Dogs

My life has always included a dog.

Sarge was the collie mix my parents had when they were first married. Named for my dad’s rank in the Air Force, I didn’t know Sarge well since he was relegated to the basement after Anthony and I came along to ease Mom’s cleaning regimen. I hardly noticed when he passed away of old age.

Then, the summer I was eight, we got Ralphy. A bassett hound/beagle mix puppy, Ralphy was sweet, but capo dost (“hard head” or obstinate). He was fearless and did not hesitate to go toe-to-paw with my father over a stolen shoe or – one time – a stick of butter taken from the kitchen counter.

Ralphy was my dog. I woke up early to walk him, and trained him to sit, stay, “speak” and shake. During each of my extended hospital stays, my parents said Ralphy searched the house, looking for me. And as I recuperated at home, I was never alone with Ralphy at my bedside.

Bassetts and beagles are prone to tumors, and Ralphy had his fair share. All were benign until the one that took hold in his liver when he was 13. By the time we’d discovered it, the tumor was as big as a grapefruit, and so painful Ralphy would fall asleep sitting up.

We ended his suffering on Dec. 4, 1983 – one month and one day after my grandfather died. Later, Mark said I had cried equally for them both. I begged my mother to get another dog, but she’d had enough. “When you and Mark get married, you can get your own dog,” she said. One wrinkle: Mark had been allergic to dogs as a child, and he didn’t know if -- like his asthma -- he had outgrown that malady. We decided to chance it, but I told him, “If you are still allergic, you’re going on medication, because we are NOT returning the dog!”

We rescued Maggie from an animal shelter in South Orange, NJ. She was a black, spaniel mix, about 15-months-old, and shell-shocked from abuse. It took years before she trusted us to step over her while she slept, causing more than a few near-falls for Mark and me.

Not only was Mark not allergic to Maggie, he formed a strong bond with her. She was his first real pet and the perfect addition to our new home, just one month after our wedding. After J was born, eight years later, we learned that Maggie wasn’t crazy about kids. She wasn’t aggressive towards J; she just ignored her.

Later in life, Maggie developed lymphoma. We kept her comfortable on medication and let nature take its course. Then, in September 1999, as Hurricane Floyd was bearing down on Raleigh, Maggie lost control of her hindquarters and she couldn’t walk. “A system failure,” was what the emergency veterinarian told us, and the difficult decision was made to put her down. She was 15-years-old.

Mark took Maggie’s loss especially hard and vowed that we’d have an extended mourning period before considering another dog. Then, one sunny day in October, he suggested we go “look” at the animal shelter.

“If we go to the animal shelter today, we’re getting a dog today,” I told him.

Can’t say I didn’t warn him – that afternoon we adopted Sandy.

A husky/shepherd mix, Sandy was three-months-old when we brought her home. J named her for the sandy color of her face, and she is the sweetest dog I’ve ever had. She’ll be 11 in July, but most people think she’s still a youngster. Sandy and J have grown up together, and, when R was an active toddler, Sandy had infinite patience. However, when she’s hurt or scared, I’m the one she comes to.

Despite the ache of arthritis in my lower back each morning, I feed Sandy and let her out, since I’m usually the first one up. As I shuffle to the kitchen while Sandy scampers ahead of me, I wonder if I will have the strength and will to start over with another dog, after her time with us ends. Probably. Because, in my mind, a home is not complete without a dog.

Living life

Crisis management is a vital parenting skill that I learned from a master – my mother.

When faced with my spondylolisthesis diagnosis and the reality that their 13-year-old daughter needed major spinal surgery to avoid paralysis, both my parents were matter-of-fact. Did I want the surgery? Was I comfortable with the surgeon? And, if either of my parents were freaking out on the inside, I never knew it.

During my surgery, Mom prayed and visualized Jesus carrying me. That brought her peace. Afterward, my surgeon, Hugo Keim, reported that all had gone well and I was fine. Dr. Keim and Mom never hit if off; he reserved his warm-and-fuzzy bedside manner for his patients, and didn’t have much charm leftover for their parents. Yet, after each of my surgeries, he updated her personally, instead of delegating the duty to a junior doctor on his surgical team. For that, Mom was grateful.

Post-op, I was in a body cast for six months. The kicker: for the first three months, I was bed-ridden so the spinal fusion could heal properly.

Caring for me at home was a challenge that Mom seemed to enjoy. She’s a natural at troubleshooting and, by the time the gurney rolled me through the front door, everything was in place.

One of my father’s brothers had located an old-fashioned hospital bed – crank-style – that he had cleaned and painted white. And, instead of sequestering me upstairs in my bedroom, Mom decided I would be in the dining room on the first floor “where all the action is,” she said. So, the dining room table and chairs were moved into the living room, creating a crowded by usable arrangement.

Since Mom had gone back to work by then, a phone was installed at my bedside. I was also given one of Dad’s police whistles to summon assistance, if needed, after everyone had gone upstairs to bed. With Dad working rotating shifts, Mom coming home midday for lunch and my brother checking in a few hours before Mom at day’s end, I was covered!

I didn’t realize it at the time, but Mom was teaching me how to deal with life’s curveballs. The takeaway: make a plan and execute, and keep living your life.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!