Saying goodbye to Cindy

I trust everyone had a good and socially distanced holiday. We were with our daughter and her two sons. It was a quiet day filled with building with Legos, playing Monopoly Junior and watching Christmas movies.

For King and me it was a rather bittersweet day. On Christmas Eve we had our traveling companion

Cindy at a soccer game in Grand Haven, Mich.

Cindy Lou euthanized. The decision was heartbreaking and was not easy to make, but it was necessary. I’m not certain if people will understand that statement.

We adopted Cindy Lou in March of 2017 as a senior dog. At that point King and I (both retired) had been traveling during the winter in our travel trailer and spending our summers as caretakers on a hobby farm in South Haven. We had been without a dog for about two years. I had insisted that Sophie our

Cindy on adoption day.

Saint Bernard would be our last dog.  But I kept looking at available dogs on the Al-Van Humane Society’s website. I would send King links when I found dogs I liked.  It was really no big deal. I still send him links to property, treadle sewing machines, looms, fancy travel trailers… I have quite a list of things I send him. But one day after sending him several dog options, he said, “Call the humane society and see if that dog, Cindy, is available.”  King, by the way, is still under the impression one can simply go to the animal shelter, look at dogs, pick the one you want and go home. So rather than explain to him the necessary steps needed to adopt a dog, I simply started the application process for Cindy. We made an appointment to meet her (when she was surrendered to the shelter she had tested positive for heartworms so she was in foster care at the time) and went to meet her and see if we were compatible. I think the fact that we are retired and would be with the dog 24-7 helped our case. But the fact that Cindy immediately took to King was probably the clincher. There is a photo of us at the humane society with Cindy peeking out from between King’s legs. It was the first and only time she did it. But everyone was convinced Cindy had found her forever home.

And she had.

For the past three years, Cindy (who they estimated was about 13-years-old when we adopted her), was our constant companion. She went everywhere with us -- errands to the store, trips to the beach, hikes

Cindy at the Blair Valley
Campground in the 
Anza Borrego State Park, 
California.

with my sister, and, of course, traveling across country.  We had a seat cover in the backseat of the pickup and Cindy would scramble into the truck and stretch out in the backseat and sleep. Sometimes she’d look out the window and watch the scenery for a bit, but most of the time she was content to simply sleep in the backseat -- waking when pit stops were necessary, or complaining when it was time to eat.

Cindy was also witness to a lot of our bickering:

“I said left. That would be your other left.”

“Well, I didn’t hear you.”

“Because you have the radio turned up so loud.”

“Well speak up.”

Cindy would sigh and I swear she would roll her eyes.

We knew when we adopted a 13 year old dog, that her life expectancy would be shorter rather than had we adopted a younger dog. But so often older dogs get overlooked and it’s a shame. They have so much to offer.

 “Probably three years, maybe five,” I remember saying to someone.

The first summer we had her I would take her out into the woods behind the property where we were caretakers and let her run off-leash. And run she did. There was such joyful abandon as she raced through the woods, stopping occasionally to sniff an interesting tree or nose under some composted leaves. And there was the dancing game we played when it came time to catch her and bring her back to the house. She always came when she was called, but would stop just out of arms reach and run circles around us -- three circles, dancing around us and then sitting obediently at our feet, waiting patiently for us to snap the leash to her collar.

Cindy was sure
she saw a chicken in
the woodpile.

And the chickens … oh how she loved to chase loose chickens. She would watch for a hapless bird to fly over the fence and would then give chase. She was never fast enough to catch one, but the chase (for her) was divine. Not so much for the chickens. We named every hen in the flock Henny Penny. I would cheer for the hens, “Run Henny Penny!  Run!  Remember you can fly over the fence!”  The rooster and I had a hate/hate relationship and I secretly hoped one day he would be found outside the fence. But the jerk never strayed that far from his flock.

It didn’t take long to get to know Cindy’s quirks.  She hated Lake Michigan. Even on calm days. I think it was just too much water. She also didn’t like it when King would go out and weed whack. When he was in the yard working (or later when maintenance men at campgrounds were weed whacking) she would tell me just how annoying that weed whacker was. She was pretty vocal about it.

Cindy became a well-traveled dog. She hiked the mountains in the Cleveland National Forest, watched lizards skitter across the desert in Quartzsite, roamed the dry lakebed with us in the Anza Borrego desert, turned up her nose at the Salton Sea, stood with us as we marveled at rock formations in Utah and Joshua Tree National Park and probably smirked at me when I finally got

Cindy and King at Cibbits Flat campground
in the Cleveland National Forest.

the see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, Kansas.  

After a while you forget that your companion is actually quite a bit older than you. And the signs of aging are there, but they come on so slowly you adapt and really don’t notice. This past summer I realized Cindy no longer scrambled into the truck. She would place her front feet on the running board and then pretend she was getting into the truck, but in reality she knew I would placed my arm between her hind legs and hoist her backend into the truck. She started sleeping more. When we went for walks she started slowing down (after leaving the farm, for safety reasons, I no longer allowed her to be off-leash). She still liked to trot ahead of me and stop and sniff whatever it is that dogs smell when roaming, but by the end of our walks, she would more than likely be walking at my side (like a well-trained dog is supposed to do, except I knew she was tired).

And then this fall she started having trouble getting in and out of the trailer. We had already built handicap steps for her, but she still moved the same way I did before I had knee replacement surgery. We also knew the jump down from the truck had to be bone-jarring, so we built her a ramp.

We arrived at our daughter’s home in Carlsbad, California in mid-November. Our daughter lives on the second floor of an apartment. Those first few weeks Cindy climbed those stairs like a trooper. But then that became a chore. So we took it slow and would encourage her as she made her way up and down. But Cindy was having other issues. Her hind legs would often give out and she would fall down. One evening as I was walking her before heading back to the campground she slid into a small ditch and refused to get up. King had to help me get her out.

“Maybe some leg braces would help,” King said one day. So I ordered some from Amazon.  By now we were having the “should we take her to the vet” conversations as well. 

There is something to be said for living in a rural area. In Michigan we have transported many pets (we always had large dogs) in the back of our pickup for that final veterinary visit. The doctor would climb into the bed of the truck with the dog and administer the “shot” and we would sit with our pets until there was no heartbeat, take them home and bury them.  Yes, tears were always shed.

It does not work that way in urban areas, and what we found was because of COVID many veterinarians would not allow people to be with their pet when the time came. Unacceptable.  I had many conversations with vets in Southern California. I was not overly impressed.

“My dog is having difficulty walking. Her breathing is labored. She falls down when relieving herself. She sits up during the night and it seems as though she’s trying to clear her lungs. No. I don’t want an examination. She is 16. She is suffering. I know what she needs.”

January 6 was the soonest I could get her in to see a vet who would allow us to be with her when she died. Three weeks away.

King and I loved on her as much as we could. Every chance we had. She was dying and we knew it. And we were helpless to figure out what to do.

On Christmas Eve day we realized she was too tired and too weak to make it to January 6^th.

“Both our dogs decided to get sick on weekends or holidays,” our daughter told us. “There is an emergency service here that can get her in.”

I didn’t even consult with King. I called them, gave them the information they needed, the three of us carried Cindy to our daughter’s SUV, wrapped her in a quilt and drove to the veterinarian’s office.

I can’t say enough good things about VCA California Veterinary Specialists (and I’m not one to ever endorse anything in my columns, but I will here today). King and I were escorted behind the building to a tent where we waited for them to bring Cindy. It was like a waiting room with chairs and a table. There may have even been flowers. I don’t remember. When they brought Cindy to us she was still wrapped in her blanket on the gurney and they transferred to the ground. I lay down next to her and told her how much I loved her. A little later the veterinarian came in. She told us her name. I don’t remember it. I told her I knew I hadn’t asked for an examination but I wondered if she had any idea what was wrong with Cindy besides old age. She said it appeared she may have had a tumor that may have ruptured. She was pretty sure Cindy was probably bleeding internally. And yes, she assured us, we were absolutely making the right decision.

It really doesn’t make it easier, but our youngest son, in trying to comfort me later that day reminded me, “At least it was while she was being loved and not alone somewhere.”

We won’t be able to bury Cindy.  We don’t have property any longer. But Cindy’s remains will be mixed with those of other dogs and spread off Point Loma into the Pacific Ocean.

Cindy hated water.

 

Some days the assholes win

 Happy Holidays!

I hope you are all well, safe, and content.

King and I spent last week helping our daughter with her sons as she shifted into high gear to get her real estate sales going. She has been in a holding pattern for several months waiting for some additional help. I’m happy to report she finished the year strong. Let us hope it will continue.

While we were there we enjoyed all the traditional preparations for the holiday – we baked cookies, made cookies for Santa, baked other holiday goodies and made secret packages for Christmas morning. The boys are not very good at keeping secrets, so our daughter already knows, but it was the thought that counts.

We also spent hours on their balcony looking for Hippogriffs. Hippogriffs, for the uninformed, are mythical creatures from the Harry Potter series. We have quite a list of rules and guidelines for searching for them.

This week the boys are with their father and King and I have retreated to our trailer. The campground is sparsely populated and those of us who are here have decorated our travel trailers with holiday cheer and hunkered down in our quiet solitude. No one interacts (pandemic guidelines) other than to wave hello when going for walks. It’s been years since King and I were social creatures so this is our normal.

At one time in our marriage we were quite social. Most of that ended with his tenure as a middle school principal in a small town in southwest Michigan. One can say small towns are friendly – but they are not – at least not to strangers who try to fit in. It took us less than a year to figure out we would never be accepted and the locals would never consider us one of “their own.” In fact, it was so bad, that when we moved to another community, part of King’s yearly job review included becoming active in the community. King said he would forgo any raises if it meant trying to fit in with people who would never accept outsiders.

For those of you who still live in small towns, I would suggest you greet the stranger in your church. I would suggest you invite your new neighbor over for coffee. I would recommend you do not exclude someone because you have decided they might feel uncomfortable with a group of people they do not know. Because guess what? They probably will never get to know others unless they are invited. Don’t just give lip service to acting kind. Be kind.

I started writing today with the intention of writing about Christmas traditions when I was a child. They are good memories. They were happy times. My parents moved to my hometown several years before I was born. I’m happy they were accepted into the community. Without that acceptance I have no doubt my childhood memories would be quite different. And therein lays the rub. I had eagerly anticipated moving to a small community again. I was bitterly disappointed.

Some days the assholes win … and they don’t even know it.

Cookie baking, school and sugar

 It’s Monday and another day of Zoom learning for the twins. I’m home alone with the boys as our daughter is working and King has decided to go to a friend’s home to work on a ramp for Cindy so she can get in and out of the truck.

Cindy is not doing well. Last night when it was time for us to head back to the campground I walked her one last time before loading her into the truck for the hour commute. (We now have to lift her 90 pound mass into the truck). She has always been one to spend a lot of time to look for the “perfect” spot to relieve herself, but last night she slid down a ditch and just lay there. There was no attempt to get up. King and I had to pull her up (he pushed, I pulled).  When one adopts a senior dog one knows ahead of time this day is coming sooner rather than later but it does not make it any easier. She has aging joints and I know from experience how hard it can be to move. We will work on finding her relief but we won’t go through any “heroic” efforts such as surgery. This is our choice and it is what we did for all our canine friends. This is a normal progression of aging.

But we are not ready to throw in the towel just yet. Hence, King is building the ramp. And yes, we have tried or will try all the recommended forms of relief.

In the meantime we are falling into a routine with schooling. There is a reason I never went into education (elementary, secondary or otherwise). I tend to want them to work as I would – get everything done and THEN take a break. Seven-year-olds have other ideas and I have decided perhaps their own pace is the way I should allow them to proceed. (Hmmm, ya think?) I can’t decide if I should intervene when they seem to have the same answers to reading questions (as in identical synopsis to stories they have read). The editor in me has a difficult time with plagiarism, the grandmother in me says, “Close enough,”  and the radical idea of “Grades don’t measure everything” that has been with me since high school, battles it all.

It would also seem these little boys have become eating machines. All day long I hear, “Grandma I’m hungry.” I believe the translation is “Grandma I want a delicious cookie that we baked yesterday

Frosting the cookies

because our mother won’t let us have sugar and you are a ‘marshmallow Mom’ when it comes to monitoring sugar.”

Actually it would be much easier to monitor their sugar intake if it were not for King. He is the original “junk food junkie.” When he goes grocery shopping with me (which since retirement is every time I go) the grocery cart is filled with Little Debbie cakes, chips, candy, Mountain Dew and sugar coated cereal. When we visit the grandchildren they can depend on Poppa to bring them junk to eat. I receive dirty looks from my daughter -- as if I have control over him. And I’m certain my daughters-in-law complain bitterly to our sons after we leave.

Last night, our daughter came home after a long day of showing houses, to find the boys were hyped-up on sugar. I’m pretty sure I heard King giggling maniacally as he headed down the stairs of her apartment and to the quiet of our trailer.

I have to wonder if part of King’s penchant for “forbidden” foods is because his mother had a propensity to hide them. She once told me (after hiding a batch of cookies my sister had given me) that often after the Christmas holiday season she had to throw cookies out because they had gone stale. “Did your mother have to do that?” My response was, “Not really, because after Christmas any leftovers were served to friends we had over after a day of sledding." “Oh,” she replied. “I always made fancy cookies.”  The passive/aggressive comment was not lost on me. 

Unfortunately there is darn little snow in southern California and even if there were, with the pandemic, I don’t think many friends would be coming over for hot chocolate and cookies, which is a good thing because there are four cookies left from the batch we made yesterday.

Realities of our lifestyle during the pandemic

It’s Sunday morning and we’ve been settled into our new campsite for a week.

Up until yesterday, the rhythm of this campground was much like the Kal Haven Outpost in South Haven where we spent our summer.  On Friday afternoon campers started coming in and setting up camp. A surreptitious walk with Cindy around the campground and I could see most of them (from the camping permits in the windows) will be leaving on Sunday or Monday.  The difference being Californians seem much more subdued than those from the Midwest. The campground is quite -- really, really quiet. If I had to hazard a guess I’m thinking in the Midwest one puts A LOT of living into weekends away because soon enough the snow will fly and people will be forced to retreat indoors. Or it could be because California is starting to implement a mandatory “Stay At Home Order.” My reasoning could be a lot of hooey too.

Portions of California are going into mandatory lockdown because of the pandemic. Those counties with available hospital beds below 15 percent are ordered to lockdown. San Diego is one of them. Lake Jennings, which is in San Diego County and is where we are staying, is no longer accepting reservations between now and January 15. Current reservations will be honored only if campers have a completely self-contained (toilet, sink, and shower) unit. No tents. The campground restrooms are closed. The playground is closed (it has been for quite some time).  We are allowed to stay through February as we have a reservation for a long-term stay. I should note the campground’s long-term stay limit is 90 days. After that, if COVID is not under control, I’m not quite certain what we will do.  We will cross that bridge when we come to it and perhaps, in the meantime, discuss alternative plans. Or, what is more likely, we will use the King method of coping – don’t think about it until it happens. I’m pretty sure the two of us have managed to stay together for 40-plus years because we choose to ignore one another’s quirks. We observe and complain,  but then let it go.

 For King and me the pandemic has not changed our lifestyle very much. We have not been social creatures since sometime in the 1980s. I think, other than weddings and funerals, the last time we were out with a group of people was when he was an assistant football coach at Coloma High School in 1989. I can’t remember the last time we ate in a restaurant. I think I’ve mentioned (complained actually) many times that special occasion dinners usually mean a visit to a fast food establishment.

We wear masks and continue with our normal self-imposed social distancing. We have a large supply of masks in the trailer. Some are homemade. Some are purchased.  When I’m bored I pull out the sewing machine and make more. We read a lot. King watches old TV westerns and sitcoms. Every-other week we help our daughter with her COVID-related homeschooling so she can work from home in relative peace.

I’m going to make what some might consider a political comment here. We don’t live in fear. We live our lives as though what we do matters to others. It’s called compassion, caring and taking responsibility. But please note: How people can make trying to do the right thing during a pandemic political is beyond me.

And life goes on.

Our new site is surrounded by trees and low bushes. Cindy has staked a claim under some of the bushes and spends most of her days sleeping in the shade. She has suddenly aged this trip and has trouble getting in and out of the trailer, despite the fact we built handicap steps for her. When we travel, she places her front feet on the step-rail of the truck and waits for us to hoist her back-end into the truck.

Cindy on adoption day

She sleeps in our bed at night and there are times when I reach over to make certain she is still breathing.  We adopted Cindy three years ago, knowing she was a senior dog. I am amazed at how quickly she adapted to life with us. But I often wonder if she misses her other people. We were told she was turned in to the shelter when her elderly previous owners could no longer care for her.  Since then she has wormed her way into our hearts and as much work as traveling with a canine companion is, I can’t imagine not having her with us. Puppies are cute, loveable and messy. Older dogs are grateful for love and friendship.

We have our doggie routine. King prefers to be left alone in the morning so he gets up and gets ready first. I have no idea what he does outside, but he goes out and putters around the campsite and then opens the door and jingles the leash at Cindy. She is more than happy to go for a walk with him. It’s my signal to get up, get ready, make the bed and start breakfast.  It’s also my chance to claim the TV remote and watch the news. In the evening, he takes her for one more walk before we retire.

We are all creatures of habit.