Farewell, My Friend

 Loss is, I believe, the saddest part of the human experience.  Whether it's the loss of a family member, or a close friend, or anyone or anything that has enriched our lives, saying goodbye hurts at the deepest levels.  It hurts so much because there's no turning back; these losses are forever and no matter how sweet the memories of that which we have lost, what is left is only emotional or cerebral.  Among the losses that count so much, I feel we must include our four legged friends who have given us unconditional love over the years and a cascade of memories that bring a unique sense of joy.

Such is our experience right now as we have lost our beloved Mojo, a black lab whose life adventures could fill a movie screen.  Mojo lived for almost fourteen glorious years.  He came to us as a rescue when he was a very young puppy.  We always liked the name Mojo, but had no idea how fitting it would be for this particular creature.  Mojo was tossed from a truck when he was a very young puppy.  The only reason we know this is because there was a hunter in the area who witnessed this horrid act and who got the puppy to a shelter.  He was near death as it turns out, suffering from parvo, a disease that attacks a dog's intestinal system and is often fatal.  He somehow survived that experience, but was skin and bones when we got him and could barely walk twenty-five yards without needing to rest.  But, he got through this stage and blossomed in so many ways.  As it turns out, what we had not known is that in the local Gullah culture the term mojo means "black magic" and given his miraculous survival and recovery and that he was a black lab how could there be a better name for him?

Mojo and I would have a daily routine of getting up each morning and heading to the beach.  I would be armed with a chuckit and a couple of tennis balls for which Mojo had something akin to an OCD level of focus.  Nothing, I mean nothing, could distract him from his passionate pursuit of the ball.  Once he overcame his fear of the ocean's wave action, I would routinely use the chuckit to heave the ball way out into  the ocean where Mojo would cut through the waves and then, once the ball was firmly in his mouth,  ride the waves back in using his tail as a stabilizer that would liken him to any very accomplished surfer.  As the other folks who brought their dogs to the beach would realize, Mojo had zero interest in playing with other dogs.  Just keep throwing him the ball!  And, in winter when temperatures would dip into the low 30's, I would find myself dressing in a way that looked alarmingly like the Pillsbury dough boy.  At these times, I couldn't bring myself to throw the ball out into the ocean.  It was just too damn cold!  After a few minutes of this deprivation, however, Mojo would simply pick up the ball and take it into the ocean where, of course, he most wanted to be.

Mojo would become known as the goodwill ambassador of the beach.  He earned this title by routinely taking his ball and dropping it at the feet of whoever might be walking on the beach or sitting in a chair.  It didn't matter if they were oldsters or three year olds, Mojo loved sharing his passion with others.  If it were a three year old, he or she might throw the ball about 18 inches.  It didn't matter.  Mojo would get the ball and drop it back at their feet over and over and over again.  For the few who did not realize what their role was in all this, Mojo would bark once or twice.  I would explain to  these folks that if Mojo could speak english, he'd be saying, "throw me the damn ball!!"  Many folks would return year after year and remember Mojo delighted to see him again, especially their kids.

For me, though, Mojo's social skills enabled me to enjoy something I never would have anticipated.  Whenever Mojo would engage a beach walker and I would approach, it so often would lead to a conversation where I would learn so much from total strangers from all across the globe.  They would share stories with me that would often overlap my own life experience and result in a very enriching encounter that, but for Mojo, I would never have experienced.

And, then, there is the litany of Mojo's adventures.  Steven Spielberg would love this stuff!  There was the time that Mojo interjected himself into a marriage ceremony on the beach.  Right in the middle of the ceremony, Mojo walked in as the pastor was speaking and he dropped the ball at the bride's feet!  When she continued to stay focused on the business at hand, Mojo  barked a little, again, as a reminder to the young lady to throw him the ball.  One of the groomsmen finally threw the ball and, as I finally caught up to the scene, the bride gave me a furtive smile to let me know she was fine with what had transpired.  Not so much the maid of honor.

Then there was the time that a large shark appeared in the shallows.  Naturally, everyone got out of the water including the dogs.  But not Mojo.  Oh no, he saw this as an opportunity.  With all of us on the shore watching, Mojo leaped into the water and literally climbed on to the back of the shark!  True story!  I was in panic mode and, as they say, you never know how you're going to  react in a crisis, I started walking into the water thinking my chuckit was the ultimate anti-shark weapon.  Mojo, however, was already riding the shark, literally astride the dorsal fin.  You just know the shark was wanting to say, "you know who I am?"  Or, you  know what I could do to you??"  Finally, as the shark started drifting into deeper waters, Mojo hopped off, swam ashore and looked at me wanting me to toss the next ball.

And, of course, there was the time that a deer was chased on to the beach by another dog and in a panic headed to the ocean.  Mojo, forever fascinated by deer, took off after him and they just about disappeared over the horizon, they were that far out.  I was sure I had lost him forever.  About 45 minutes later, Mojo actually came ashore.  When I got him home, he laid on the floor and remained motionless for hours.  Because I feared for him, I took him to our vet who found his vitals to be good but concluded that Mojo was suffering from adrenalin depletion.  He just needed to rest.

Speaking of deer, there was another time we were returning from the beach when Mojo took off like a rocket.  I raced after him and soon found a crowd of people just off the main drag in our community.  I launched myself into the crowd only to discover that there was a deer laying on the ground legs in the air with Mojo on top of him!  Apparently, the deer's right rear leg had gotten caught in Mojo's collar and they were at a nerve raking stalemate.  They couldn't escape each other.  As the crowd looked on, I bent over and tried to unlock the deer's ankle from Mojo's collar.  The moment I succeeded, the deer hopped up and dashed into the woods. Mojo was under house arrest.

And, these are just a smattering of the many cinematic experiences Mojo would treat me to over the years.  As they say, you can't make this stuff up.

Over the past couple of years, Mojo's arthritis caught up to him, as is so often the case with larger dogs.  His medicine intake became such that he had more meds on the kitchen counter than Lily and I had next to our bathroom sinks.  About a year ago, he could no longer get up the steps by himself.  I would try anything out there from acupuncture to injections to laser therapy to keep him moving.  And, despite his slowing down, there was still nothing he enjoyed more than our morning trips to the beach where he would still chase a tennis ball, but at much slower speeds and with my throws no longer sending him out into the depths of the ocean.

In the past few weeks, my concern about Mojo's well being escalated from being cautiously optimistic to outright fear.  Not only could he not get up the steps anymore, but now he couldn't get down them unassisted.  On our daily walks his rear legs would go out from under him several times and I'd have to help him get up  again.  In the house he barely changed locations because it was too difficult for him to get up.  His once totally exuberant greetings for us when we would return home largely ceased.  His appetite deeply declined.  Incontinence became a new reality.  As his best friend and trusted caretaker, I struggled with the acutely increased awareness that my time with Mojo was about to be taken away from me.  The theoretical was now becoming so close to reality that it raised within me an anxiety level that hopefully we don't experience too often in our lives.

When is the "right time" to put an end to a friend's life?  When is his survival more about my needs than his?  These are incredibly difficult questions and I don't pretend to know the proper answer or that there is always the "right" answer.  But, I do remember this:  years ago, my brother-in-law, Jim, an avid owner and lover of a string of golden retrievers, raised the same issue with me although then in the context of his own struggling four legged companion.  He said, "you know, Jeff, when they can't do anymore what makes them happy, then the time is right."  I'll never forget those words.

The day arrived.  With Mojo now in diapers, I struggled to get him up off our bedroom floor still stuck in the muscle memory that it was time to go to the beach.  But, he barely could make it to the door.  He could no longer walk in a straight line, his disabling arthritis causing him to wobble and fall down.  He looked at me clearly communicating that he had no interest going anywhere.  I persisted, taking him out on to the deck.  But, here he stopped and strongly resisted taking another step.  As much of a passion it has always been to go to the beach his entire life, his staunch refusal spoke a thousand words.  I knew he would be unable to do the thing he most loved in his life and that was the sign to me that his time had come.  I laid down next to him on the living room floor and looked into those saddened eyes which I know were a mirror of my own.  I talked to Mojo with a softened voice and recounted some of our life adventures.  As I had often found myself saying, I wish dogs could speak english better because there was so much we could be saying to each other in these moments.

I found myself uncontrollably counting down the hours until I knew the moment would come when Dr. Steele, our vet, would arrive at our house.  With each passing half hour, as my anxiety grew, I tried to connect with Mojo in as many ways as I could, talking to him ceaselessly, petting him, offering him treats.    While Mojo was very calm, I know I can only hope I provided him with some comfort.

Dr. Steele arrived a little past 4 and Lily and I tried to stifle our tears, although not very successfully.  Dr. Steele could not have been more compassionate or supportive, and while he had been through this many times, for us this was a moment that rarely happens in our lives.  We knew this was the right decision.  After all, this is about releasing our beloved pets from their misery.  It is only secondarily about us.

Mojo, you have enriched our lives in ways I could never have anticipated.  We are comforted knowing that we helped enrich your life as well.  You will be in our thoughts forever.  When we receive your ashes, we will not keep them in an urn.  No, the only things we need in our home with respect to you, Mojo, lie in our hearts and our memories.  Instead, we will take your ashes to the ocean and spread them in the shallows where you enjoyed life to the fullest.

Farewell, my friend.  May you find the serenity you so richly deserve.

Joy Amidst the Junk

 We all collect junk, don't we?  Whether it's the remnants of a distant childhood or things handed down by parents that we would feel guilty parting with, the piles grow, the boxes collect more dust and after a while we virtually never pay a visit to these physical artifacts of our personal histories.  Sometimes we approach these objects with a clear mind and recognize that the vast majority of these collections are just "stuff" that not only are we not interested in but neither are our grown children who now busy collecting their own useless "stuff."

Having said this, it is still true that every now and then we run across something that makes us smile and permits us to relive some special moments from the distant past.  And, this happened to me recently when I discovered a story I had written about thirty years ago, a story I had written for a nephew of mine describing to him the introduction into our lives of our wonderful chocolate lab, Hoover.  Back then, the kids were quite young and Lily was still known as Betsy.  Oh yeah, this is a long time ago.  But, as I read the story and couldn't stop smiling I knew I wanted to share it again, this time hopefully with other dog owners who could very much relate to my tale.  I call it......

               The Life and Times of Hoover

As Snoopy might say, it was a dark and stormy night.  I had just returned from the relative balminess of Southern California, and shivered at being dumped in the freezing drizzle and sleet glazing the Virginia countryside.  I was in no mood for levity.  But, there we were - Aunt Betsy, Jesse, Alex and I - loaded into the new Mercury Villager about to procure one eight week old chocolate labrador puppy from the FantasyBottom Kennels in Catlett, Virginia - an hour from McLean deep in the rural muddiness of Virginia.  Everyone was gleeful in anticipation except the curmudgeon in the driver's seat (me) who wanted nothing more than hot soup, a hot shower, and an electric blanket turned on "high."

The little critter was waiting for us, held in the arms of the breeder, who needed only to give us our "survival package" of papers, instructions, etc., and a bag of dog food that likely would have crushed the little tyke had he the misfortune to be under it when it was loaded in the car.  While the family oohed and aahed every six seconds, I was paying more attention to whether the Villager was capable of staying afloat in the ever deepening Virginia mud and thereby seriously delay my much needed hot soup.

We escaped the muck and sped home, my eyes doggedly (may I use that term?) staring at the sleet on the road and half wondering if the puppy, who was running loose in the van I might add, might try to further endear himself to me by putting himself between my foot and the brake pedal.  Fortunately, he fell asleep on Jesse's lap.

We pulled into the driveway and everyone but me went giggling (and still oohing and aahing) into the house.  I was left to care for the Villager out there in the sleet (and here it was that while I thought they were so glad to see me I was taking a poor second to a furball).  When I joined the others, they were hovering around the puppy's bowl watching him inhale the food that had just been poured for him as if he might just utter something truly profound.  Watching his less than elegant dining style, Alex blurted out, "Let's call him Hoover."  Alas, there is some history here you should know.  For the past few years, my children have affectionately nicknamed me "Hoover" because of what they perceive to be my inclination to scarf down all visible food in seconds.  To them, this perceived trait is reminiscent of a vacuum cleaner, and thus the name "Hoover."  You can understand, then, my ambivalence about this name.  On the one hand, isn't it sweet that one's children should think of their father when naming a pet that is so dear to them.  On the other hand, to be reminded so continuously of such an unattractive behavioral trait (as perceived by the children, and not me, of course) was not exactly the kind of tribute I might have suggested.  Nevertheless, the name stuck as if it had been waiting all along for us dummies to discover how obvious it was.  And, so now we have a "Hoover" in the household.

Apart from the pee and poop watch, which in my old fashioned way I thought to be THE most important thing to be monitoring in these tender new moments, the more popular notion of what was the most pressing issue was how this waddling/loping cherub with the size eleven feet would feel  about the house's venerable, long-standing four legged denizen, Spoon, our Siamese cat.  While I had been warning Spoon for weeks about the upcoming invasion, he apparently had not taken me seriously.  He heard the voices of his beloved family in the kitchen and naturally came sauntering down the stairs with his usual self confidence and sang froid expecting to capture the limelight.  He took about four steps into the kitchen and then froze as if he had just been spotted by Godzilla.  His tail  immediately blossomed outward to heretofore unknown dimensions and he just stared in what I can only characterize as disbelief at the presence of this ravenous dark brown dog with the inelegant table manners.

Wasting no time, Spoon started his own peculiar brand of warbling and yowling that we have long known to be sure-fire signs of extreme agitation and anxiety.  The frantic back peddling was now underway, but not quickly enough.  Hoover had by now emptied his bowl and looked up for the first time, saw Spoon, and (I presume) judged him to be a playmate.  With a lurch and a waddle and some skids on the smooth kitchen floor, he bounded off to seek the now quickly retreating Spoon and, amazingly enough, caught him near the bottom of the steps going upstairs.  I think, frankly, Spoon was in shock because had he any grip on reality Hoover could certainly never have overtaken him.  But, overtake him he did.  Not having been fully weaned on matters of social etiquette, Hoover introduced himself to Spoon by nibbling not so gingerly on the distressed feline's left ear.  Spoon, as you might imagine, did not take kindly to this show of affection since in the fourteen years he lived with fellow Siamese Cosmo he always resisted her attempts to do  the same thing and she, after all, was at least of the same species.  Spoon quickly regained his senses, and rocketed out of reach heading up the stairs wailing like a banshee in what must have been as close to a nervous breakdown as Siamese are apt to get.  His wails did not subside for some time notwithstanding our noble efforts to convince him that the sky, in fact, was not falling and that he would live to see another day.

I am reasonably certain that Pavlov would smile knowingly if he were able to observe my behavior now that Hoover has been with us for several days.  Whereas once I would walk from one place to another with my head up, I now dare not move without my gaze fixed upon the floor around my feet.  It is rapidly becoming a reflex, so much so that I find myself doing it occasionally at work.  There are two reasons for this.  First, Hoover has established the astonishing ability to follow me more closely than my shadow.  He might as well be attached to me by velcro.  When I move, he moves.  When I stop, he stops.  Normally, if I am in a stopped position, his head is either lying on my foot or he is consumed by the urgent need to ingest my shoelaces before I move on.  This is not wholly relaxing to me.  Second, this dog is clearly relishing the challenge to have me step into the pee and poop that he so fondly dispenses without warning.  I swear he's keeping score.  (He probably thinks that if he can get me to step in "it" enough times he will be awarded the prize of having Spoon locked up with him in his crate some night.)  So, now you can understand my now rather hesitant walking style.

As if to ensure that my bonding process with Hoover went unimpeded, Aunt Betsy turned around after the weekend and left on business for Seattle.  That has left me to deal mano a mano with this incorrigible animal who more and more reminds me in style and appearance of a young brown bear.  For something his size, he's so dense, so heavy!  He makes Spoon appear as if he is made of papier mache.  Jesse has really been magnificent so far in assuming responsibility for periodic daily walks, and some poop removal, although unfortunately Hoover has bent over backwards to be fair in pooping with equal aplomb both inside and outside the house.  Also, unfortunately, the boys are absolutely intimidated --yes, intimidated -- by Hoover's razor sharp teeth which, I am quite confident, are at least as effective a dicing and shredding device as our cuisinart.  When Hoover is hell bent on playing, which seems to be all of his waking moments, he signals his desires by sinking his teeth into whatever parts of the anatomy are within range.  Normally, this would be the toes, but wrists, fingers and groins are equally acceptable.  As a result, when Hoover is on a rampage of dashing, leaping and bouncing wildly off unsuspecting furniture, Jesse and Alex take off for the proverbial hills by leaping to safety  on the tops of couches or chairs like the traditional cartoon ladies "eeking" at the presence of a mouse.  This is not particularly manly behavior, and I do believe it might give Hoover the mistaken idea of who's in charge.  I need to toughen these guys up.  They will probably get better at this as long as I outfit them with suits of armor and shark repellant.

I'm getting some measure of revenge this weekend when we are expected to get about a foot of snow.  I can't wait to say, "Hooover, let's go out."  Whereupon he will unsuspectingly leap out the door and probably sink into a sea of cold white stuff.  The problem is that he will probably poop in there somewhere leaving it to us to step  in it when we least expect it.

Time marches on and we now find ourselves living with a 4 month old animal that is half the size of Danny DeVito.  There is a certain sense of urgency to both tame the beast before he calls the shots, and to housebreak him before the not so little reminders of his lack of discipline simply overpower all but the smelling impaired.  I think we knew we were in trouble when the vet betrayed us, albeit unwittingly.  First, he advised us a few weeks ago that Hoover was going to  be a very large dog, no doubt on the basis that Hoover's feet looked like they might fit quite nicely into Andre the Giant's hiking boots.  This news, to my mind, was not exactly like hearing that we had won the lottery.  As if this wasn't bad enough, Aunt Betsy was advised on her last visit to the vet that he had just given his chocolate lab away!!  He said that chocolate labs were too hard to handle!!  Can you imagine?  This from a veterinarian!?  Well, where exactly does that leave us Dr. Murnan, now that you've given up?  Maybe we should rename Hoover "Chernobyl" in anticipation of future disasters.

I'll just list for you some of our recent "adventures."

1.  We used to have some lovely daffodils in the front yard that symbolically trumpeted the arrival of Spring.  It took Hoover about 37 seconds from the first moment he discovered them to deftly separate the flowers from their stems.  The bright yellow of the daffodils protruding from his mouth against the dark brown of his fur made for quite a stunning color statement.  Actually, his eating style is rather reminiscent of the way that Jesse eats broccoli where he reluctantly eats the very tops of the vegetable and leaves the rest absolutely untouched.  

A few days ago, I did my annual "move the plants from the living room to the deck" thing without thinking that this would be the first year the plants might actually be in mortal danger other than my forgetting to water them.  In light of our daffodil experience, I might have anticipated events a little better.  No sooner had I dragged the plants out to the deck when Hoover, giddy at seeing his new prey, launched his opening salvo at the potted palm.  He did rather well, neatly severing what had moments earlier been one of the palm's more promising shoots.  When I screamed my displeasure, Hoover froze.  His innocent eyes were betrayed, however, by a mass of green sticking out of the side of his mouth.  Now sensing his own mortality, I suppose, he raced for cover first around the deck and then the kitchen.  Apparently finding none, he literally dove into his crate thinking (if, in fact, that's actually what he does) he was safe.  The epilogue to this adventure is that we have sprinkled generous amounts of tabasco sauce on the leaves of the plants.  This gives the plants either a somewhat bizarre Christmasy look, or the look of a dread tropical disease -- I'm not sure which.  Now, should Hoover have the urge to play tree surgeon he pays a price which, I must confess, gives me a perverse delight.  Should he chomp down on one of the bespeckled leaves, he screws up his face just like a young child that has taken his first bite of lemon.  Knowing his adaptability, however, he'll  probably be seeking out the bloody mary mix any day now.

2.  Several weeks ago, I was sitting in the kitchen engrossed in something, when I happened to look over at Hoover to see him noshing on the cork of an unopened bottle of champagne.  He had managed to slide the bottle off the wine rack with that famous hunting dog soft mouth, and was now beyond the silver foil covering well into the cork when I spotted the little devil.  When I screamed at him, fully expecting a foamy eruption at any moment, he must have been completely confused since he surely figured this to be just another chew toy which otherwise we are always foisting on him.  Looking back on the episode, I should really have let him bring his efforts to fruition with the hope that he might learn a lesson.  Can you imagine his surprise if the cork blew and he was showered by Korbel's finest?  By the way, our wine rack is now not only empty (with the former contents relegated to the pantry), but is actually turned around and facing the wall so that Hoover might cease in doing his termite imitation on the much gnawed upon wood shelves.

3.  Hoover has taken to deftly, even surgically you might say, lifting plates out of the dishwasher and using them to re-enact his version of the 1981 Stanley Cup playoffs.  Using his front paw and nose, he pushes the plate somewhat chaotically around the kitchen floor much like a hockey puck making full use of caroms off baseboards and ankles.  Actually, he just seems to like licking water droplets off the plates and, at the moment, this technique seems to work for him.  He has a penchant as well to lift freshly washed spoons or forks out of the dishwasher, but doesn't get too far with these playthings before he's tackled.  If he keeps this up I will personally sentence him to watching Garfield reruns.

4.  Obedience school.  He's begun, and even though many people believe a 4 month old lab is too young for this sort of thing, we have categorically rejected this theory since our sanity, after all, depends on it.  When Aunt Betsy first told me about this school, I fondly imagined a place where the person in charge would be like Arnold Schwartznegger, only stronger.  He would whip these four-legged crazies into shape in no time and we have a model, if somewhat traumatized, dog in our midst.  Well, that's not exactly what's happening.  For example, the lady in charge has suggested that the way to get Hoover to stop biting is to say "ouch" very loudly when he chomps down on our fingers, toes, or other extremities.  This struck me as somewhat foolish since we had been doing this for weeks -- not as a training device, mind you, but as a reaction to intense physical pain -- without a great deal of success.  School is at the same place where Hoover goes to doggy daycare.  What, you've never heard of this?  This is the ultimate in yuppiness humiliation.  Taking your dog someplace where they have playtime, nap time just like the real kids do.  Hoover has found happiness in frolicking with another chocolate lab ("Hershey"), and, I must say, generally comes home relatively exhausted.  This is a good thing.  It is gradually lessening Hoover's resemblance to a car whose gas pedal is nailed to the floor.

5.  While Hoover's overall demeanor is definitely becoming more mellow, his attempts to learn that the house ought not be his personal bathroom is coming along as rapidly as the next ice age.  The same people who recommended saying "ouch" when we are bitten, also suggested that we get rid of the paper on our kitchen floor and replace it with a pool of bark chips.  At first, I thought this might be a stroke of genius.  Apart from the fact that this is what they use at doggy daycare (thus, continuity might be possible here), I confess I was tiring of the paper routine.  We were getting to the point that if Hoover even got close to the paper, we would lavish praise on him.  Actually hitting the paper would be met with an avalanche of dog treats.  Hitting the paper twice in a row, a feat not yet witnessed by anyone I know, would likely get him a night out with Spoon.  Bark chips, we were told, would more closely approximate the soil and encourage the transition to the great outdoors whenever nature called.  Sounds good, right?  What they failed to tell us was that by dumping a considerable amount of mulch in our kitchen (in a cutesy little plastic pool we got at Toys R Us), our kitchen would have the same malodorous stench of a fetid barnyard.  No amount of room deodorizer can match or mask this smell.  So now, when we get past the mulch in the front yard, we can come into the house and think we never left the front yard.  They smell about the same.

Hoover's reaction to this is not quite what we hoped or anticipated.  As far as he was concerned, this pool was a veritable bonanza of munchies.  Much of the mulch was the size of dog biscuits and to Hoover, who has about the same refined sense of taste as the appliance for which he is named, this was like a gift from the doggy god.  He can now be found grazing to his heart's content on this endless mound of wood fiber.  This would not be so bad if he confined his efforts to the pool.  As it happens, he seems more content to plop down at assorted locations around the kitchen bringing with him a half hour supply of fibrous treats.

6.  Lastly, you know how people like to register their dogs with the AKC with the most exotic names:  Chauncey's Cherubic Joy of Glenacre Farms, Jocyln's Juggernaut of Murryhill  Estates, Sir Boynton's Elegant Surprise, etc., etc.  Aunt Betsy decided it was time to do the same for our dog, and so she filled out the requisite application.  When it came time to the 400 spaces in which owners are to put in their pet's formal name, Aunt Betsy, without too much hesitation, calmly wrote "The Hoover."  Hero of the working masses, I say.