Hund Dag Eftermiddag

For the past few weeks, the weather here in Sweden has been nearly perfect. Blue skies with some occasional small puffy clouds. A nice breeze (or occasional strong wind) to cool you down. Temperatures have hovered around 27C (that's 80F for you Yanks). That's quite toasty by Swedish standards. And awe-inspiring sunsets. Det är sommar!

So, last weekend was a "home" weekend. As such, we decided to treat the dogs to a day at the beach. Like most places in the States, dogs are not allowed on beaches during this time of the year. But, there are a few places to be found. We headed about an hour South of Göteborg. Past the town of Varberg. To Holmen. The beach is situated right next to a nature preserve and a small boat harbor.

The water was extremely shallow. Which I found out once I thought I had lost the dog's water toy. The wind was pushing it further away. The toy was now quite far away and I assumed it was in deep water. I was in calf deep water wearing shorts with my wallet in my pocket. I looked to TJ for help. He had on board shorts. And likes to swim more than I do. So, off he went. It turned out to be shallow quite a ways out. He never had to swim at any point. Zoey, who followed him out, did. Good girl.

Zoey and Lily enjoyed themselves. Though, Lily had to retire a bit early since she's not the water dog she used to be. Here's a little video snippet of all the fun:

Caught!

Zoey riding the elevator again. Unsupervised.

The Trials and Tribulations of a Spastic Hund

Yes, hund is Swedish for dog. And, isn't this a picture of one sad little hund? But, looks are deceiving. The bandage is more for protection than a determinant of actual injury.

So, how did this come to be. It starts, as usual, with new and unusal behavior from Zoey. In this case, she started acting strange in our favorite backyard restroom area behind the Otter House. Last week, she began to tiptoe (best description I can come up with) at the edge of the grass. She didn't seem to want to walk into the yard, let alone do her business. Occassionally, some unknown force was nipping at her feet and head. Then, she would sit down and stare out away from the yard. Curious. We had to move onto to other pastures, equally as green, but farther away.

So, some of this may be my fault. I failed to notice the small bugs on her. They were, in fact, mosquitoes. And, it appears, they were biting her. Somehow, I thought given the colder temperatures that the bugs would have gone to their permanent slumber. Apparently not. Zoey began licking her paw. Swollen and a little red. A bite.

Now, dogs seem to think their saliva has curative powers. They apply it everywhere. To everything. One side effect of continuous licking is hair loss. Another is irritation. Zoey had both. Thus, the bandage. Which lasted all of 15 hours. She is a clever girl. Still, there was a little time for the affected area to heal.

No need to send cards or flowers. The patient is doing well.

Scene: Photo Vignettes II

Leo Pacifier

Højbro Bron, Copenhagen, Denmark
September 6, 2008 4:14pm

Zoey Pacifier
Norra Allégatan, Göteborg, Sweden
September 5, 2008 1:48pm

Jet Lag and Culture Shock

They made it! Zoey and Lily arrived on Wednesday. Lily seemed to have come through the ordeal a little tired, but none the worse for wear. Zoey was a little shaken, but very glad to see us. We stopped just outside the airport and let them have a run around a large grassy field. Probably for the first time in 3 months. The photo on the left shows Lily after her spirited run. Alert. Seemingly content. Zoey is in the photo on the right. She just wanted to chase her Kong toy. Again and again. Just like old times. Tongue hanging out. I probably should have held back on the last few throws. But, she kept coming back and looking at me with those eyes that said "ett till" (once more).

As I write this on Day 4 of their arrival, it seems like much longer. In a good way. But, I do wonder what they make of all this. Neither had flown before. Neither has lived in the downtown part of a city with its hustle and bustle and strange sounds. Neither has lived in a building with an elevator; so many doors to pass through before they get home. How much did and will this move affect them?

Lily has come through the process relatively unscathed. The spiral stairs in the apartment presented a bit of an obstacle. Lily was extremely tentative especially on the very top and very bottom steps. TJ bought some rubber floor mats, cut them up and placed them on the stairs. Traction! Now, she motors up and down with relative ease; she is nearly 13 years old, after all. On the deck, there is a portion of the railing that is not covered with screening material. Initially, Lily did not want to venture close to that section. Perhaps her eyesight doesn't perceive the rails that well and all she sees is the vast openness beyond. Who's to say. We're still working on that one.

Zoey. The rescue puppy. Now, nearly 3 years old, she has just been through a series of stressful situations. And it shows. Loud noises now seem to scare Zoey. A lot. And trash cans. And statues. And, apparently, the horses painted on the inside of the parking garage. The elevator causes anxiety. She has growled at friends. Her response at times of greatest distress is to cower away with her tail between her legs and try to escape.

But, then, she can become the Zoey we left in Irvine. TJ and I both realize that the recovery process may take some time. All we can do is reassure her. And love her. I have confidence that she'll get the hang of things here. That things will become familiar. That routines will develop. It's only been 4 days. And if I can do it, so can she.

Special Delivery

In transit. Two doogles. Precious cargo with special handling requirements. En route to Amsterdam with a Tuesday arrival. A layover with a stay at a first class hotel. Perhaps a promenade around the red light district. A swim in the canals. Chasing bicycles on cobbled streets. Or tempted by space cakes. Possibly. This is what happens when dogs are given passports. They head on to Goteborg on Wednesday. We will be anxiously awaiting them at the airport. A big smile on our face and treats in our hand. In the meantime, the flight attendants will have their hands full. No running on the airplane!

Pet Ode Revisited

Famous dogs have been dying of late. First Oprah's, now Martha's. No mocking here (I'll leave that to others). Commiseration is my only response. But, it did make me think of the poem my Mom gave me many years ago. Well before Cubby died. It was an ode to a dying dog. I always had trouble reading it without tearing up. [Yeah, I'm a sensitive guy. But most of you know this. Deal with it.]

Anyway, Mom gave me a clipping of the poem which didn't have the author. Posted it on my personal website with "Unknown" in place of the author's name. I've passed along that poem several times. But, I never investigated further. Until Martha's dog died.

It's amazing what can be found on Google. I typed in the first line of the poem. And, poof! There it was. Author's name and all. Beth Norman Harris. The poem is quoted with several titles and there are several variations in the concluding verses. The one I originally received is the version I like best. With my bastardized title. Thanks Beth. And you too, Martha. This is as close to closure as I'm going to get.

A Dog's Plea (An Ode to Faithful Companions)
by Beth Norman Harris

Treat me kindly, my beloved friend, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.

Do not break my spirit with a stick, for although I should lick your hand between blows, your patience and understanding will quickly teach me the things you would have me learn.

Speak to me often, for your voice is the world's sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footsteps falls upon my waiting ear.

Please take me inside when it is cold and wet, for I am a domesticated animal, no longer accustomed to bitter elements. I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth. Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst.

Feed me clean food that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life, should your life be in danger.

And, my friend, when I am very old, and I no longer enjoy good health, hearing and sight, do not make heroic efforts to keep me going. I am not having any fun. Please see that my trusting life is taken gently. I shall leave this earth knowing with the last breath I draw that my fate was always safest in your hands.

Unconditional Puppy Love

I wasn't sure whether I really wanted to post about this. Which is precisely why I probably should.

The other day I was unpacking and organizing thousands of photos, enlargements, negatives, and slides. I knew it was coming. And, I put it off as my last unpacking chore. My collective body of work (both personal and professional) had been winnowed down a few moves before, but I always like to revisit and re-evaluate it from a fresh perspective. And because I had to put organize my office so it actually resembled an office.

Some of the negatives and photos had been placed into labeled folders. As I was moving and shifting things around, the contents of one of the folders spilled out. I went to put it all back and realized it contained photos of my dog Cubby who passed away in 2000. I hadn't looked at the photos in a while. I came to this one. And the tears began to fall. Over seven years gone and I still miss her. Over the years, I've shared my thoughts with a few friends about how important Cubby was to me. So, maybe it's time to put more of the story out there. To fill in the gaps. To make the next time less painful.

It's always best when you are chosen. And I was by Cubby. It was 1986. I had just graduated college and moved back home with my parents. My Dad went with me to the breeder's house to view the last three pups (all females) in a litter of eight. Field dogs. Intelligent. Cute. The owners tried to steer me to one of the bigger, more classical looking pups. But, when I squatted down to get a closer look at them, one jumped up in my lap and stared up at me. The runt. Cubby. She had chosen me. My decision had been made for me.

Through the years, Cubby and I shared the highs (like scaling 14,000 ft peaks) and the lows. The lows were quite low. Knowing I was different. Not knowing how to be strong enough to lead the life I wanted. I geographically separated myself from family and dropped out of communication with friends. All because I feared rejection. And through it all, Cubby was there. Her love was unconditional. Her eyes offered no judgment.

And then I decided that it was time to lead my life. It was 1999, and I was living in California. Trying to figure out where to live. What to do. Cubby was 13 and slowing down. She needed more attention. She needed a yard. I felt she needed more than what I could offer at that point in my life. And the guilt I'll carry is knowing that all she needed me. And I couldn't be there for her. In stepped my parents. They offered to take Cubby. For what I knew would be her final few years. So, I drove Cubby back to Maine. Back to where she started her life with me. Back to what I hoped was familiar and comforting. Back to the welcoming arms of my parents.

A little over a year later, I was at work in Santa Monica. My Mom called. Cubby had collapsed. She was weak. At the vet, the decision was made to bring her home and see if she made it through the night and, possibly, improved. In the morning, her condition was the same. And I had to make the decision. From afar. The vet offered to come to my parent's house. As they administered the drugs to put her to sleep, I told my Mom to do something. When Cubby was a puppy and couldn't (or wouldn't) sleep, I would curl up next to her, stroke head head, and whisper in her ear "It's okay, little girl. Go to sleep." over and over. That is what I told my Mom to do.

I can never thank my parents enough for being so generous as to accept Cubby into their home. Knowing they would be left to deal directly with her death. It was hard on them both.

Getting your dog's ashes in the mail is a strange experience. Who knew opening a Fed-Ex package would evoke such strong emotions? Cubby's remains have been scattered over some of our favorite places: Mt. Sanitas in Boulder, Colorado; Ferry Beach in Scarborough Maine; Dog Beach in Ocean Beach, California. And one place she never saw in person. Her ashes are part of the Big Island of Hawaii; one of my favorite places She was incorporated into the landscape when a lobe of lava enveloped her ashes and puppy collar. It makes me smile knowing that she is out there in the world.

Over the years, many of my friends got to know Cubby and brought her into their lives. Special thanks to Daryl and Bob - your love and care for Cubby will never be forgotten.

Cubby was important to me. She was an integral part of my life. She was part of my identity. For 13 years, we were nearly inseparable. And now, sometimes, that separation hurts.

Cubby lives on in my memory. And, occasionally, in my dreams. Always in photos. I've had a photo collection of her on the web for years.

Hundar

Upon opening an email the other night, we were pleasantly surprised to see a photo of these two not-so-sad doogles. Our friend, Brian, was kind enough to send this to me.

We would like to thank Brian, Wayne and Maria for each taking time to visit Zoey and Lily while they wait out their days in puppy gulag.

We're still not quite sure what or who the girls were looking at when the photo was taken, but they look good. And that's what really counts. They are in LA, after all.

So, an update. Although the girls had their blood drawn on the 26th, we've been informed that the results of the rabies test will not be back before at least the 15th of April. Thus, they won't arrive until at least the 20th.

That sad and depressing bit of news just makes me wonder where they are sending these blood samples that they take so long to process. I mean shouldn't they have some sort of home pregnancy test for rabies: reliable, accurate and FAST. One would think. But, I must not think evil thoughts about the inefficiency of the dog relocation company. That is, until the dogs are safely in Sweden.

And, yes, hundar is the Swedish words for dogs. I am slowly learning Swedish. Truth be told, a month ago, I started an intensive course in Swedish, but stopped going a little more than half-way through. Both the instruction and textbook were in Swedish. Yes, the teachers would answer questions as well as speak in English. Still, it was tough going for me. Admitting defeat is never easy - kind of like being a beauty school dropout. Eh, Frenchy.

Well, I dusted off my pride (which was gathering dust in the closet) and started a new class with TJ. Once a week. One instructor. Slower pace, our pace. Better results. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? I'm sure Lily and I can trade stories once she gets here.