Our little Francy Pants

This is quite possibly very old news but...WE GOT A PUPPY!!!

The last three years have been hard in the dog and cat part of our lives.  To be specific we have lost eight in the the last three years.  Ugg.  All of our dogs are OLD.  We've actually been so lucky that all of our animals have lived to what many would consider and oldish age and most to very ripe old age...but as grateful as I am for that, it didn't make the losses, no matter how old, any easier.
Note to my early 20's self - even though you think keeping one or two pitiful foster dogs every year across a six year period SEEMS like their ages are staggered, they are, as a matter of fact, NOT!  They will all be old At. The. Same. Time.

We needed some young blood in the house.  And no matter how much my dogs disagree, we did!, we needed a puppy.  Like no one has ever needed a puppy.

We started quietly, subtly mentioning it here and there.  Each of us saying it in jest to see how the other responded.  It sorta seemed like we were on the same page.  And without saying it out loud I knew we both understood that when the time was right the right dog would present itself.

Enter the one pound six ounce scabby, patchy haired wonder to be named Francis.

So one day while mindlessly perusing the face books I see this midget of a dog.  His hair, the little he had, was spitting out in a million directions, he had these tiny nubbins for legs, and it took me about three and a half seconds to text Tom and say "can I have it?"

My precious friend Carey... well this is all her fault!  She works at this wonderful grass roots shelter/rescue called Grand Companions in West Texas and Francis-to-be had gotten him self thrown into the clink after having been found hiding under a bush right before the last snow.  Well Carey, being the same kinda animal sucker that I am, fell prey to Francis-to-be's charms and was keeping him in her office (did I leave out that she works at Grand Companions?).  So, long story short, she-posted-him-on-Facebook-I-fell-in-love-Tom-said-YES-and-SaintCarey-drove-Francis-to-be-to-me-that-night!  Six and a half hour drive! That night!  Did you catch the Saint Carey part?

 

So, that is how Francis came to be ours.  Our dogs couldn't be unhappier about it.  But they are all between 10 and 15 years old.  Shockingly they don't enjoy a puppy chewing on their ears or biting them in the back of the thigh while hot on their heels.  The Business Man in particular ... I heard a rumor that he's starting a My Idiot Brother Club (I've been told that if you share his dispassion for Francis you are welcome to join the club!) where he and any of the other dogs can discuss their grievances and plan how to oust Francis from the family.

Luckily Francis is blissfully unaware of their loathing and thinks their running from him is a fantastic game!  Francis does however, have a favorite.  I'm pretty sure he thinks Vincent is the cat's pajamas!  And really who wouldn't?!?  When you've got a jungle gym (climbing up one side of Vincent's back and sliding down the other), a chew toy (furry, moving, no batteries required, tail), a raw hide (Vincent's ear), and a back and head scratcher (the underside of Vincent's chin/jaw) wouldn't you be in hog heaven?!?!!!

It's been fun having a baby bugger around the house again.  Of course he is into all kinds of mischeif, but he's small, so it's small mischeif.  He's still in the play hard/crash hard phase.  He can be playing at full tilt and then I can pick him up and he will nap in my lap while I work!  Hammering, sawing, it doesn't matter - he's OUT!

Well, that's him in a nutshell!  The only thing left to tell is how he got his name...I think I'll save that for another post!  

the scariest place on earth

There is no possible way for me to explain, convey, share, describe, depict, illustrate, portray, or in any way make you understand the sheer magnitude of...of...of...well......this place!

Let me back up a bit.  Before our last trip to New York one of my dear friends and fellow jewelers did a little recon to try to discover some possible hidden spots where we might find some great supplies - vintage cabochons, faceted stones, quirky cameos, stuff like that.  Well, did she find it and how!

You might think this is the store room.  It's not.  

This place!  There aren't enough words.  It started when the elevator doors opened and stuff literally spilled into the elevator.  I'm not kidding.  There was no lobby, no entry, no vestibule.  The everything of it all literally began in the elevator.

Backing up even a more.  In New York City space is one of the most valuable commodities.  Most every place is small.  The apartments are small, the restaurants are small, the bodegas are small, the shops are small...with the exception of some chain stores and restaurants, places are small.  Rent is high and space is coveted.  So when I was told that this place my friend had unearthed was 3,500sq feet I thought she had mistakenly added an extra zero.  

But she hadn't.  

It was 3,500sq. ft. and I'm guessing that that did not include the elevator.

Backing up even a bit more.  I don't do terribly well with overly packed spaces.  This might surprise any of you that have ever been to my house because I am a bit of a collector (just hair this side of hoarder!) of things and my house is not, what's the word, um...minimalist.  But when it comes to shopping I'm not very good at digging.  I don't do well in shops like TJ Max or Marshall's where it's just rows and rows of clothes that you have to methodically slide hangers one by one if you want to find anything.  Ugg, just describing it is raising my blood pressure.  So when the elevator doors opened and I saw...well, what I saw, I got weak kneed.  I got a little sweaty, my heart started to race.  I'm not kidding.  This place was no joke!

Let me try to set the scene:  3,500sq ft, boxes stacked 20 high and five to ten deep.  There were five rooms I think, it's a blur.  There were paths and hallways.  The hallways were stacked on either side with boxes and both the halls and paths were littered with the very supplies filling the boxes so everywhere you walked you were crunching over chain and stone.  At first I tried tiptoeing but it was futile so I gave up. 

              

This was literally what the pathway, if you could call it that, looked like through the entire place!

One room was the chain room.  I'm terrible with dimensions so I can't tell you the size, but it was a pretty big room.  It was wall to wall boxes, like all the other rooms, but in this room there was a clearing in the middle.  But let me be clear about the clearing!  It was somewhat clear of boxes but it was by no means clear-clear.  It was a ginourmous heap of chain.  On the floor.  Chain.  Tons upon tons upon tons of chain.  Imagine with me for a moment, close your eyes and think back on any time when you've gotten a tangle or a knot in one of your necklaces.  It's tiny and you are squinting at it and taking a stick pin to it to try to work out the knot and it is frustrating to no end.  Ok, now imagine that times five hundred and seventy three billion.  There.  You now have the floor of the chain room there at the-jewelry-supply-shop-created- to-drive-me-to-insanity.

That smile, the one there on my face, that is a manic smile, utter delirium had fully set in.

I think I can best describe my mental state by sharing a photo and caption that my dear, sweet, amazing husband, who endured this experience with me for three hours, posted on his Instagram:

"Melt down in 3, 2, 1..."

I think I was saying "uh, uh, umm, uh, uh..." or something akin to that.

Prior to the trip I was describing what I had heard about this place (no description prepared me) to another jeweler friend and she was telling my how I should systematically attack the place. It was a good plan.  It was a plan I was prepared to employ...until those elevator doors slid open and I began rocking back and forth in a ball in the corner.

Believe it or not I've barely scraped the surface of what this experience was...I haven't told you about the speed tour/instruction (which I actually thoroughly enjoyed!) given by the very tall drag queen who said, in a nut shell "don't bother me!"  Or about how once I had my pile of treasures I was told that I "obviously hadn't looked at all because you have missed everything you said you have come for!"

This is what the insides of LOTS of the boxes looked like.  Bags inside bags inside bags.  Overwhelming doesn't come close.  It's what overwhelming would look like on steroids for 10 years.

And did I mention that The Business Man was with us on this little adventure?  

I'm considering using this as the cover shot for his new book: Where's The Business Man?

In those crazy three hours I did find some absolute gems and I cannot wait to begin sharing what I've transformed my finds into...

like these earrings:

I found these wonderful neon orange cabs at the heart of insanity.

In fact I found so many wonderful things that I've been inspired to do another fun goodie box giveaway!  It's been nearly two years since the last one and it was so much fun!  I had every intention of doing them more frequently but time flies when you've been sucked into the heart of insanity!  So, I will be creating a piece using one or more of the items I unearthed, I will post photos, I will announce the terms of the giveaway, and we will get to giving!  Look for more info coming in early May.  If you missed my last goodie box giveaway you should check it out here.  It was fun!  I'm pretty much an expert at goodie box assemblage!  Stay tuned...

kicked to the curb, vol. 2

This was the second time I landed in NYC in the weeks following Christmas.  No matter where you go in the city, uptown, downtown, east, west, Brooklyn, Manhattan, on every street there are the carcass's of people's Christmas trees.  I am utterly fascinated by it.  This is the second time I've tried to do a little photo tribute to these discarded trees whose job has come and gone.  I don't think it will ever stop being interesting to me.  It probably speaks to the bigger picture of why I am so mesmerized by this city.  It is just such a different way of life, from the transportation to the grocery shopping, from walking your dog to the home you live in,  from the food to the way you trash your Christmas tree. Living in New York City is subways and bodegas, it's dog parks and apartments, it's every food at any hour of the day.  And in January it is piles upon piles of green trees on every block, in front of restaurants, brownstones, and the most couture shops in the city.

And I love it.  

It makes me sad and happy.  

I love imagining every one of those trees lit, tinseled, and ornamented in the tiniest apartment in the city and in the fanciest store on Park Avenue.               

Some of these trees balsam beauties still smell so strong of pine...it makes me wonder why it's people didn't decide to leave it up for just a day or two longer.  I always have such a hard time taking down my tree..Every single year I somehow manage to get emotionally attached to our tree.  It's like the couch my grandmother sold when I was five years old.  I bawled as I watched the men carry it out of the house.  I only regained my composure when my Nana brought be all the change that had been discovered in the cushions.  Or the time I sold my car and then regretted it and went as laid across the hood, crying...in the dealership lot.  I have a history of attachment to inanimate objects.  

                

              

                 

Seeing these trees is something I oddly look forward to when I'm in the city in January.  

Even though it's a sad kind of beauty, 

it's still beauty.

   

a dingo and a pig...

On Tuesday November 25th, two days before Thanksgiving, I had to say goodbye to two of my babies.  I think I'm still in shock.  Even now.  Even nearly two months in.  I don't think it's fully hit me.  Everything was so chaotic around the holidays, Thanksgiving, setting up shows, doing shows, Christmas, travel...I was blissfully distracted.  But now I'm not and I feel like if I fully understood it that I wouldn't be vertical right now.

It's been coming.  Seven turned 17 in October, Pasqual would have been 16 in January.  These two stayed with me, with us, probably as long as they could.  Ultimately we made the decision for them, which was the hardest, hardest part.  And I say "probably" because I have that little voice in my head that says "did I do it too soon? Was it wrong?"  I will always have that.  I can't help but constantly wonder if they would still be with me now if we hadn't decided and I get mad at myself because I think "I could be hugging you right now."  But then I think I did right, that they were struggling.  And so it goes, back and forth...

I feel gutted.

I really just cannot fully understand that it came to this...

Saying goodbye to Seven was one of the hardest things I've ever done.  Except for accepting that she is gone.  That is harder.
She's been with me for almost my entire adult life.  I was only 26 when we adopted her.  We weren't married, we had a little rental house with two cats, and I was working at Pottery Barn. 

 So much changed and she was there for all of it.  She saw hundreds (literally) of foster dogs come and go.  She begrudgingly accepted the addition of three cats and 13 dogs along the way.  She was with us for the loss of Daisy and Suki,  the only ones who came before her, and for the loss of Preacher, Delta, Clarence, Clishy, and Berklie who all came after her.  I honestly feel like I do not know how to live my life without her.  She was a constant.  A strong, almost stoic, constant.  She was tough, stubborn as all hell, not even a little bit apologetic, demanded everything on her terms...and even though it completely contradicted her entire personality, she was chock full of kisses.  Tom getting home from work was the highlight of her day.  Her ears would go back and her tail would wag and she would kiss his face with a vigor no one could rival.  The evening before she had to go Tom walked through that door and even in her wheels she couldn't contain her excitement.  I can't imagine how hard it was for him to come home from work that first day after she was gone...

I can't explain it, but the world doesn't feel right without her here...I don't know how to explain it except that if feels like someone cut off my right arm, like a part of me is missing.  In the small parts of the day where I lose track of what's happened I still have this strange feeling that part of me is missing.  And then I remember...

In October of 2000 Tom and I were in the market for a new foster dog.  We trotted down to the local rural shelter and met a few dogs.  I wanted  to take a two year old Heartworms positive boxer.  Tom wanted to take a one year old pit bull named Conan.  Tom won.

But in the long run Tom was far from the only winner... Conan quickly became Pasqual and as quickly as he changed names he won over the hearts of everyone he met.  He was the first pit bull to Grace our little rescue group and he broke stereotypes right and left.  Soon nearly every foster family in Blue Dog was not only fostering pit bulls, most of them ended up adopting one of their own.  When we had dogs who needed to be tested to see if they got along with other dogs, they came to meet Pasqual.  He was perfect.  Even keeled and calm.  He wasn't submissive and he wasn't dominant.  All of our little dogs bossed him around, even the cats could tell that big ole lug what to do.  Poor boy had scars on his face that probably led a few folks to think he'd been fought, but in fact the scars were from Clarence blighting his face as he ran out the door.  He could've eaten Clarence whole but instead he would just cry and look at us begging for help.

If I could've I would have introduced Pasqual to every pit bull naysayer in the world!  He was handsome and friendly, a love bug like you wouldn't believe, and he never met a stranger.

In the last year my handsome man developed dementia.  He started to get confused, would get stuck under the table...as it got worse he could get stuck just in the corner of a room.  The other dogs made him nervous so we had to give him Xanax just to keep him from being upset.  It was easy to put off worrying about him because he wasn't "sick".  It took my little brother sitting me down and saying "Laura, it's time.  This isn't fair to him."  

I sat with him on his dog bed in his favorite spot in the living room, his head in my lap.  I felt him get really heavy when the injection went in...it was so fast, but very peaceful.  It felt surreal.  His personality was bigger than life.  To have it leave so quietly, it was so different than how he lived...such a bull in a china shop.  He barreled through life with tenacity, fervor, and boundless love, always coming at it with full force...

I lost the yin and the yang of my house.  The polar opposites on the personality spectrum. 

It has left our house unbearably quiet.  

Unbearably still. 

 There are pill bottles and empty bowls.  Feeding time is fast. Seven's wheels are just sitting there.  I can't move them, I can't look at them...  Everything feels different. 

How can two dogs change my life so much?

Seven and Piggy,

I miss you.  Sometimes the ache feels like its gonna swallow me.  But it's all just sadness, there's no anger.  You both gave me every last minute you had to give.  I don't feel cheated, I feel grateful.  It tough though, you were here so long that you became part of the fabric of who I am and I have a hard time knowing how to be without you here.  

I miss the distinct sound of your barks, the sound your collars made as you moved through the house. Seven, I miss the demanding way you would let me know that there was something that needed my immediate attention.  I miss the way you would almost hop when you got excited, like dinner time or running through the yard.  Your yard.  No matter how many dogs come and go that will always and forever be YOUR yard.  I'll never forget how excited you were the day we first brought you to this house and you saw that yard.  I think it was as close as a dog could get to a kid on Christmas morning!  

Piggy, I miss your kisses so much.  I miss that flat, pink piggy nose snorting at me when you gave your kisses!  You did everything with great tenacity and force.  Some dogs live quietly in our house - you did not!  You barreled through every move and that makes your absence so palpable...

Making the choice to let you both go might have been the hardest decision I've ever made.  I still have times where I wish I would have been selfish a little longer and kept you with me even though I know that each passing day was harder and harder for you...  I think your bravery is what gave us the courage to be able to finally know it was time.

I love you both so much.  I miss you every day, every minute of every day.  My world is far too quiet now.  Hoping, believing that I will see you again is the only thing that keeps me going...

Go find Preacher and Clarence, find things to bark at and people to kiss.  Stay together, have fun, just don't go too far, when it's my time I expect you to rush the door, barking all the way.

all my love,

your mom

life is not for sissys. sometimes I'm a sissy.

When does it get easier?
I find that I pray a lot these days.  I'm not really an organized religion person (aside from my sophomore year in high school when I became uber involved with the youth group of my local church but I'm pretty sure it was 99.9% about a boy).
But now I'm praying for another reason.  I'm begging for relief.
My life is hard right now.
I'm barely getting any sleep so I don't even have the right mindset to deal with it.
It started 25 months ago.  It started when Clarence was diagnosed with cancer.  We fought hard for almost eight months, surgery, chemo, trip to New York and another surgery, three days a week driving six hours for radiation, another trip to NYC for another surgery, and then we lost him.  To an aneurysm.  Since that time we've lost two more of our beloved animals, my dad was diagnosed with cancer, we were given full custody of a 17 year old girl, we have a 15 year old pit bull with severe dementia, and  a 17 year old dog in a wheel chair who literally can never be left alone.

The only time we leave the house is when we can take Seven with us, so that pretty much means that occasionally we get to go to my parents house.  In the last eight months we've got out once and that's because we got a babysitter.  Yep, we got a babysitter for our dogs.

It's 5am and I've been up since 11:30pm.  She doesn't want to sleep at all tonight.  I know my sleep deprivation is making everything harder.  I'm more emotional, more sensitive, I'm grumpy...

I pray everyday for it to get easier.  I pray for a break.  I pray for the well being of my family and friends. I pray for the animals and their families in the two pet cancer support groups I belong to, I pray for the things I am grateful for.  And that's a long list.

It's weird: life is rough right now, but I also love my life.  I just don't love what is happening right now.  

Watching anyone you love get old is hard.  Watching your animals get old, not knowing if they will be here in a month or a week, it's hard.  Feeling like every single person around you thinks you should euthanize your animals is hard.  Second guessing yourself morning, noon, and night is hard.

I don't like not knowing what to do.

My girl.  We adopted her when I ws 26 years old.  God, I was a baby.  Tom and I had been dating for eight months.  We moved in together fairly spur of the moment - driving around, saw a cute house for rent in a cute neighborhood, said "oh wouldn't that be fun", broke both of our leases, and moved.  Best decision ever, but it was a crap shoot.  It coulda gone all sorts of wrong.  A couple of months in we decide we want a dog.  I don't remember ever worrying "who will take this dog if we don't work?"  We just went and got a dog.  A puppy.

My puppy is 17 now.  I'm 43.  When did that happen?  We've been married for 15 years.  I've had this girl in my life longer than I've been married.  I've had this girl longer than I've had my house, longer than I've had my job.  She's been here for every foster dog who came and went.  She's been here for every dog we decided to keep and she was here through the loss of six of them.  She's been here, waiting for me, ready to drench me in kisses every time I come home.  She is a rock in my life.  She is tough, ahe is independent, and she is stubborn.  I honestly don't know if she will ever give up.  And I do not know how to choose that for her.

She can't walk and she absolutely hates that.  She is pissed as hell.  But she's eating, she's pooping and peeing.  She barks a lot.  She whines some.  She goes to physical therapy twice a week, acupuncture once a week, she takes like six meds that we need a chalk board to keep track of.  The very most she sleeps at a time is five hours and that's rare.  Tom and I take turns sleeping from night to night.  Tonight is my night to be up.  Probably not a good idea to write while sleep deprived.

I do not know what to do.  So I pray.  I pray for answers.  I pray for help.  I pray for guidance.  I pray for relief.  I pray for her to go to sleep and just not wake up.  I whisper in her ear that it's ok for her to go if she needs to.  But either she's not ready or she's not listening.  And God's not listening.  And if he is he's being way too subtle with his feedback for someone so sleep deprived.

So I zombie walk my way through my days.  I try to be present for the teenager and for my husband and for my parents, my brother, my friends.  But I'm doing a piss poor job at it.

So for now I try to enjoy every minute I have with her.  I try to commit these moments to memory.  I try to inhale her smell, memorize the feel of her ears between my fingers.  I try to say "I love you so, so much." as often as I can.  I try to be upbeat.  I try to make her life fun when I can.  

She's a dog, she will never ever know the joy she has given me.  She will never know the insane amount of love I have for her.  And she will never know the ungodly hole she will leave when she goes...

no one wants to be Eeyore's BFF.

I've been reading and reading and reading all of the wonderful posts about Robin Williams over the days since his death and the outpouring of love is truly amazing.  I'm so glad that, from what I've seen, people are being respectful and kind.  And the fact that this has opened up more of a dialog about mental health issues might be the one silver lining.

I've had my own battles with depression and anxiety for several years.  From high school to my early 30's I dealt with depression.  I spent a number of years on anti depressants and seeing a therapist.  And then in my mid 30's anxiety made an unwelcome appearance and I struggled to find my footing once again.

I've been lucky, incredibly lucky.  I found the right medications, dosages, doctors, and now, thankfully, I don't need the meds.  But if either depression or anxiety reared its ugly head again I would be back on those meds in a hot second.

I feel terrible for folks new to the mental health issues family (welcome!).  But not for the reasons you might think.  Yes, I feel bad that anyone has to deal with it at all but one of THE hardest parts about the whole mess is the getting help of it all.  Asking for help.  Knowing how to get help. 
Depression, anxiety, panic attacks - I believe those are all probably emotions that we all deal with from time to time.  When we have loss in our life or stress, those are natural emotions.  It's when they become chronic and debilitating that we need to seek help.  But here's the thing - seeking help, asking for help, letting others know that you need help...that's a helluva lot easier said than done!  I've read countless posts over the last few days, folks begging people to get help when they need it - but often the truth is, we ARE asking but those pleas for help are falling on deaf ears.  Not intentionally of course!  But lets face it, we are a fucking judgmental society!  We expect A LOT from our friends, family, coworkers, spouses, parents, children... and those of us who do suffer with mental health issues, we try communicating that we are struggling, we try saying "no", we try asking for help, we try!  We try in subtle ways at first, we share how stressed we are, we share how hard a time we are having getting everything done, we share how tired we are, we share how hard it is just to get out of bed, we say "its all just too much!", we come right out and say We Need Help! But most of the time, in my experience, that is perceived as everything but a plea for help.  It is seen as weakness, laziness, that we aren't trying hard enough, that we don't care, we aren't giving enough, we aren't being a good friend/child/parent/coworker.  And let me tell you, when it is taking every. last. bit. of. energy. you. have. just to get through each day and you are met with judgement ... well, it's easy to think  "what do I have to do so that anyone, someone might see how far I've have fallen?"

I've found that most friends and family think that they WANT to help, but they don't really want to hear you "whine". They don't want to hear you cry or be depressed.  It's not fun.  Who wants to be around the sad, mopey girl?  Uh, no one, that's who.  We might be depressed but we aren't dumb.  We realize when our Eeyoreness is becoming a bummer to those around us.  So we pull inside even further.  We start to lie about why we can't do stuff.  We are "sick" a lot.  And that brings up another point - sometimes you just don't want to share and that needs to be ok!  But it's not always that we don't want to share, more that we know people don't really want to hear the real answer to "how are you?".  Someone says, to your face or you hear what folks are saying though the rumor mill, "where have you been hiding?"  do you a.) say "Oh, we've just been really busy.  You know, life!"  or b.) develop diarrhea of the mouth and tell them all of the REAL reasons why you haven't been able to face the light of day in weeks.  I generally opt for option a.  And while judgey judgerson is probably thinking, "lazy bastard hermit!" they probably would be eternally grateful if they knew that they had just dodged a bullet!  The fact is, I just don't always want to tell everyone what is "really" going on but I also don't want everyone judging me for not poking my head out of my hole for weeks on end!  Maybe I don't want to tell everyone and their dog that I'm depressed because my dad has cancer, I've lost six of my precious animals in the last three years, I am suddenly the parent of a 17 year old, my dogs are all old as Methuselah, and some things even too personal to share here ...maybe I just want to say "Sorry, I have a headache."

So all I want to ask is that everyone try to love a bit more and judge a lot less.  When a friend says she can't do something don't assume it's because she's a shitty friend.  Maybe, just maybe she is struggling.  Instead of guilt tripping someone for not living up to all of your expectations maybe consider that life is rough sometimes...sometimes people are doing everything just to keep their head above water.  Maybe each time we feel disappointment or jump to judgement we should consider - hmmm, wonder if something is going on?  Maybe they have a full plate?  Maybe they are dealing with something too emotional to explain?  Maybe instead of assuming the negative we start to have a little compassion...can you just imagine what the world would be like if we all just had a little more compassion?

Did you happen to see the most beautiful girl in the world?

Seriously!  Tom and I look at Seven almost daily and and tell her that she is the MOST beautiful girl in the whole wide world!  And she is.  I know she is.  I am convinced that anyone who sees her and thinks 1.) that she is a plain brown dog or 2.) that she is a HE, those folks need to get to an eye dr. stat!

Seven has always had her own idea about things.  Since she was a puppy she called the shots.  I know dog trainers everywhere are cringing, but honestly, I don't care.  She does things her way...and while it's made things challenging in her older age, it's also a pretty good indicator of how she's feeling.  

At just a couple of months shy of her 17th birthday her limbs don't work as well as they used to.  I guess since that makes her almost 119 in people years we should expect some mobility issues.  She started laser therapy a couple years ago, then began weekly acupuncture about a year ago, then twice weekly physical therapy back in February...and a couple of months ago we made the plunge and bought her some wheels (technically it's a doggie wheel chair, but we don't call it that!).  Her stubbornness has made using said wheels a bit challenging but she is finally realizing that if she wants to continue her independence then she needs to embrace the wheels!  Just yesterday she actually ran in them, barreling over a dog bed as she went!  It was fantastic!

So for those of you with an older dog, if you are lucky enough to have all of their organs in working order, there is a lot you can do to keep your baby by your side!  Just yesterday Seven's physical therapist Ross (who Seven thinks is the bee's knees!) told me he thinks she is doing better than she was when she started six months ago!  Music to my ears!

So here's the deal Seven, 

As long as you've got bright eyes, as long as you can yell at me to do your bidding, as long as you flip and flail to avoid a snuggle, as long as you kiss my face, as long as you continue to be the most stubborn person I know, then it will continue to fight to keep you by my side for as long as I possibly can!

I love you baby girl!

every year 'bout this time...

Every year for the past, I dunno, five years, I've done this week long Christmas in July sale.  I don't even remember how the thing started but its kinda grown a life of its own.  I thought briefly about skipping it this year just 'cause things are so hectic around the homestead, but Tom and I managed to pull ourselves together and get it done!

So today it begins!  We've got a few new sales this year, instead of the same ole same ole.  We were brainstorming ideas a couple weeks ago and the teenager had some great contributions!  So two of this years sale days were all her idea!  So proud of her little marketing mind!!!

So here's a few photos of some new work that I'm particularly proud of as well as the deets on today's sale!  See ya!

Oh happy day

I rarely get mail.  I mean good mail, not junk mail or bills.  And then all in one day I get TWO letters!  Good, really good mail.  With goodies to boot!  A letter from my poppa with some beautiful bird feathers enclosed and a card from my sister in law with cicada wings enclosed.  How'd I manage that?  Just lucky I guess.

xo.

a short history of Berkatu

We said goodbye to Berklie at 2:15 am on Thursday.

We reached the end of the line after three and half days in the hospital on IV fluids and meds to jump start those tired kidneys.  Tom picked our fur ball up and brought him home.  I cozied up the bedroom and we all piled on the bed, me, Tom, most of the dogs, and Berk.  

We spent nine hours together before he decided he was ready to go.  Tom and I kissed his ears and head, we told him we loved him, we told him it was ok to leave, we told him how lucky he was - he was about to get to see Preacher and Daisy and Clarence and Clishy.  I envied him that.

And quietly he took his last breaths.  It was just how Preacher left us.  It was excruciating and peaceful all at the same time.

I found Berklie 16 years ago under a car in a Schlotzkys parking lot.  He was covered in oil, he was the size of a minute, his ear hair was longer than his tail...seriously, look, the longest hairs nearly run out of this photo!!!

I knew he was ours.  Tom took some convincing.  But I remember us sitting on the bed, me, Tom, Seven, and Berk (that was our whole family back then...well, plus Daisy but she wouldn't imagine gracing us with her presence!)... Seven did something, she licked Berk or maybe she just gave her nod of approval and Tom said ok.  Even way back then Seven called the shots.

I think Berk must've known he owed his home and his new oil-free coat to Seven.  We often found him sitting on the table or counter scooping his food (or any food he could find) out of his bowl with his paw and then pushing it onto the floor for Seven.  He would then gargoyle over the edge and watch her eat it before scooping more food onto the floor.

Less than two weeks ago I found him pushing freshly cut chicken off the cutting board down to Monkey.  I can't count how many nights we were awakened by clanging in the kitchen, a slew of dogs licking the floor, and Berklie sitting innocently on the counter licking his paw with a "What?" look on his face.

         

When I found Berklie I was working at an outpatient therapy clinic in Georgetown.  I was a physical therapy tech and my job was basically to run through exercises with patients.  My favorite patient at the time, well, of all time, was Roger Smith.  He had had a hip or knee replacement, can't remember...he had been in WWII and each day when he would come into the clinic I would put him on the bike and say "okay Mr. Smith, where are we riding to today?" And he would name some place he had been during the war.  He would tell me all about the culture, the landscape, the food, and his experience there.  He was never negative about his time in the war...I looked forward to him every day.  I learned so much from him about places i'd never even heard of...i cherished my time with him.  In fact I got myself into a bit of trouble by moving him off of other techs schedules and onto mine!  

On his last day of therapy he came in, got on the bike, and handed me an envelope.  He said "we're having a test!"  Inside the envelope were pictures from his time in the war.  Some of him, some of his plane, some of his friends...each photo had little notes on the back, hints for me...the test was that I had to tell him, based on the photo and the hints he'd written on the back (just for me!) where each picture was taken.  I was floored.  I had this tumble of emotion from joy that he cared enough to do this to pride that I felt I'd actually maybe made his time in therapy fun for him.  I was crushed that he was "graduating".

I found Berklie that day.

When Tom and I agreed to keep him (although we thought HE was a SHE for the first three months!) I demanded that we name him after Mr. Smith in some way.  I wanted a way to remember this man who had touched my life in such a profound way.  Now that all of this time has passed I realize that I didn't really need a way to remember him...I couldn't forget him.  But I'm glad we gave Berklie a name with such a heavy meaning.  So since we thought Berk was a girl the name Roger was kind of out.  Smith wasn't doing it for either of us so I started going through all of the places Mr. Smith had shared with me...we got down to two: Mauritius (an island in the Indian Ocean) and Berkatu (some place in Libya). We landed on Berkatu.  aka Berklie, Berk, Bug, LeeLeeBug, Bug-a-boo, Buggie.  

Berklie,

I miss you Bug.  I went to let the dogs out last night and I was wedging myself into the crack in the door so that you couldn't sneak out.  It reminded me of the two times you did get out.  Once when we lived in Hyde Park.  You were gone for almost a day and in the middle of the night your dad sat bolt upright in bed and said "he's back!", ran to the front door and there you were.  The second time was almost the exact same thing - but we were leaving for London the next day and I was scared we were gonna have to cancel our trip..same thing tho, your dad knew the moment you were home and opened the front window and in you came.  You guys had some kind of crazy connection.

I never told you this, but I've decided it's time - you were a cat Berk.  I know you always believed you were a dog, but you were in fact, a cat.  I wish I had gotten a video of you last week, standing in the middle of all the dogs when I was trying to feed Seven, reaching with your paw trying to get the food before it landed in her mouth, oblivious to the pit bull, chow, plethora of snarky chihuahuas trying to swipe the food too!

I will never ever eat another Dorrito without thinking of you.  

I will never be able to watch Iron Chef and hear the chairman say "allez cuisine!" without thinking of you.

You were quite possibly the easiest animal on the face of the earth.  You were self sufficient to a fault.  You spoiled us.

I can't believe I am saying this but I miss your drool.  I miss your rubbing your fangs along my hand or arm or cheek and leaving a puddle of drool in its wake.

I miss knowing that the armoire door will never again swing open seemingly all on its own.

I don't know how you ended up at a sandwich shop in Georgetown, Texas but I will forever be grateful that you did.  Strange as it sounds I owe a debt to whoever was dumb enough to abandon you.  My life was better because you were in it.

I love you LeeLeeBug.  

Give Preacher a big 'ol head butt for me.

See you in awhile...

Love,

Mom