It will be weeks before the house will be officially de-Hannatized. Her pictures are all over the walls. Up beside Scott's chair, there is a photograph of Hannah as a one-year-old solid white, her black nose not yet turned brown. On the music shelf is an electronic slideshow jammed with her images, playing with the pugs in the yard, goof...