Dog Farts, Kibble, and My Hairy Lifestyle

Let's see, can I remember them all by name?

Butterscotch, Wiggles, Ashes, Bear, Gypsy, Muffin, Sequoia, JB, Miko, Bastion, Cowboy, Cammo, Cricket, Calvin, Baci, Blue, Mei-Mei, and Grapes.

I have, by my reckoning, have had at least one dog for as far back as I can remember, except for a cumulative period equaling about two years when I lived in dormitories, etc. The last four of those names up there are still with us. I honestly cannot imagine my life without a dog.

I'm ready for my close-up.

I am one of those people (and luckily so is my husband and most of my immediate family) who includes their dogs as part of their family. Our dogs know no difference between outside and in and they have no understanding whatsoever of the phrase,"off the furniture." They are where we are, albeit sometimes it is a distraction when Blue decides he wants to see what I am doing in the shower, or when I am reading quietly and they (all) decide to demonstrate their affection, and they provide my husband with a reliable alarm, even on weekends.

Just another night at our house.

Cesar Milan would be extremely disappointed in the way we live with our dogs.

Ahh, dog ownership. Every evening they bring my slippers, and on Sundays one of them retrieves the paper. They sit quietly and obediently at my feet or by the fireplace.They proudly and with dignity guard my home and family. They find missing children and rescue small woodland creatures... O.K. sorry, getting a bit off into Fantasyland. The truth of it is that our dogs splay themselves shamelessly anywhere they deem comfortable, they beg for food, the 60+ pounders think they are lap dogs, they bark at anything that moves and they crowd me out of my bed on an irritatingly regular basis. One of them barks at level TEN all the time because he is 90% or so deaf. And, being the leader, when he barks the others MUST. One of them has a favorite treat-paper. One of them has allergies so bad that we treat her with Benadryl and her already short Shar-pei coat gets seasonal "patches."

He said, she said: Blue and Mei-Mei

They eat a lot, they are expensive and they are lots of work. We can't travel unless we have a house-sitter because they get neurotic if we are gone too long. We have funded a wing at our local Vet's office. We have dealt with heartworm, tooth extractions, mystery impalings and attendant abscesses, and a particularly nasty and heretofore unidentified intestinal issue that had our Papillon vomiting blood and spending the night in the emergency room (as my cousin the Vet said,"Sometimes you never know the cause." How comforting.). At one time or another most of them have been on special diets or special instructions ("You need to keep Blue calm"...riiiiiiiiiiight). They are vaccinated regularly and get bi-annual heartworm tests and preventative medication. Cha-ching!

They are a pack and act as such. The level of group-think is as astounding as the traffic when they all move at once through the house. They ALL shed (you'd think that I would learn to rescue poodles or Maltese or some other non-shedding pooch) and all come with their own special needs: Grapes is a Mexican street dog (ancestry complicated) who was shipped here by my brother because I can't say "no." She craves attention to the point that if she were human,s he would be a stalker. Blue is a mostly deaf Australian Shepherd/Blue Heeler mix who needed a home after my friend's husband threatened to poison the area for feral dogs and didn't much care if he was collateral damage (and because I can't say "no."). Mei-Mei is a Shar-pei "mix" found on the streets and taken to the shelter and who it turned out is a purebred but she was so underweight they thought she was a mix. I call her my Land Manatee. We took her because my friend introduced us and...yup...I CAN'T SAY NO. Baci was my last (and final) purebred puppy purchase. We bought him (and drove to South Dakota to pick him up so he wouldn't be shipped) a year after I lost my other Papillon,Cricket (who was a rescue). He is my little old fella at 11 years.

The velveteen dog.

They also chew. They have four trillion toys in the house and out and yet when Blue and Mei-Mei first arrived (two and a half years apart) they insisted on letting us know they were part of our world by chewing up shoes, wood blinds, my passport, various and sundry toys, and several books. I am grateful they don't chew on the cat and, thankfully for my shoe budget, that the behavior in general corrected over time. I have yet to get my passport replaced...

Now, the one thing I have going for me in my house is that I am alpha. The pack respects me and when I say "no" (with a hand signal for the deaf one) they tend to obey. My poor husband set the wrong tone from day one; he is a member of the pack which makes him a target for rough-housing even when not convenient (Blue considers my husband's feet, once his work boots are on, as fair game for picking a fight).

Additionally, to not put too fine a point on it, dogs smell. Now, honestly I don't mind the smell of "wet dog" when they come in wet from rain or playing in the snow. They also, however, can discharge the most noxious gas; something akin to what I imagine is emitted on lifeless planets. It is amazing to think that they can create such confounding odors on a diet of kibble and free range chicken broth (and the occasional piece of paper, in Blue's case).

Grapes and "Dad" chillin.

So why in the heck do we do it? Why keep all these beasts?

Because, as someone wise once said, they love us the way we think we deserve to be loved; unconditionally and timelessly. At our worst moments they are there, offering a hairy head to pet and lower our blood pressure from the day we've spent with people that will never love us as these canines do. They do not judge (a least not outwardly) our size, fitness level,
income bracket, IQ, business acumen, job placement, religious inclinations, choice in partner (well, that could be debated), sexual orientation, sports fandom, or taste in shoes. They ask to be with us and to be loved, to be given adequate food and water and some exercise. Small price to pay for a lifetime of love, affection and surprises (and in our case, a share of the blankets on cold nights). I see Cesar's disapproving looks in my mind more than occasionally.

Sharing the warmth

When I don't feel good, my dogs know it and get as close as possible. When I am sad they try to comfort me in their way. When I am grouchy they don't hold it against me. When I am happy they seem even more joyful.

And if you really pay attention, you know on some abstract level how they are doing too. The day we lost our 13 year old Rottweiler-Shepherd mix, we knew it was time, he had lived (well)for a month after his initial diagnosis but one morning (after sleeping with him through the night) I knew he was done and he slipped gently away. They also seem to know when we are trying to help them. When my Papillon was mysteriously impaled (stick, teeth, spider bite?), he patiently put up with me irrigating and dressing the wound twice daily; never a whine or a nip (he healed beautifully, by the way).

Baci

 It is this amazing ability to be there for us and let us be there for them that makes me so sad when I see abused or neglected animals. When I read stories of dogs who are brutalized, murdered, starved or just forgotten. To quote Dr. Doolittle, "Why do we treat animals, like animals?" SCience is just now beginning to admit (because THEY have finally figured it out) that canines are vastly more intelligent than initially thought and that they truly feel emotion beyond the basic instincts of living creatures. Well, DUH. Dog guardians have been saying that FOREVER, only to be told we are anthropomorphising (as if being human is so very special?).

So for our part we make some small sacrifices. My house never stays clean for long and even my clean clothes end up with some sort of canine hair on them before I leave the house in the morning. I usually just chalk it up to my hairy lifestyle. The UPS guy is a little nervous when he comes to the house, and we don't entertain much. Additionally, as I get a little older, I think that maybe four dogs is more than enough and will not replace more than two of them when they finally go to the Rainbow Bridge.

Then again...I have a hard time saying no.

A girl and her dog, circa 2006

"Old age ain't no place for sissies." Or, How Half a Century Caught Up to Me in One Summer

That title quote is often attributed to Bette Davis, and I will tell you, I love the idea of her making that iconic quip while drinking a glass of champagne with pals from the "old days." Further research, though, credits the above to journalist/humorist Henry Louis Mencken. Whoever said it, though, hit that particularly sensitive nail on the head. Like most of my peers I have watched wrinkles appear on my skin, fought with the fruitless persistence of a moth at a light bulb as certain parts of my body try to go permanently, umm, "south," and continue to discover new creaks and cracks and slight aches generating from my vessel just about every day. This year, however, has seen a noticeable increase in, oh good grief, "age-related" changes to my body and mind. It isn't pretty and I find myself more disconcerted than I thought I would be at this point.

First, I think I should make clear that my angst is not related to some sort of fear of my mortality. On the contrary, I am confident that I have much more life to live and if it turns out not to be the case, so be it. I don't live my life worrying about my death.

Partly though, I think my emotional discomfort stems from the fact that I have an almost nine year old daughter and I desperately want to be able to keep up with her. When my bones ache or fatigue seems to prematurely set in, I worry that I won't be able to be "present" for my her in the ways I wish. When I decided to try and get pregnant at 37 I grappled with the pros and cons of that choice. Not actually having her until the day after my 41st birthday has presented some challenges, but mostly in terms of other people's perceptions (see the "Actually I am her mother" post). I must admit, I didn't honestly think there would be any physical limitations (how naive can one person be?).

This year brought two significant changes within a relatively short period of time. The first occurred in early summer when, while at work, my thumb started to ache and within two hours was unusable. Did this freak me out? YES IT DID. I visited my employer's occupational medicine office (no mere nurses clinic, mind you; working at a National Laboratory has its perks). After some palliative therapy and some x-rays, the determination was "degenerative changes" to my hand. Actually, the Physician's Assistant who treated me came in after looking at my films and said, "I'm surprised your whole hand doesn't hurt." Apparently those "changes" (effectively causing arthritis) are all over my hand (probably both, but let's not go there). So, I bought a paraffin bath (lovely on so many levels), try to keep it moving (no bracing it) and if my thumb flares up too badly, I take an OTC anti-inflammatory. Not too bad,I thought; I got this.

Suuuuuure I do.

I also made some positive changes this year. A giant one: I gave up sugar Except for the odd occasion). This is huge. Sugar, in any but the smallest amounts makes me nuts; makes me hungry and craving foods I know I shouldn't consume in more than occasional amounts (mainly refined carbohydrates that taste oh-so good and stick to my body like a tick on a feral dog). Giving up refined sugar calms my appetite and clears my head. Usually. So over the course of a couple of months I started eating quite well, moving my body more and I began to see the incremental changes from both. It should be noted that I have always been overweight (to varying degrees) but have also always been active and healthy and now, closing in on 50, I am not so emotionally defined by my physical shape. But something was very wrong. My efforts were not paying the dividends I was expecting; I wasn't feeling any better than when I ate something sugary every day washed down with a soda. Oh, I am losing a little weight (cool) but I am not feeling better. On the contrary, I am TIRED. ALL.THE.TIME. I wake up tired. In fact, if I am to be honest, this is how my day goes in my head, starting from getting up the morning: as I stumble to the shower, "I must not have slept well, I am exhausted," as I get to work, "(sigh) it is going to be a long day," midday, "I wonder if I could fall asleep in my car for a few..." later, "omg, I am not going to make it," sometimes when I get home, "I am too tired to cook- what can we do that is easy?" but usually, I cook dinner and then fall down into a chair wondering "when can I go to bed?" and then the day begins all over again, way too soon. As an engaged mother and trying to be a good wife, I carry a lot of guilt about my inner dialog and inability to muster more energy.

Then started the mood swings. I am a naturally sensitive person. I have decided, after living with myself forever, that it is basically a good trait. I am much more prone to empathy and seeing other points of view. But it can be hard. I am very sentimental and tend to take my own shortcomings and mistakes as apocalyptic. And criticism? I have learned to take it better than compliments. Mostly I cope with humor. But lately, I cry. A LOT. Over nothing. Look at that butterfly in the sunshine (tears form in my eyes). Oh, I would love to go back to the Caribbean (sniff). Can I get change for a twenty? BURST INTO TEARS. OK, it's not that bad, but still, even just TALKING about emotions, gets me teary. May I just say................W.T.F? Honestly, my mood swings are giving me whiplash.

Then, a couple of months ago my sleep started to be affected. I am a persnickety sleeper anyway (for about the past ten years). My husband, bless him, can sleep through my congestion-related snoring, but if I don't fall asleep before him, the noises emanating from his nose/throat send me packing to another room. If it is too hot, I can't sleep. If it is too bright,I can't sleep. If Mercury goes retrograde, I can't sleep!! So, when my already precarious sleep started being disrupted; when I couldn't fall asleep, or worse, when I woke up in the early hours and then couldn't get back to sleep, well, you might as well have told me that disco was back; I was just plain bummed out. I tried everything; soft music, reading, visualization, Benadryl®, getting myself even more tired during the day/evening. At best I would fall into bed, get comfy, and then my mind would start humming.

I thought maybe it was Depression.

I have battled depression in my life. I am not ashamed to tell anyone that I was on anti-depressants for years (at this writing I have only been off for a year and a half) and am not above the possibility of going back to them should the need arise. Why it was EVER some sort of stigma is beyond me. But this is different. I know depression and how it affects me. This time, I am not "checked out" emotionally, I am not without joy. On the contrary, I laugh heartily every chance I get, I love engaging with other people and activities (as much as any introvert does), I love doing things and planing for other doings. I just don't have the same level of energy to do any of the above. Sample: Last week I worked in the morning as I do every Friday. Then I went to the doctor, called the insurance company, made a "cake" out of fruit for a friend's B-Day, spent three hours getting a tattoo finished (takes more energy than you might think), got some take out chicken for dinner and drove home from Santa Fe. I. WAS. DONE. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed. Instead I tried to make meaningful conversation with my husband and daughter. I was in bed by 930 ish (felt like midnight). Such a day should NOT wipe me out, but before it was over I wanted to strand myself on a beach somewhere and let nature take its course...

Turns out, I am not sick, nor am I depressed.

I am old.

That is a hard word. Right now anyone older than me is thinking (maybe saying or even writing, "speak for yourself baby, I am hitting my stride!"). I don't mean old in a judgmental sense, or in a societally comparative sense. Rather, I am speaking strictly in a reproductive sense.

Whoa! She didn't go THERE did she?!?

Why IS this still such a taboo topic to discuss in the 21st flippin' century? (so, as an interesting anecdote, when I posted about this on FB, only three of my male friends "liked" -one of them was my husband, just sayin')

I included this just to increase the discomfort level :)
Look-they made it a happy little reproductive system!

So, to get what will, for some men, be undoubtedly the most uncomfortable bit of this post out of the way...For 36 years (THIRTY-SIX) I have had the potential to reproduce. My body saved, then discarded its eggs on a monthly cycle that included, pain that ranged from mild to crying in my pillow, mess (I went there again, didn't I!), mood swings that were pendulum-like in their extremes, cravings that would put any stoner to shame, and fatigue that could take down a bull elephant. I have dutifully bought and used "feminine protection" (I always hated that term; seems better suited to describe bodyguards for women against the GOP...), every OTC pain med approved by the FDA (the invention of Naproxen Sodium was a game changer-thank you, whoever you are), utilized heating pads, warm baths, exercise, herbal teas, Midol®, Pamprin®, Seagrams®, Cuervo® and any other suggested or proven way to make the inevitabilities bearable. I stayed out of pools (when I was young and nervous), avoided white pants (yes, I am going to keep going there), stayed home from work or school,  and spoken to (male) doctors who basically told me that the "discomfort" was just part of the process. It was during moments like those when my inner Zena wanted to reach down, grab, and do a hearty twist of those docs' "pride" and ask if they were experiencing "discomfort." ...And yes I have performed one of the ten tests to a healthy marriage; I sent my husband to the store for tampons and chocolate ANYTHING (he gamely went- he is a keeper). But really, after the first ten years or so as "a woman," I basically just integrated the whole kit and kaboodle into my expectations of daily life and moved forward with relative panache (my story, my summation); learning as the years went, to plan as best I could. e.g., no lion safaris or shark feeding excursions between the 5th and 12th of the month, etc. (Yep-went there one last time :)

As with just about anything, menstrual cycles affect women differently. My maternal grandmother never experienced cramping, which made for a less than sympathetic perspective when I was doubled over hoping to be put out of my misery. I had friends who were routinely in the hospital because the pain was so bad. I could go on, but mercifully I won't. Let me just say that the idea of this monthly "visitor" (yes, some people call it that!) no longer showing up, causes me no whimsical longing WHATSOEVER.

BUT (and avoiding any "being a woman is hard" language), the physiology of reproduction is complex. Thus, there is not a start/stop button. Like most things designed by Nature (let's keep religion out of this), when things are past their usefulness, they tend to wind down and in this case, when women's bodies go into non-reproductive mode, all sorts of side effects occur. So, basically for who knows how many years, the excitement will continue.

Another interesting aspect to this shift, is that it will take my blood chemistry perhaps a year to catch up with my sysmptoms. So, doing blood work only showed that in other areas (sugars, cholesterol, TSH and even FSH [if it were high I would have chemical evidence of menopause]), I am perfectly healthy. This result is good and bad as part of me hoped that my thyroid was simply misbehaving again and then we could have "fixed" it. This, well, there is no fixing this. I am not broken, I am changing. And as with most progression in our lives (growing up, growing wise, etc.), this process will be protracted and at times just plain miserable (for me as well as those around me- I am sorry in advance). I will not list the symptoms beyond what I already have. They vary so much between women and as my doctor most eloquently put it (she is so smart and knows all these amazing technical terms)--this shift "SUCKS" physically and sometimes emotionally.

Well alrighty then.

Finally, I think it is key to note that I have no drama behind this next phase of my life. I bear no fear about the so-called loss of femininity that women believed occurred (were made to believe???). I don't feel less a mother or wife. I don't feel any less a sexual or, more importantly, a sensual being. I am still me, I don't fear all the possible diseases or weaknesses that may or may not come. What good would it do? Besides, getting older and greeting all that comes with it is certainly better than the alternative (being dead).

So, if you see a two-headed gorgon dragging herself down the halls, give her a moment (and don't look directly in her eyes), it will be me again shortly.

...But you might bear gifts of fans and ice.

Caravaggio- Medusa