90 Lbs of Chocolate Love

I have lived very few years without a dog in my life.

As an adult, it all began with a hand me down dog from my brother…a bat shit crazy cockerpoo.  That dog didn’t last long after he took a chunk out of our neighbor’s leg and then threatened the pastor that had just baptized Ben.

Luckily the official Baptism went off without a hitch, but the party after was one for ages. At that time I was not much of a drinker…but I have certainly made up for that deficiency lately…so I decided to have as the centerpiece for our post Baptismal celebration a huge bowl of punch with an ice ring decorated with maraschino cherries…quite the Martha Stewart!

It was a grand effort and would have been highlighted with its own Pinterest page…if Pinterest was around in 1975. Looking back, there was one slight problem with the punch – it was 100% booze….Cold Duck (omg), Curaçao, Rum, and I don’t know what else. I think the frozen cherries were the only non-alcoholic item. Unfortunately, being a new mother and not much of an entertainer, I did not educate my guests that the magnificent centerpiece was alcohol on steroids, nor did I offer an option. Who knew?

Problems began after all our male guests decided to go out to the front lawn to play a raucous game of touch football. (Think the Kennedys) The dog went wild and tried to get the ball. Our neighbor Steve, a shitfaced dog hater, tried to kick Simon the dog. The crazy cockerpoo leapt into the air and literally latched onto Steve’s thigh…through his pants…like he was a police dog. The other merry makers succeeded in releasing Simon from Steve’s leg. Luckily society was not as litigious at that time and we remained friends without a major law suit.

Simultaneously our hammered pastor decided to take his leave from our happy little event. He opened the front door and turned around to say goodbye to the “hostess with the mostest.” Unfortunately he did not remember that our 200 year old colonial was still being renovated and the front door was over 18″ above the ground. Our beautiful front stairs (an old millstone cut in two) was not in place. He landed with an ungracious thud and Simon decided it was time for new blood. He charged the bewildered cleric as the band of drunken athletes tried to help the Father to his feet. He was last seen stumbling to his car. Fortunately there were no DUIs in force at that time.

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Simon was quickly rehomed to a retired couple living on Cape Cod and lived out his days free from crime.

I remained dog free for many years until Tucker came into our lives. She was actually a bribe given to Ben for uprooting him from Newburyport, the idyllic community north of Boston,  to the central Illinois wasteland we called home for seven years. She was supposed to be B’s dog, but as I have found out, dogs bond with their food source. She was mine. A sweet golden retriever who had an excellent pedigree of obedience champions. I learned that there are two parts to being a dog champion with the dog being only one half of the equation. I failed miserably, but Tucker was a wonderful loyal family member. She lived a long happy life in spite of W trying to overfeed her daily.

tucker

Tucker was even agreeable when W decided he wanted a German Shepherd. We adopted Mars (after the planet). It’s too long a story but we ended up adopting his litter mate Pluto. We changed his name to Radar and he was definitely my dog. He adored me. Why can’t all males show that kind of devotion? All threedogs got along really well and when Tucker went to the Rainbow Bridge, we all mourned her loss.

The Boys

After moving to Savannah Mars developed German Shepherd mylopethy (like ALS in humans) and had a slow sad couple of years. Radar lived on for a while and developed bone cancer. Their passings were sad and W said he never wanted another dog. But I did!

I wanted a little white fluffy dog that did not shed and could sit in my lap. A few months later I adopted Izzy who was the best little girl and did want to sit in my lap 24 – 7. I called her Tonto sometimes…my faithful companion…like Tonto on the Lone Ranger. Izzy’s life changed when we opened the restaurant and she had to stay home. When I did bring her, and locked her in my office, she was not compliant and would bark, whine and scratch as the BBQ smell and tidbits were too much for her.

izzer

Over the next few years we “rescued” several other dogs including Misty an American bully whose owner committed suicide. She didn’t like females and would just stare at me and growl. But I was her food source. She developed diabetes and I had to administer her insulin twice a day. The blinder she became, the better she tolerated me. We developed a detente and lived in peace. I even cried when we had to put her down.

misty

4 years ago Brisket came into our lives. W liked big dogs. He never felt Izzy was a real dog…he actuaally called her a poor excuse for a dog. (He finally did come around.) Brisket was a rescue and pulled out of Animal Control…he was pretty sad and appeared to have been left on his own in the country for a year or more. At 40 lbs he was filled with every bad thing a dog could have. After the rescuers cared for him, he arrived on our doorstep. W loved him. From the minute he saw him, I could tell he thought he was a real dog. But Brisket quickly grew to 90 pounds. W could not handle him…but guess who could? Me.

Brisket Ray Charles

Izzy went to the Rainbow Bridge almost a year after W left us. So now it is the two of us. Brisket spends 24 hours worrying about his belly. How is he going to get the next bit of food? He is not picky…he has an intestinal tract made of steel. Some of the items he has ingested, and then expelled, include a half a box of latex gloves, batteries, wax pillar candles, a bag of 100 tea lights leaving the metal behind,  a half bottle of chewy vitamins, Advil, red velvet cupcakes and I can go on and on….

Presently we are living with certain a understanding. He has two collars. One I put on him every morning. It is like an outdoor invisible fence…with four costly discs located in no-go zones around the house. I do a military drill before I leave the house. Are doors shut? Counters clear? Anything that can possibly have a smell of food eliminated? Done. The other is for the time he forgets he is 90 pounds and wants to get in my lap. For this he gives me 100% unconditional love. He is blind now, only 5 1/2 years old, but it does not stop him. I even found a ball online that has a bell inside, so he can still play fetch. We walk every day and he follows me without a leash…his sense of smell and hearing are amazing…but his devotion has no bounds.

W would be happy. It’s just the two of us…taking care of each other.

Changing Habits

It was “our” day. Once we opened the restaurant Sunday was the only day we closed…so we could do anything we wanted. Our conversations usually began with W saying, “What do you want to do today?” My response was always, “Whatever you want!” I was never much help. But being foodies, we always began with brunch. When walking was easier for him, we tried all of the available options. Yes, we had our favorites, but W would research, especially Trip Advisor, and decide what new place we should try. Off we would go…never helping my waistline… always a willing participant. When walking became too difficult for him, we would do the dreaded fast food drive up window. But we went out.

Once he left me, I knew that Sunday mornings would quickly become the worst of the week. What the heck was I going to do? The rest of the week I could manage.

We had always talked about returning to church but he was raised a Baptist and then became an evangelical. I was raised a Roman Catholic. Nothing ever seemed like a good fit for both of us. We “auditioned” some churches. Even talked to a few pastors…but the perfect match never presented itself. God was never far though, and when we talked about being buried…after our “family plot” was purchased…W said he wanted to be buried with two things. One of which was his Bible. (More on the other item later.)

Almost immediately I decided to spend my Sunday mornings at church! Not just any church…the cathedral! And what a place it is! http://www.savannahcathedral.org/about

I am inspired every time I enter the space…it rivals churches I have visited in Europe. And the music is sublime. Its beauty surrounds me and gives me peace. I feel part of a community…not that I have joined any groups, because I haven’t…But for that hour I am fully present and I leave able to face the day and whatever comes along.


The (very) Important Book

I’ll get it out of the way right now. I am an organized person. A bit on the obsessive/compulsive side. Always have been. About five years ago, I started wondering what would W do if something happened to me and I was unable to let him know where all the important stuff is located. Then I projected out to our son B…what a mess I would have left for him to sort through. I had already seen snippets of this playing out with the loss of our parents. I didn’t share this concern with W as I didn’t want his feelings to be hurt….but he would have been wicked lost. So I created this bright pink 3 ring notebook that will be noticed in any bookshelf. It contains all important items…or notes on where those items would be found. For instance, our life insurance policies were too big to place in the notebook, so I put the most recent receipt for them in the plastic insert and then left a note on the receipt explaining where the insurance policies were kept. Creating this record allowed my anxiety to get below the raging point. (We will discuss my anxiety later.)

Since W’s passing, I have updated all items and have it ready for whatever comes along…evacuation, plague, pestilence, incapacitation….all sorts of wonderful topics. I know a lot of readers may think this a morbid occupation of my time, but it has given me a great deal of satisfaction and comfort knowing that I won’t have left a disaster for my son to sort through. Trust me. Grief is tough enough without having to figure out where “the hell” is the will, the insurance policies, the health directives….It is a hard conversation to have even with yourself, but listen to the Boy Scouts and be prepared.

Fa la la la blah

My Christmas decorating is complete! Yeah! I even have the 4 foot lighted tree-in-a-box in the attic. It’s a no go for me. The wreath is it. I guess it is a metaphor for how I am feeing these days. This will be my second Christmas without W. The outer pain/agony has been replaced with a dull heaviness. Externally I am decorated…but internally not so much. We loved the holidays and made them grand. Christmas Eve Open Houses for friends and fam showing off our culinary skills to the delight of our guests. One present each to open when all the revelers left, then a quiet Christmas morning with holiday music and the delicious aroma of country ham and biscuits. He was a great gift giver. Then his illness started affecting how we proceeded.

I need to cherish the moments from the past, but allow the joy of the present enter my soul and fill it. Life will never be the same. But life goes on. Is that the first chapter in the Idiot’s Guide to Grief, Heartache and Despair? Perhaps. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not a philosophical sort. I am a let’s get it done and move on to the next sort.