Not a Festive Fourth

It was a day for another tough goodbye. I had the holiday off and spent the better part of the day puttering around in the house. I ran some errands, did some baking, and then the day went south.

Maggie, my pit mix I've written about under the story titled "A Face Only A Mother Could Love" was showing signs of not feeling well. In the past she had been known to eat something out of the yard that may her sick, and she and Bella found a way to break into the garbage can many moons ago and butter wrappers, plastic meat tubes and Styrofoam take out boxes were consumed. I can't believe they lived. This is only one of the reasons Gulf Coast Animal Emergency Clinic on the 610 loop in Houston know me so well.

Fourth of July is also a holiday for my veterinary clinic, so I made the decision to keep an eye on Maggie and see if she perked up. If not, I was going to drop her off at the vet the next morning. She was mopging by the laundry room door, so I let her out several times to see if Elvis would leave the building, so to speak. Nothing. After one of the trips outside Maggie went to sit under the piano. I went back to dishes and heard something behind me. She was shuffling funny, then collapsed. I couldn't get her up. Did I mention she was a chubby gal? I have no friends or family within less than an hour's drive, and the emergency clinic was an hour away.

Terrified she was suffering, went next door and interrupted a young family's barbecue and asked the dad to help. He dropped everything and came over, picked Maggie up like she was as light as a pillow and placed her in the car.

I raced to the clinic. I rang the buzzer and asked for a gurney and someone strong to help. To my surprise the 'orderly' who came out to help was the actual doctor who was going to take care of her that late afternoon. He checked her out, gave her some IV fluids and a steroid shot. After about two hours she perked up. I brought her home and we snuggled on the couch until time for last trip out to water grass for the whole gang around 10:00 p.m. I changed into pajamas and settled down to finish a program.

Again, Maggie collapsed - this time she made a loud, anguished groan. I managed to get her up, quickly changed, and she was able to shuffle to the car but had to have help getting in. Picture an old lady who has had three whiskies trying to lift the fat ass of a 69 pound dog in the dark with house shoes sliding on the concrete driveway. One fat ass trying to help another fat ass. Film at 11.

Back to Houston. The clinic couldn't believe we were back. Another shot and more IV fluids. I was told what X-rays would cost at the ER clinic. I simply didn't have the money. They made a call to my vet, whose cell number they probably have on speed dial in my chart. (I found out they went to school together and remained friends over the years.) My vet told them he would do the imaging (a little) cheaper. I was instructed to take Maggie home and drop her off at my vet's office on my way to work the next morning so they could do the exams. I dropped her off, and at the end of the day I went straight to the clinic after work.

Once in a room, a tech (one of my favorites) brought Maggie in. I didn't like the look on the tech's face. One of the main doctors in the clinic came in and asked me to accompany him down the hall to see the images. Maggie had cancer of the spleen. I was stunned - just two days prior to this she was running in the back yard with all the other dogs. The vet said the collapses happened when the spleen ruptured in two different places. He told me the first image of the spleen had him thinking they could probably do a little surgery and make her comfortable for a few months. However, when he clipped up the view of her lungs and chest cavity, he let out a big sigh. I asked him "What am I looking at?" Cancer. She was eaten alive with cancer. There was nothing anyone could do for her. He told me he wanted me to take her home, have some time with her and come back Friday afternoon on my half day off. I could only hope she would make it.

She didn't. She collapsed later that night and was struggling to breathe. I rolled her onto a flat piece of cardboard and slowly slid her out to the car. I made a ramp with boards and spent an hour getting her up into the van. The drive to Houston was agonizing. I cried and begged her to forgive me for the way I had to get her in the car. I said stupid things like, "I really didn't mean your ass was too fat. I'm just too old and can't do what I used to." I rambled on with stories about the goofy things she did over the years, how she never tired of trying to catch a squirrel 25 feet up in a tree, barking her fool head off as if she was saying, "I'll get you one day. I'll get a ladder. Yeah, that's what I'll do!"

I rang the bell. "It's Cheryl with Maggie, again." I didn't know if they could understand me the way my voice was cracking. A gurney came out, steered by the same doctor from the night before. Unbeknownst to me, my vet's office had sent copies of the images with a hint that I might be back before my Friday appointment in Baytown.

They rolled her into a room, covered her with a blanket to keep her warm, and gave me some quiet time to say my goodbyes. Tootsie (the sweet little lady who has manned the evening desk for the 17 years that I have had to patronize the ER clinic) checked on us every 15 minutes. I snuggled with Maggie, talked to her for over an hour before I told Tootsie I was ready. The doctor came in. He handled Maggie very gently and spoke to her in low, soft tones. He stayed with me until she slipped away.  I checked out at the desk. I had handled the expenses while they were getting her ready for me to spend time with her. Tootsie remembered that I had Bella cremated and ordered a lovely box for Bella's ashes as part of the cremation package I paid for. She inquired if that was my plan for Maggie. I said "No, I simply don't have the money." Tootsie said they would handle disposal, which was cremation, you just don't get ashes.

I drove home with a heavy heart.

Two weeks passed, and I received a call from the clinic. They said my print was in. I didn't understand. I didn't order anything. It turned out Tootsie had a paw print done in clay before the body left the facility. They placed in it in a cute pink bag with signed sympathy cards from the team. It was totally unexpected.

It took a couple of months before the other dogs quit looking for her, especially the youngest in the house. Enough time has passed, they have settled down, but I have not. I can't believe how much I miss her. I am truly grieving. My consolation is the knowledge that I gave Maggie a happy home after her start as a bait puppy for fighting rings. She came to me damaged and terrified. I do know that her years in my home changed her mistrust of human beings. She loved people, children and any other rescue I brought in. She had a loving heart.

I think I am still mourning her loss because she gave unconditional love. You don't have that with every dog that comes into your life. I had it with Bella. Maggie stepped into those big paw prints when we lost Bella to cancer. Now both of their paw prints will rest side by side in the bookcase. They will be reminders that you don't always needs arms to comfort you. Sometimes you just need a big old paw landing in your lap - tracked in grass and mud and all.

Bird in the Dark

On my recent trip to Fort Worth I did my usual early rising to a quiet house and kept myself busy getting recipes and house decor ideas out of magazines. I heard something 'squeaking' and went in search of the source. Out in the front flower bed was a baby bird singing. He sang for a good 10 minutes before flitting off. His chirps were perfectly even, as if he timed it to poetry.


The sun not yet to break;
In dark I heard you wake.

Sing song, sing song.

The world was still asleep,
Your voice so soft and sweet;

Sing song, sing song.

Upon the morn it wafted;
And then the darkness lifted.

Sing song, sing song.

With notes so pure and fair;
They floated on the air.

Sing song, sing song.

Just a tiny little baby peep;
Then dawning was complete.

Sing song, sing song.

And in the morning mist,
I knew that soon I'll miss;

Sing song
     Sing
          Song.

Facebook and Pinterest Fail

I have found dozens of great recipes and ideas on both Facebook and Pinterest. However, every now and then some poor soul who thinks they can cook comes up with an idea or recipe they think is great. The only thing I can figure is that their family is so used to fast food or burnt offerings they are wowed by something that is totally inedible. I happened upon one of these.

While looking for a dessert recipe for our staff luncheon/meeting I found a recipe titled "One Bowl Apple Cake." For starters, the menu mapped out with mixing sugar, cinnamon, egg and oil together, then adding the apples. Then it instructed me to mix the flour and the baking soda prior to adding it to the first mix.......what happened to one bowl? Where was I going to mix this without a second bowl? On the counter top? So I drag out a second bowl, do the mix, then work my arm to death adding the flour mixture to the sugar/oil mixture. Why didn't they mix all the dry ingredients together, add the oil and eggs.....do this with a MIXER and then add the apples? Then I questioned why there was no baking powder, salt or milk or water. Then the cook time was 55 minutes on 350. I thought this must be a yummy and dense cake.

NOT

It looked awful. Nonetheless, I cut a square to taste test. It was almost burned. It was dry. It was tasteless. I was mortified to bring it to work. Not even a shot of whiskey would have redeemed it.

So -- if you click on this recipe -- steer clear. I wasted six yummy Gala apples last night. I have even deleted it from my hard drive after copying it for this post.

One Bowl Apple Cake Ingredients:

2 eggs

1 1/2 cups sugar (adjust sugar to your liking) 2 heaping teaspoons cinnamon 1/2 cup oil 6 medium Gala or Fuji or Honey Crisp apples 2 cups plain flour 2 teaspoons baking soda (Sodium bicarbonate)

Preheat oven to 350°. In a large bowl, mix the eggs, sugar, cinnamon and oil. Peel and slice the apples and add to mixture in bowl (coating as you go to keep apples from turning brown.) Mix together the baking soda and flour and add to the ingredients in the bowl. Mix well (best with a fork) until all of the flour is absorbed by the wet ingredients. Pour mixture into a greased one 9x13 or two 9″ round pans. Bake for approximately 55 minutes.

Reykjavik Pottage

So, here’s the story. Reykjavik (pronounced Ray’ koh vik) is a city in Iceland. And you would assume that the locals have a favorite dish, right? You'll need that assumption later on.

Being the creative cook I am, I decided to try my hand at something new. Supper Club was coming up in a few days, so I spent some time on the internet looking up recipes. 

The night of Supper Club. . . People are trying my dish. Quite a few of the little old ladies were guessing Salisbury Steak. But the problem was, something was off. So we are telling folks about the city in Iceland and the popularity of a certain dish in Iceland. “Oh, really?” they said. “Darned thing is a lot like Salisbury Steak.” they said. “But something is different.” they said.

What Really Happened. . . . . .

I tried my hand at Salisbury Steak. One recipe that had a lot of likes called for Worcestershire Sauce. Another called for ground mustard. Not finding anything that could back either item as being more popular I decided to use both. It was a little hinky, but, since one of the ingredients called for going in the mix at the last minute I thought it would get covered up.

It didn’t. I think the odd combo got stronger. Like mixing two chemicals to make a bomb. And a bomb this dish was. Not THE BOMB. Just a Bomb. It was too late to start over. 

Courtney created a cover story for it. She googled cities in Iceland and went about concocting a tale to explain the funky tasting dish called Reykjavik Pottage. Told it to everyone. They bought it.

hmmmmm......I wonder how many of them read this blog? My cover might be blown.

Spring's Sad Song

In being perfectly honest about myself I often admit that I wasn’t the best kid on the planet. If I were Native American my name would be Runs With Scissors. I was telling my friend that my parents believed in punishment. You know that old adage, “This is going to hurt me more than it is going to hurt you.” Yeah, I didn’t buy that. As for myself I didn’t turn to corporal punishment, but I was strict and tough.

So my friend is sitting on the other side of my desk with a pen and paper. Here is what she wrote:

Ouch!!

I just can’t take it.

I’m the one hurting

And she’s the one crying!

She’s crying!!

And not only did she pull it,

She stripped it bare!

Ungrateful and Hateful!

And I know when it’s going to happen.

I can hear that voice “Go on, go get it. 

And it better be a good one or else.”

But why do I feel like I’m getting the “or else?”

And here she comes,

crying, and she yanks me!

That little red-headed abuser!

Oh well. . . . . maybe I will bear fruit next year.

Yup. There was a year when the pear tree in the back yard didn’t bloom. 

Ode to the Pear Tree ~ penned by Courtney Ware

A Dose of New Adventure on the Job

Well, my job description just got a little more interesting. Debra Hodapp, a Children's Day Out teacher, called me over to her side of the building. I thought she was saying she had a creep at the back of her classroom. (There are windows on both walls.) I was prepared to call the police. I arrived to find her sitting up on a classroom table keeping her eyes on the intruder.

She had a SNAKE in the classroom. I got a broom, moved furniture and swept him out the back door with him turning around and lunging at me. I just kept whacking him with the broom until I had him off the sidewalk and in the grass. I whacked him several more times, then pinned him down with the broom until someone could lend aid. 

Her daughter was standing nearby and noticed the arrival of my boss. He was standing on the sidewalk across the lot and talking on his phone. He sees her waving frantically and strolls over. At the sight of the snake he jumped back about 10 feet - just flew backward. Practically levitated at warp speed. He went into the building to find something to dispatch the creature with. He came out with the matching PLASTIC dust pan that belonged to the broom I was forcing into the ground with all my might to keep the ever-wiggling snake pinned down. Well, that wasn't sharp enough. I told him go get a knife from the kitchen. His response - "I'm not getting that close!!!!!"

He raced into the building again, telling Pastor Paula he needed something sharp. She said, "Well, the only thing I  know of is the shovel used to break the ground in the ceremony for the new building." He grabs the first one he can get his hands on and heads back to my situation of seriously straining to keep the creature pinned to the ground.

Super Hero Pastor Chuck Weber promptly dispatched him with the shovel and pushed him so far down in the dirt that I had to get pliers to pull the body out of the ground. Then boss-man determines it was a water moccasin. My skin crawled for the rest of the day.

A Tribute to the Greatest Dog on Earth

Life with Bella 2002 to 2013.

I have started and stopped this piece for three years. This has been a very difficult piece to write because I know the ending. It ends in heart break, panic about not making a decision sooner and reminds me every day of the loss of the most fabulous dog on the planet – Bella the tender hearted Rottweiler.

Bella came to me as the second dog in the Baytown Humane Society’s foster program. Her story convinced me she was a sweetie with a big heart. My only reservation was how she would interact with Puddin, my large, long-haired male Tabby cat who thought he was a dog.

Bella (whose original name at the time was Della, but quickly changed to Bella when her inner beauty of heart and soul was revealed) was picked up during a storm by the animal shelter in Pasadena, Texas. She was scared and very pregnant. The Pasadena shelter had a policy regarding Rottweilers, Pit Bulls and Dobermans. If owners did not come forward with proof of ownership, euthanasia was the animal’s fate.

Bella gave birth at the shelter. All the puppies came down with Kennel Cough and had to be put down. Bella was despondent. The girls in the office felt sorry for her, so they brought her into the office area and gave her a blue plastic pig to play with. Bella would carry the pig from one girl to the next, set it in their lap and look up at each girl as if to say, “Isn’t my puppy pretty?” And, yes, the girls would pet the pig and give it back to Bella. No owner came forward. Close to time to say goodbye, the people at the shelter decided to break the rules and call the Baytown Humane Society to spring Bella for the foster program. I had a large yard, and the society knew I was comfortable with large dogs after my first foster – a Doberman. Bella weighed only 64 pounds when she came to me.

Our first test was the cat test. Bella was brought into the back yard. I came out of the house with the cat. Strong arms were managing Bella in case something went wrong. I had the cat in a death grip. We moved closer and closer together while everyone said “good girl” to Bella constantly. I slowly lowered myself to dog level. What was Bella’s reaction? She put her big old nose against that cat and sniffed him in one long sniff as if she were vacuuming the cat. Puddin was not a happy camper, but no hissing or growling sounds were emitted. Puddin had been raised with Shadow, my Alaskan Malamute and Tina’s crazy dog, Gretchen, so dogs were not strangers to him. He just didn’t like being vacuumed by the big, black and tan Hoover.

Bella quickly realized she was safe with us and took to sitting and snoozing with me on the couch. She never bothered the cat. They ended up sharing space quite well. Until the Barbeque Episode.

We were grilling outside on a gorgeous day. Puddin decided he needed to be an outdoor cat for the day. He spent his time hunkering down in clumps of grass and flowers acting like he was the mighty king of the jungle. After a short while something caught the corner of my eye. Bella was galloping toward the cat. In slow motion I was shouting NNNNOOOOO while trying to run in what felt like lead shoes carrying a heavy plate of raw meat to distract the dog. I could not cross that huge yard fast enough. Bella hit the ground right in front of the cat, went air-born and sailed right over Puddin. I was stunned. Then Bella raced to a far corner to do it again. Barreling across the yard, stopping at cat, jumping over – just playing like a crazy gal. Puddin was NOT amused. I was relieved. Bella was just having fun at that old cat’s expense.

After just a few weeks she had my heart. I called the humane society and asked if I could adopt her. All the necessary steps for vet care were taken care of. From there it was a simple case of falling in love with this giant creature. She started to gain weight and, before long, there was not room for the two of us to share the couch for a Sunday afternoon nap. It was more like, “This is Bella’s couch, and Cheryl can have that little corner.” Not long after that she was sleeping with me. Again - this is dog side and that little sliver is yours - became the norm.

Life went on over the years. Other dogs came to my home to be fostered. Some came in quietly and gently. Others arrived frightened and snapping. In these cases, Bella simply sat down and showed them it was safe. She had that look as if to say, “Come on in here and settle down. You are lucky to be alive.” She helped house train puppies for me. If I was busy at the sink and a pup started sniffing the floor, Bella would bark at me as if to say, “Hey, pay attention. This baby is about to mark your floor, dummy!”

Tina’s old dog, Gretchen came to live with us when Tina moved to Ft. Worth. Then Maggie came in as a foster no one wanted, and she stayed as part of my growing family. (Maggie and Gretchen have their own stories on the blog.) Bella was gentle with my nieces and loved everyone who came in the house. As the years with mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s continued I stopped being a foster home, but still added to my livestock numbers by rescuing two large black labs.

Around 2008 I stopped making my bed every morning. I would make up the bed, put everything in its place and return home from work to find the covers pulled back, the pillows pulled down flat and an indention from a human sized body in the coverlet. One holiday I was at home enjoying my day off. I was quietly puttering around the kitchen. Bella slipped past me and headed for the bedroom hall. Within minutes, I photographed the evidence. She was “un-making” the bed every day for nap time, taking her place where she slept every night. The photo I captured of her snoozing on the bed became the cover for my music album titled Music to Sooth the Savage Beast.

There was the time she had to wear the giant cone after chewing her hip. She looked like a satellite dish that fell from the upper atmosphere. My Facebook friends had a ball making comments. It made a complete story for the blog. Here’s what happened:

After a trip to the vet for Bella’s routine shots, I had weekend plans that went completely out the window. She had either an allergic reaction to one of the shots, or she was stung by a wasp when I put her out at noon on Friday. She managed to chew and lick her hip until there was no hair on a 3.5 inch area and tore her flesh until it was raw like hamburger. Back to the vet.  After treating it with medicine, Dr. Amy said I had to keep Bella from licking it. Since the clinic didn’t have a cone of shame large enough for Bella’s neck, I spent the first two nights connected to this dog with a leash so I could tug her head away from her hip. Neither one of us slept well.

Sunday afternoon, the vet tech called my cell phone and said they located a cone. I picked it up and we buckled Bella into it. This cone was so large I had to fold it for her to go out the door. She was literally scraping the paint and plaster off my walls as she navigated the house. And I think she banged it on the bars of my brass bed about 80 times a night to let me know how much she hated it. In the picture you can see my other two mutts behind Bella hanging their heads as if to say, "Uh, we didn't do anything. Please don't make us wear one of those fashion statements."

                                  

I leave you with the comments from my friends on Facebook:

How many channels can she get with that?

Holy Cow! Did you get a permit from NASA for that satellite?

How’s the reception for Russian radio?

That’s one big cone of shame.

Latest technology in satellite dishes – moves room to room with you.

Can I borrow her? Our network is down.

Geeze that thing is huge! But Bella’s huge!

Bella to Mars. . . better be watching for those green people.

Yes, that picture says it all.

She often played invisible-black-speed-bump when I would come out of the laundry room with a full basket of clothes. I would trip and go flying. She licked my face when I angrily cried about a husband who was not a very good person. She would let me wrap my arms around her, bury my face in her huge neck and sob about dark times with mother.

Bella started showing health issues as she aged. We found lung cancer glimmers. Meds were administered to fight it. Then Bella started walking more to the right than straight. The vet sent me to a neurology specialist in Houston. Sure enough, the cancer had metastasized in her brain. Expensive tests were done. A heavy artillery of drugs was given. We stayed on top of it, and the dreadful day came when the vet looked at me and said, “We can continue this with a small possibility of results, but I think you need to make a decision soon. This was early 2013. I was already exhausted after putting mother into a nursing facility in fall of 2012. I sold the Richmond house almost overnight and moved to Baytown and lived like a carpet bagger living out of boxes. Life had just beat me down. I could barely think at that point in time. I simply could not make a decision at that moment, so I hesitated.

Easter rolled around and I went to play for my church across Houston. I came home to find that Bella had suffered a stroke on the carpet in the living room and had tried to drag herself to the kitchen door. She looked at me confused and scared. I ran to the neighbor’s house to see if Steve could help me lift Bella into the car. He was away, but his wife promised to send him down as soon as he arrived home.

I put the other dogs out in the back yard and lay down beside her on the kitchen floor, still dressed in my Easter clothes. I put my arms around her and told her how much I loved her, how much she brought into my life and how she often made me laugh doing quirky things.

The neighbor finally arrived and helped me get her in the car. I made the trip to Houston, weeping the whole way that Easter Day. The vet let me stay and hold her. I spoke sweet nothings in her ear as she faded away. When I turned to leave, the tech handed me some brochures about cremation. She said I had three days to think about it. My decision was instantaneous. This dog deserved to be memorialized. I did not want to forget her for even a moment.

A few days later I picked the ashes up in Brenham. I wrapped her sexy, hot pink collar around the simple, but elegant, wooden box. The matching leash was folded beside it. The ceramic plaque printed with “A Spoiled Rotten Rottweiler Lives Here” was placed beside it.

I am so glad I took the time to make an impression of her paw print with the kit Deb gave me a few years prior. I had tucked it away in a drawer thinking I would make a Christmas ornament out of it. I removed it from the “to do” craft drawer and took it to a friend who would paint it to look like a rock.

Bella’s big paw that used to rest beside my face at nap time on the couch was forever pressed into that lump of clay and shares space on the shelf with the other memories.

But the imprint of those big feet, her soft brown eyes and her gentle soul will remain firmly pressed into my heart all the rest of the days of my life.