Grief

When my two year old golden retriever died very unexpectedly at home Thursday evening, I was stunned. I was shocked. I was in total disbelief. 

A friend came over and gently wrapped Jett’s body in a blanket. I looked at him, and expected him to look up at me, or to wag his tail, or to do something. I was in disbelief.

I had a few tears in my eyes, but I held myself together until I went to bed that evening. And then the tears started, but I wasn’t sobbing, and I wasn’t crying very hard. I think I was numb, and some gentle tears were all I could manage. Since then, I have cried more gentle tears a few times as I went through my days in a fog. 

I was in such a fog that I cut up my credit card by mistake, thinking it was my old debit card that had just been replaced. I forgot to take my prescription eyedrops, which I have used twice every day for several years. I don’t remember things. I forget what day of the week it is. And now, I find that the smallest things make me cry.

My other dog, a three year old mixed breed named Jenny, loved Jett from the moment she met him. They had so much fun together, wrestling and chasing each other through the backyard. I laughed when he ran behind a large hedge, emerging through the hedge to resume his race around the yard. 

I often called him doofus, because of his silly antics. I know Jenny misses her buddy, because she has been growling and staring at my front door much of today. She used to growl when Jett would walk down the hallway from my bedroom to the living room. I don’t know why she growled, and she wasn’t aggressive. But her behavior today makes me think he is here, and only Jenny can see him. I friend, who made it possible for me to rescue Jett from a life of neglect, told me that "Of course Jett is there in your house." That was his home. I may not have shed a lot of tears so far, but I had to hurry to the bathroom last night to throw up.

Jett is the 15th dog I have adopted, and the only one to die so unexpectedly and so young.

I realized a couple of things in the two days since Jett died. The first I already knew, and that is the importance of having good photographs of my dogs. I am an avid hobby photographer, so I take a lot of pictures. Those are so meaningful when one of my dogs dies. I’m lucky to have a really nice headshot of Jett, which I will have printed. 

The other thing I realized is that grief takes a variety of forms and intensities. Grief can be like a volcano, loud and explosive. Or it can be like smoldering embers, just waiting to catch fire. My grief is the latter.

Grief also moves at different speeds. My grief at losing Jett did not take the form of overwhelming tears and sadness. Instead, it is there, just below the surface, eating at me. I know the tears will really flow when I retrieve his ashes and when I place his remains with the cedar boxes and other containers that hold the remains of other dogs who have left me. 

How I wish our dogs had longer lives. 

So no matter the age of your dog, make sure he or she has a wonderful life filled with love. We never know when they will be snatched from us without warning.

Remembering Jett

Jett was a quick learner, aside from resisting to heel during our daily walks. He knew were he was supposed to be, but he always wanted to walk about half a body length ahead of where he should be. But he knew where he was supposed to be, because if I stopped walking, he quickly backed up and got in a perfect heel position next to my leg.

He was a happy boy who very quickly came to love me and my other dog, 3-year-old Jenny. And Jenny, who doesn't much care for other dogs, loved Jett from the moment they met.

Jett loved meeting up with his friend Ralphie, a medium-size black dog we would sometimes see during our daily walk. He loved meeting Ralphie. His other canine friend was an 8-year-old yellow Labrador retriever named Aspen.

I used to call Jett ‘nosy Ned’, as he loved to stand on his back legs and look over the back yard walls to see what the neighbors were up to.

Jett could never, ever, get enough attention. He was the personification of a Velcro dog. He never got a lot of attention during the first 16 months of his life, and he spent his time with me trying to make up for the lack. 

He loved his morning walks, driving me a bit crazy sometimes if I didn't get ready quickly enough to suit him. He would pant. He would pace. He would whine. He would run in small circles.

Jett didn't know the meaning of personal space. He followed me everywhere, even when I was sitting on the toilet. He would come in and sit very close to me until I told him to back off a little bit and give me some space. He was usually stretched out on the bathroom floor just outside my shower, so he could keep an eye on me and make sure there wasn’t a secret exit in the shower.

Jett was an extremely gorgeous blond golden retriever. He had the softest, silkiest ears of any dog I’ve ever known. He was my seventh golden, and none of them ever received the complements he did as we would walk through the neighborhood. One woman driving by actually stopped her car, rolled down the window, and told me what a gorgeous dog he was.

Jett died at home last evening. A good friend came over, and she took an old blanket I had and wrapped him carefully and gently just where he lay. It may sound strange, but after I kissed his head, as I did every day, I left a light on for him in the living room all night. This morning, as I took my other dog for her daily walk, I left the radio on for Jett, as I did every day. He didn’t really like being left alone. 

My friend came over again this morning, and together we struggled to get my 62 pound dog from my living room into the back of my car. It was not an easy task, but working together, we got him loaded in the back of my little SUV. I commented that if this weren’t such a sad and tragic situation, it might be funny to onlookers to see two elderly women struggling to get a body wrapped in a white blanket into the back of a car.

My plan, my hope, was to give Jett a lifetime of love and companionship for many years to come. Sadly, I won’t get that chance now. I hope he knew how loved he was.

It Isn't Fair

It just isn't fair.

Many things in life aren't fair. But something happened last evening that really brought home the unfairness to me in a very personal way.

My 2-year-old golden retriever, named Jett, died. He was diagnosed just two days ago with an autoimmune disease called masticatory muscle myositis. In simple terms, this means his body was attacking the muscles of his jaws.

MMM is not common, and none of my golden retriever-loving friends had ever heard of it. And as with so many other health issues that plague goldens, goldens are among the breeds more frequently afflicted. Still, MMM isn't common.

Jett was seen by a veterinarian on Tuesday and again yesterday. He was prescribed steroids to reduce pain and inflammation, and gabapentin to help with pain. Something happened, and Jett acted drunk. And then he died. I hope a necropsy will provide some answers.

Jett was young, and he had joined my family less than a year ago. So needless to say, this all came as a real shock.

What struck me as so unfair was the fact he was so young when he died. It was unfair. It was unfair that after a life of neglect, he found love and stability with me, only to have everything go horribly wrong. It was unfair that he never got a chance to really live. 

What else was so unfair was that my dog Jenny, not a fan of most dogs, loved Jett from the moment they met. 

It was unfair that golden retrievers, the most wonderful breed in the world, are beset by so many health issues. These intelligent, beautiful, loving dogs, once referred to by a man with whom I used to work as 'America's dog,' typically live only to the age of 10. Only one of my six golden retrievers made it to 15 years old.

It isn't fair that Jett was finally with someone who not only loved him, but who also had the desire and the financial resources to provide medical care for him. And it is so unfair, that despite that advantage, he died.

It isn't fair that my other dog, Jenny, has been deprived of a friend she loved and with whom she loved to play and chase. It isn't fair that this big blond boy was taken so soon.

And it isn't fair that I have lost a sweet, loving dog who used to put his head on the side of my bed every morning for his daily ear rub and kiss on the head.

That was our daily early morning routine. It isn’t fair that I will forever be deprived of this gentle early morning tradition.

How's the Weather?

 I follow a couple of therapy dogs online, and today's post made me think.

"What's the weather like inside you?" was the topic.

We hear a lot about the weather -- extreme heat, floods, drought, tornadoes -- but there isn't anything we can do about it. And as climate change continues to worsen, the weather will become even more extreme. We humans, who think we are all-powerful, are unable to do no more with the weather than warn of upcoming weather threats.

But the weather inside us? That's something we can control. We have the power to minimize or remove angry storm clouds. We can minimize the amount of rain (tears) that falls. We can control how we react to the weather inside us. We have a choice: we can either give in to the turbulent, stormy weather, or we can push it away in favor of calmer, more placid weather.

Unlike our world's bad weather, which will eventually go away and turn into something else (sunshine after a rainstorm, for example), our internal weather likes to hold on for a very long time -- unless we do something to send it away.

This is something I, like most people, have struggled with. Remaining very angry at someone who hurt me badly didn't hurt him. But the storm inside did hurt me, until I let it go.

So let's work on looking forward to a brighter, sunnier forecast, regardless of the weather Mother Nature throws at us.

Out of Warranty

I recently saw a meme on Facebook supposedly from an old, out-of-style refrigerator. 

The refrigerator was telling the people to whom it belonged that it would still be going strong long after the people had passed on.

That reminded me of the old refrigerator my parents used to have. It was their only refrigerator for many years. It didn't hold a lot, and it had a very small freezer section that had to be defrosted manually. When my parents got a bigger, more modern, self-defrosting refrigerator, the old one was moved to the basement, where it was used to keep soft drinks and beer cold.

This made me think about how durable appliances used to be, and how poorly made they are today. A few months ago I had to have work done on the freezer section of my 14-year-old refrigerator, which stopped freezing. I was grateful to find a repair man who came to the house the same day, quickly identified the problem, and returned the next day with the replacement part. 

I replaced a 16-year-old clothes dryer that stopped working. I figured that even if I could get parts for it, the cost of parts and labor to repair the unit would be close to the cost of a new one.

Things are not as well made as they used to be, in the era when appliances were repaired rather than being taken to the dump. Let's face it: we live in a disposable society.

A couple of years after I moved into my current house, the well pump died. It cost $2,500 to have it replaced. When I asked what the warranty was on the new one, I was told it was only 1 year. (Each house in my part of town has its own well and septic system). Luckily it still works some 12 years later.

I figure I am a lot like that old refrigerator: small, showing my age, but still working. I may not be as efficient or as good-looking as I used to be, and the warranty has likely expired, but I still have all of my original parts and I'm still working!

A Harsh Reminder

The southern New Mexico village of Ruidoso -- all 8,000 inhabitants -- has been evacuated due to two wildfires nearby.

People were given just 3 minutes to grab what they could and get out. 

Firefighters still struggle to contain the two blazes. 

The sight of the area in flames, and the stories of lost homes and businesses, are heartbreaking.

But despite the painful losses (including the loss of two local residents), there are signs of hope. People from throughout New Mexico and west Texas are stepping up to help. People with horse trailers and fenced land have offered to bring horses to their property for safekeeping, offering hay and water to the frightened animals.

Two humane organizations have driven to the burn area to remove animals from the local humane society. Members of the Mescalero Apache tribe have opened a shelter to those currently without a place to live. Drives are ongoing in the Albuquerque area to collect non-perishable food and snacks, bottled water, hygiene supplies, pillows, blankets and towels. Someone offered an apartment to people needing a place to stay. The Albuquerque police department accepted donations at all of its substations. A local television station set up a donation drive at some local Albertson's grocery stores for the benefit of those impacted by the fires and for firefighters.

Now the area is facing threats of flash floods as the burned areas are unable to soak up the much-needed rain.

And then there's this: the FBI is offering a $10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the person or persons responsible for setting the fires. 

It's hard to accept that there are people so evil that they take pleasure in setting fires in a bone dry area, fires that have destroyed lives, killed people, and incinerated homes and businesses.

I hope those responsible are caught and severely punished. There is no excuse for such acts of cruelty.

Dogs Enrich Our Lives

I don't understand how learning of the death of a dog I have followed on Facebook can make me so sad that my eyes fill with tears.

Spike Taylor. Anabelle. Ricochet the surfing dog. Juno of Juno's Place.  And now Zoe the therapy dog.

I have never met any of these dogs, and I know that their pages are authored by their human moms. But their personalities shined through in words and photographs, and losing these dogs feels like losing a friend.

I have loved and lost 13 dogs during my adult life, so I understand too well the pain and overwhelming grief of losing a beloved dog. I looked forward to reading these dogs' posts every day. They were bright spots filled with love and kindness in a world sorely lacking in both.

Zoe was more than 15 years old, and she had heart problems. Exactly what happened has not yet been disclosed as the pain is too new and too raw for her human mom to talk about it. 

For everyone blessed to share your lives with dogs, please remember to cherish them every day. Your dogs may not be Facebook famous, they may not be therapy dogs or have ribbons or awards. But each dog is special and precious.

Dogs' lives are so much shorter than ours. We have outside friends and activities. For most dogs, their human families are their entire world.

Give your pups a hug and tell them you love them.

D-Day Eighty Years Later

Eighty years ago today, members of the American military, along with Allied troops, took place in an action that literally changed the world.

On June 6, 1944, the invasion of Normandy, on the coast of France, began. It was a bloody battle with numerous Allied casualties. I’m not one who has studied World War II very much, but D-Day is special. 

Among the nearly 133,000 troops from the United States, the British Commonwealth and other allies that landed on the beaches of Normandy that day was my father.  Casualties reached some 10,300.

My father, who was just 19 years old, was a gunner's mate on a destroyer off the coast of Normandy. The USS Corry, the lead destroyer of the Normandy invasion task force, had been given the assignment of drawing fire from the German gun emplacements high on the cliffs above the beach. The goal was to get a better idea of where the guns were located. The Corry did its job well. It was sunk, and 24 sailors were killed, with 60 others injured. My father spent a couple of hours in the 54 degree waters of the Atlantic Ocean until he and his surviving crewmates were picked up and rescued by British warships.

He never spoke about his D-Day experiences, but when he died, a Navy honor guard attended his burial.

I visited Utah Beach, off the coast where the Corry was sunk. Like my father, many of the Allied forces were young men. He had lied about his age in order to enlist and serve his country.

The most moving part of the trip was a visit to Omaha Beach, where Allied forces won a hard-fought battle against German guns, land mines and machine guns. The D-Day invasion changed the course of the war. It marked the beginning of the end of Nazi Germany.

At either end of Omaha Beach are 300-foot-high cliffs of rock. Due to a series of errors by the Allies, the first troops to reach the beach were mowed down by German machine gun fire. Bombs had missed their targets. Tanks sank in the ocean. Engineers tasked with clearing the beach of land mines were unable to complete their mission. Soldiers deployed in deep water found themselves sinking under the weight of their 80-pound packs. Guns got wet. Reports were that it was impossible to walk on the beach without stepping on bodies. But by the end of the day, the Allies were able to gain two tenuous footholds on the beach. 

Our French guide (my visit was part of a hiking trip in France) did a great job of explaining what happened on that beach. A German gun emplacement was visible nearby, as was a fortified machine gun nest. Because the tide was out, we could see remnants of a temporary harbor. The brainchild of Winston Churchill, the harbor is considered one of the greatest engineering feats ever. Two temporary harbors were built, one on Omaha Beach for American forces and one on Gold Beach for British and Canadian troops. This harbor allowed 220,000 men, 50,000 vehicles and 600,000 tons of supplies to be landed on the French beaches.

As we walked along the beach, the four members of our group became quiet as we learned details of the battle and reflected on the bravery and sacrifices of the young men who fought there. Nearby, I could see a bit of Utah Beach. 

That afternoon, we walked along part of the path that US troops had used on their way inland. We then had a couple of hours on our own to explore the US military cemetery at Colleville, high on a bluff overlooking Omaha Beach. 

The cemetery, on land donated by the French government in perpetuity, contains some 9,387 headstones -- either white marble crosses or Stars of David -- each inscribed with the name, military branch and dates of a service man who died during the invasion or ensuing military operations. Many of the graves are merely symbolic. Some of the deceased were repatriated to the US, while others were never found. Some headstones honor a soldier whose remains were never identified.

The cemetery is a place of sadness, knowing how many young lives were lost. And it is a place of beauty, with manicured lawns and a view of the beach where so many died. I was very moved as I walked among the headstones and through the visitor center. Although none of my family members perished in the war (both my father and uncles served), I nonetheless felt a great sense of sadness, as well as a sense of gratitude for their sacrifices. Our guide noted that during a previous tour of Omaha Beach, a veteran who had fought there commented that "I wasn't killed here, but I died here."

We have lost most of the D-Day survivors during the more 80 years since this history-making battle. The few living survivors are now in the 90s or 100s. In a few years, there will be no one left who took part in the horrendous battles on the beaches of France. The people of France have not forgotten the men and their sacrifices that liberated their country.

I hope the passage of time will never erase the memory of the sacrifices of those men from several countries whose bravery marked the beginning of the end of Nazi Germany. 

Please, take a moment on this sad anniversary to remember those who went to war and never came home.

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Not Fit To Be President

He isn't your savior.

He is not the self-proclaimed 'chosen one.'

He is not going to "make America great again."

He isn't going to rid the country of liberals.

He isn't even Christian, much less a good Christian.

He does plan to assume the powers of a dictator, which he has admitted.

He does plan to turn the country into a dictatorship.

He does plan to continue to turn the country into a Christian nation.

He does plan to rain havoc and retribution upon anyone who disagrees with his rantings.

He will once again make America the laughing stock of the world.

He will turn the country into an isolated pariah.

He will again suck up to his favorite dictators such as Putin, Orban and Kim.

He will destroy our environment to gain the favor of big business.

He is a traitor who will do anything to gain and hold onto power.

He is a compulsive liar.

He is a convicted sexual abuser and a repeated misogynist.

He is a racist.

He worships nobody but himself.

He lusts after his eldest daughter.

He insults our military, calling them "suckers and losers."

He mocks the handicapped.

He insults women.

He cares only about himself, the super wealthy and anybody he can con.

He is functionally illiterate and inarticulate.

He wants to slash Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security.

He routinely insults leaders of our long-time allies.

Many people believe he is mentally ill and delusional, 

He isn't fit to be president.

He cannot be trusted to not share our nation's secrets with our enemies.

On so many levels, he is the person most unfit to hold the highest elected position in the land. And without reading his name, nearly everyone will know to whom this post refers.