Our doggies, ourselves
Side Post #3
Our dog is sick. We found out a few weeks ago, started treatment, paused, then re-started treatment again. It's not going very well. The medicine is making him feel worse than his disease - he went from getting tired walking a mile to struggling to walk from our back door to the living room.
First you need to know more about this little pumpkin. We met on a mild and windy weekend in early November 2007. At the time he was living in a crate on a porch in north-central Kentucky and I was in College Hill, Cincinnati, Ohio.
That weekend at the farm was all about my ex-husband's family. His uncle was dying and wanted one last weekend with everyone hanging out around a fire, fishing, and shooting skeet. One of the aunts provided a location and and we had a lovely time: the cousins camped out on the front lawn, played touch football, and spent time with the beloved uncle.
While this was going on, an annoying little dachshund, beagle, jack russel mix was running around in crazy circles, jumping into any lap that would have him; desperate for attention and love. My very first memory of this short (~1ft tall), small (< 20lbs) strawberry blond dog is him jumping vertically to my chest.
At the farm, he was the "no-name dog" because they were only boarding him until finding a him new home (this is also why he was living in a crate on the porch). My ex-brother-in-law and his fiancee had been looking for a dog to adopt so they were checking out this little dynamo over the weekend. On Saturday night they decided they didn't want him - too small and too hyper. We already had one dog and weren't looking to add another, but I felt sorry for the boisterous little guy.
As we were packing up the tents Sunday morning, my ex abruptly announced "I've always wanted a dog named Fred or George."
"Like, from Harry Potter?" I asked, laughing a little.
"No- you know I've never read those books" he responded quickly, "I just think they'd make good dog names."
He was right, those are fantastic dog names. The entire group started calling to the little no-name dog sniffing flower beds about twenty yards away "Fred! Come here Fred! Good boy Fred!"
No response from the flower bed. We waited a moment.
"George!" I called. A tiny head popped up. "Come here George!" A blur of brown sprinted across the lawn and jumped up to tag my knees. He was ecstatic, wagging his entire back end. "Is your name George? Are you a George?" I crooned. My ex looked me right in the eyes. "We are not taking this dog home." A few hours later, in an unprecedented and rarely repeated feat of spousal negotiation, George was glued to my lap in the backseat of my Toyota Echo.
His addition to our family was dependent on two factors: one, he had to be my dog; and two, if our other dog Hoku got upset within a week, George would have to go. After our drive back to Cincinnati, I had to leave for my Sunday evening shift tending bar. When I parked at work, there was a text message. "He's totally your dog. Hasn't stopped crying since you left." As for Hoku, he was completely fine until it dawned on him after about a month that George wasn't just visiting. Hoku pouted, but they got along just fine. George was home.
Within that first month, George received his first nickname, Georgie Porgie, after the old children's rhyme. This was because he licked people constantly. Once, while sitting on my other brother in law's lap George heard him say "love you" to his wife over the phone. George kissed him in response. It was perfect.
In those early days, George had separation anxiety to the extent I couldn't pee or shower without him in the bathroom or something of mine (always mine) would be destroyed. Thankfully his time living on the porch meant he loved his crate so that helped him feel safe when we had to leave the dogs home. Other than work, we rarely had to do this because most of our socializing happened in backyards where dogs were welcome party goers. His neediness did not diminish at all, which is understandable for a pup who changed hands four times in his first two years of life.
Driving alone with George in the car for the first time, I thought both dogs were safely in the back until something moved between my feet. Narrowly avoiding a wreck, I pulled over to the side of the highway, shaking. George had crawled under my seat and was cowering between my legs. My Echo (Cloe) had a manual transmission so both of my feet were needed in driving. Needless to say, George got to sit on my lap until we came up with a safer solution.
In addition to being sneaky and springy, his little legs were also super quick. Once during a picnic at my parents, I hopped in my car to get ice and George ran so fast he caught up to us going over fifteen miles per hour. Obviously, this earned him the right to come along. That same summer, as his long body bounded across the lawn we noticed he kind of moved like a land otter. Another day, another nickname.
Around six months after meeting George, my husband and I separated for the final time. I was devastated. Being raised in a conservative christian environment and attending a private christian university, I was sometimes called a liberal for wanting (or simply valuing) the idea of a career in addition to (note: not instead of) marriage. To clarify, my parents, close friends, and favorite professors believed none of this nonsense, but thinking women existed primarily to be wives and mothers saturated the atmosphere enough to be considered a reasonable expectation.
After getting married in my mid-twenties however, it became obvious I had internalized the idea that my value as a wife and mother superseded anything I might want to do on my own.** My career ambitions became limited to jobs with flexible enough hours to also take care of a home and parent future children. (After staying home full time until they entered school of course.) Now, with only a part time bartending job that was never supposed to support me, I had just failed at the career of wife. This is no small failure for anyone; but when the all-powerful ruler of the universe wants you to be a wife/mother and you do a bad job (as evidenced by all the fighting and him leaving you), you're kinda fucked.
George and I made an extended visit to Chicago during the summer of 2008 to decide if we wanted to move there permanently. Two dear friends let us sleep on a blow up mattress in their living room even though their building didn't allow pets. They were infinitely kind to us: George made it to the middle of August before being discovered (no one was fined) and I lasted 'till the end of September. But Chicago wasn't our city. It was mostly having no idea what to do instead that kept me floundering on the blow up bed.
The city of Chicago charges for dog park admission, but George and I discovered that dogs and their owners regularly met in enclosed spaces like unused tennis courts for exercise and socialization. He is so friendly with other dogs and people that we quickly became favorites despite my natural shyness and current heartbroken state. George became obedient to the point I could let him off leash while he walked ahead. At street crossings he'd either wait and sniff or trot back to me so we could cross safely together. Late nights I'd take him to a fully fenced park nearby where he could sprint in circles until ready for bed.
Chicago's other secret dog parks are, at least in summer, the beaches. Officially, dogs are not allowed off leash on the beaches with the exception of designated dog areas. We discovered this rule relaxes early one morning in August. Not wanting to disturb our hosts after waking at five a.m., George and I decided to take a solo walk on the beach - only to find it teaming with dogs and owners. George was in heaven: stalking and charging to break up flocks of seagulls.
Fun times with water are rare with us because unfortunately, George really hates water. The first time we visited lake Michigan that July it was late at night so I handed his leash to my friends to wade just five feet from shore. This was a huge problem for George who was beside himself with worry, barking furiously at the minuscule waves before bravely swimming out to "rescue" me from the dark and dangerous water. It wasn't the last time he would brave the depths for someone he loved.
Our hosts started remarking on how many strangers interacted with me on the street. Smiling, waving, nodding, making faces, or even stopping to chat. I told them it was all because of George, but I'm pretty sure they didn't believe me until he went back to stay with my parents and it was just the three of us again. Immediately, walking down the street became zero percent interactive. It was then I started calling George my little socialite.
Our Chicago adventure was followed by a year long stay with my parents to re-establish in-state status before heading to graduate school. As far as doggie independence goes, this was the best possible place for George, and his separation anxiety was able to finally improve. The house is situated far off a cul-de-sac, with an enormous lawn surrounded by woods. At the time my mom had a cocker spaniel named Oscar about the same age as George. They spent hours side by side exploring, marking, sniffing, and barking to their heart's content. In summer, Oscar had a habit of running full tilt down to the pond and jumping in - long furry ears flying out like wings - then paddling around sniffing frogs and lily pads while George contentedly kept tabs on the shore.
Next, we were off to Bloomington for graduate school at Indiana University. For three and a half years we were virtually inseparable. Being in school meant I studied from home a lot and could take him almost everywhere except classes, some restaurants, and the library. The woods and parks in and around Bloomington are extremely pet friendly. On one favorite off-leash hike George was tearing around, bounding ahead along the trail then racing back to tell me everything heading our way. Speeding down one slope, he lost his footing, rolled for at least twenty feet, bounced up, shook himself, then ran back to me smiling like crazy. "Did you see me mom? Did ya!?" Around this time, we started calling him "George of the Jungle."
Another time we were hiking in Brown County state park when I decided to climb a fire tower. George tried to join me but being up that high made him so anxious we returned to the ground where he stayed with his uncle Josh. This didn't stop him from barking furiously at me the entire time I climbed. "Get down from there right this instant! Heights are extremely dangerous!" Despite this fear of heights, George would curl up in the craziest places for a dog - on top of the backs of chairs for example - this warranted yet another nickname: the cat-dog.
Still recovering from my marital breakup which was exacerbated by a brief, misguided attempt at dating again after our divorce was final; I slipped into depression and some pretty unhealthy sleeping habits. George gently tried to correct this by walking half way up the stairs then pausing to look at me every night around 11 pm. If I didn't follow, he'd curl up in the middle of our bed for two hours then slowly pad back down, resigned to more middle of the night TV noise.
Just like Chicago, George continued his career as a socialite, receiving a rousing "GEORGE!" from everyone in the room when we entered a gathering. He also had a number of willing pet sitters, and to this day he'll sometimes approach that door in an apartment complex if the layout is the same as his aunt Becca's old place. I'm really glad we found a community of friends welcoming to both of us. It made our lives much richer.
During our last six months in Bloomington, George lived in a rotation of homes. Several factors contributed to this situation. First, I was finishing a paper and working, but no longer officially in school. I both couldn't afford and didn't need another full year lease. Second, my girlfriend's apartment complex charged such an enormous amount for a pet deposit it wasn't feasible to house him there full time. I will be forever grateful to Marcie, Adam, Anna, Ayelet, and Josh for sharing George responsibilities with me during that winter.
After finishing graduate school, we came back to my parents for one last boomerang before moving to Indianapolis with our new family: Nic and Abi - joined shortly afterwards by a new dog, Mac. Mac is Scooby to George’s Scrappy and I very much regret missing the chance to make that Halloween costume happen back when George still had his barrel chest.
Our first apartment in Indy was right across the street from where I worked. Convenient for a dog re-adjusting to life with leashes. At seven, Abi appreciated George’s size because it meant she could control him on walks. After some initial resentment, George forgave Nic for taking us away from Oscar and the house in the woods. They developed a close bond. Both dogs clearly prefer Nic’s head rubs, and when George gets mad at me he sometimes makes a point of cuddling up next to Nic and glaring in my direction. Eventually the five of us transitioned into a house with a yard, I found a library job and started my career. We were all home.
At this point, George was over ten years old but could still jump high enough for us to see his little head bobbing up through the glass in our front door as we pulled into the driveway. He ran beside my bike with Mac a few times, but got tired much faster than before. One day returning to the house, I had to cradle George in one arm while gripping Mac's leash and the handlebar with the other. We made it home without incident and George LOVED having the wind in his ears. Unfortunately, being close to me is an important part of that enjoyment because we never could get him to settle into a bike basket.
Now, two years later with this new illness, Cushing's, our adventures are much more relaxed. After consulting with our vet, we agreed the medicine wasn't working for George the way she had hoped. Our new objective is to keep him as comfortable and happy as possible for as long as we are able. Looking back over our time together, he has done that and so much more for me.
George and I have been together almost twelve years. Three cities, two towns, eight moves, thirteen jobs, and three major relationships. He has been the most consistent intimate presence in my adult life. Calling him all of his nicknames isn't quite enough. He is my furry little gentleman, and always will be.
**I had internalized the idea that my value as a wife and mother superseded anything else I might want to do on my own with one exception: writing. My dad uncovered this in a masterful stroke at dinner one night. Leaning back, he casually asked if I would use my maiden or married name if I ever published. "Maiden" I answered without thinking. When I did think it over, it made sense that something as personal as writing be attributed to me and not my husband. This surprised and upset said husband, even though I one hundred percent believe my dad knew both exactly how I would respond AND how my ex would feel about that.
Our dog is sick. We found out a few weeks ago, started treatment, paused, then re-started treatment again. It's not going very well. The medicine is making him feel worse than his disease - he went from getting tired walking a mile to struggling to walk from our back door to the living room.
First you need to know more about this little pumpkin. We met on a mild and windy weekend in early November 2007. At the time he was living in a crate on a porch in north-central Kentucky and I was in College Hill, Cincinnati, Ohio.
That weekend at the farm was all about my ex-husband's family. His uncle was dying and wanted one last weekend with everyone hanging out around a fire, fishing, and shooting skeet. One of the aunts provided a location and and we had a lovely time: the cousins camped out on the front lawn, played touch football, and spent time with the beloved uncle.
While this was going on, an annoying little dachshund, beagle, jack russel mix was running around in crazy circles, jumping into any lap that would have him; desperate for attention and love. My very first memory of this short (~1ft tall), small (< 20lbs) strawberry blond dog is him jumping vertically to my chest.
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| aunt Chaiyi was the first person to take a good picture of me! |
As we were packing up the tents Sunday morning, my ex abruptly announced "I've always wanted a dog named Fred or George."
"Like, from Harry Potter?" I asked, laughing a little.
"No- you know I've never read those books" he responded quickly, "I just think they'd make good dog names."
He was right, those are fantastic dog names. The entire group started calling to the little no-name dog sniffing flower beds about twenty yards away "Fred! Come here Fred! Good boy Fred!"
No response from the flower bed. We waited a moment.
"George!" I called. A tiny head popped up. "Come here George!" A blur of brown sprinted across the lawn and jumped up to tag my knees. He was ecstatic, wagging his entire back end. "Is your name George? Are you a George?" I crooned. My ex looked me right in the eyes. "We are not taking this dog home." A few hours later, in an unprecedented and rarely repeated feat of spousal negotiation, George was glued to my lap in the backseat of my Toyota Echo.
His addition to our family was dependent on two factors: one, he had to be my dog; and two, if our other dog Hoku got upset within a week, George would have to go. After our drive back to Cincinnati, I had to leave for my Sunday evening shift tending bar. When I parked at work, there was a text message. "He's totally your dog. Hasn't stopped crying since you left." As for Hoku, he was completely fine until it dawned on him after about a month that George wasn't just visiting. Hoku pouted, but they got along just fine. George was home.
Within that first month, George received his first nickname, Georgie Porgie, after the old children's rhyme. This was because he licked people constantly. Once, while sitting on my other brother in law's lap George heard him say "love you" to his wife over the phone. George kissed him in response. It was perfect.
In those early days, George had separation anxiety to the extent I couldn't pee or shower without him in the bathroom or something of mine (always mine) would be destroyed. Thankfully his time living on the porch meant he loved his crate so that helped him feel safe when we had to leave the dogs home. Other than work, we rarely had to do this because most of our socializing happened in backyards where dogs were welcome party goers. His neediness did not diminish at all, which is understandable for a pup who changed hands four times in his first two years of life.
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| I'm good on road trips now! |
In addition to being sneaky and springy, his little legs were also super quick. Once during a picnic at my parents, I hopped in my car to get ice and George ran so fast he caught up to us going over fifteen miles per hour. Obviously, this earned him the right to come along. That same summer, as his long body bounded across the lawn we noticed he kind of moved like a land otter. Another day, another nickname.
Around six months after meeting George, my husband and I separated for the final time. I was devastated. Being raised in a conservative christian environment and attending a private christian university, I was sometimes called a liberal for wanting (or simply valuing) the idea of a career in addition to (note: not instead of) marriage. To clarify, my parents, close friends, and favorite professors believed none of this nonsense, but thinking women existed primarily to be wives and mothers saturated the atmosphere enough to be considered a reasonable expectation.
After getting married in my mid-twenties however, it became obvious I had internalized the idea that my value as a wife and mother superseded anything I might want to do on my own.** My career ambitions became limited to jobs with flexible enough hours to also take care of a home and parent future children. (After staying home full time until they entered school of course.) Now, with only a part time bartending job that was never supposed to support me, I had just failed at the career of wife. This is no small failure for anyone; but when the all-powerful ruler of the universe wants you to be a wife/mother and you do a bad job (as evidenced by all the fighting and him leaving you), you're kinda fucked.
George and I made an extended visit to Chicago during the summer of 2008 to decide if we wanted to move there permanently. Two dear friends let us sleep on a blow up mattress in their living room even though their building didn't allow pets. They were infinitely kind to us: George made it to the middle of August before being discovered (no one was fined) and I lasted 'till the end of September. But Chicago wasn't our city. It was mostly having no idea what to do instead that kept me floundering on the blow up bed.
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| We love sleeps |
Chicago's other secret dog parks are, at least in summer, the beaches. Officially, dogs are not allowed off leash on the beaches with the exception of designated dog areas. We discovered this rule relaxes early one morning in August. Not wanting to disturb our hosts after waking at five a.m., George and I decided to take a solo walk on the beach - only to find it teaming with dogs and owners. George was in heaven: stalking and charging to break up flocks of seagulls.
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| Birds and badgers beware! |
Our hosts started remarking on how many strangers interacted with me on the street. Smiling, waving, nodding, making faces, or even stopping to chat. I told them it was all because of George, but I'm pretty sure they didn't believe me until he went back to stay with my parents and it was just the three of us again. Immediately, walking down the street became zero percent interactive. It was then I started calling George my little socialite.
Next, we were off to Bloomington for graduate school at Indiana University. For three and a half years we were virtually inseparable. Being in school meant I studied from home a lot and could take him almost everywhere except classes, some restaurants, and the library. The woods and parks in and around Bloomington are extremely pet friendly. On one favorite off-leash hike George was tearing around, bounding ahead along the trail then racing back to tell me everything heading our way. Speeding down one slope, he lost his footing, rolled for at least twenty feet, bounced up, shook himself, then ran back to me smiling like crazy. "Did you see me mom? Did ya!?" Around this time, we started calling him "George of the Jungle."
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| beast mode for all the hikes |
Still recovering from my marital breakup which was exacerbated by a brief, misguided attempt at dating again after our divorce was final; I slipped into depression and some pretty unhealthy sleeping habits. George gently tried to correct this by walking half way up the stairs then pausing to look at me every night around 11 pm. If I didn't follow, he'd curl up in the middle of our bed for two hours then slowly pad back down, resigned to more middle of the night TV noise.
Just like Chicago, George continued his career as a socialite, receiving a rousing "GEORGE!" from everyone in the room when we entered a gathering. He also had a number of willing pet sitters, and to this day he'll sometimes approach that door in an apartment complex if the layout is the same as his aunt Becca's old place. I'm really glad we found a community of friends welcoming to both of us. It made our lives much richer.
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| School is hard, mom. |
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| We love the snow |
Our first apartment in Indy was right across the street from where I worked. Convenient for a dog re-adjusting to life with leashes. At seven, Abi appreciated George’s size because it meant she could control him on walks. After some initial resentment, George forgave Nic for taking us away from Oscar and the house in the woods. They developed a close bond. Both dogs clearly prefer Nic’s head rubs, and when George gets mad at me he sometimes makes a point of cuddling up next to Nic and glaring in my direction. Eventually the five of us transitioned into a house with a yard, I found a library job and started my career. We were all home.
At this point, George was over ten years old but could still jump high enough for us to see his little head bobbing up through the glass in our front door as we pulled into the driveway. He ran beside my bike with Mac a few times, but got tired much faster than before. One day returning to the house, I had to cradle George in one arm while gripping Mac's leash and the handlebar with the other. We made it home without incident and George LOVED having the wind in his ears. Unfortunately, being close to me is an important part of that enjoyment because we never could get him to settle into a bike basket.
Now, two years later with this new illness, Cushing's, our adventures are much more relaxed. After consulting with our vet, we agreed the medicine wasn't working for George the way she had hoped. Our new objective is to keep him as comfortable and happy as possible for as long as we are able. Looking back over our time together, he has done that and so much more for me.
George and I have been together almost twelve years. Three cities, two towns, eight moves, thirteen jobs, and three major relationships. He has been the most consistent intimate presence in my adult life. Calling him all of his nicknames isn't quite enough. He is my furry little gentleman, and always will be.
**I had internalized the idea that my value as a wife and mother superseded anything else I might want to do on my own with one exception: writing. My dad uncovered this in a masterful stroke at dinner one night. Leaning back, he casually asked if I would use my maiden or married name if I ever published. "Maiden" I answered without thinking. When I did think it over, it made sense that something as personal as writing be attributed to me and not my husband. This surprised and upset said husband, even though I one hundred percent believe my dad knew both exactly how I would respond AND how my ex would feel about that.
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