Schatzie Then and Now

The last few days have been a roller coaster ride with our dog. And not in a good way. Up, down, and then really down. Today we made the decision to end his suffering. As the veterinarian said, “he’s now in doggy heaven.” Actually, given some of Schatzie’s behavior over the years he may be spending a little time in doggy purgatory. But probably not too long. He had a good heart.

I thought I'd share part of an essay I wrote about Schatzie shortly after he joined our household. The full essay previously was published at More.com.

My Inheritance

Schatzie first entered our household as a Goth invades a village: plundering, devouring, and then pissing on anything still standing.  Mom had fallen and broken her hip, leaving me to care for Schatzie, her beautiful sheltie who ate only restaurant take-out meals, sprawled on the furniture, and nipped anyone he thought had overstepped the bounds.  Bringing this intruder into the home my husband and I share with Buddy, a full-size, sweet-tempered collie, was severely straining our marriage of over thirty years. 
Buddy in his unique herding style made peace.  Buddy never protested when Schatzie snatched food from Buddy’s dinner bowl.  Instead, Buddy gently shouldered Schatzie back to Schatzie’s own bowl.  When the invader shoved to be first at the door or yapped at dogly-imagined burglars, Buddy set the standard for quietly guarding his family and home. 

A truce was developing between the dogs and the people.  But each dog’s personality and temperament still shone through.  When I walked Buddy and Schatzie they stretched my arms as each headed off to where his own nose led; if all four of us walked, the dogs dragged us in opposite directions. 

Several months after Mom’s return home following the hip fracture, a routine CAT scan revealed a terminal cancer had invaded Mom’s pelvis.  She refused to go back to see the doctor, somehow anticipating the bad news.  Rather, she sent my brother and me to get the diagnosis. Mom then commanded we break the news to her.  After barely a pause, Mom focused all the intensity of her Newman-blue eyes on me:

 "Will you take Schatzie?”  

Of course I said, “Yes”.  

As late summer faded into autumn, Mom went through five weeks of “palliative” radiation.  In the bleak months of fall and winter, Mom declined and Schatzie again became my responsibility and full-time companion.  Despite Schatzie’s many bad habits, feeding, walking, and attempting to groom him provided welcome distraction from witnessing tiny drops of Mom’s life spirit drip from her daily.

In the dark of winter Mom entered her final days.  Schatzie slept quietly at my feet for the first time.  Meanwhile, our gentle Buddy abruptly went into heart failure from a previously undiagnosed congenital heart defect.  My husband and the emergency veterinary care group nursed Buddy and he returned home. 

We were not able to nurse Mom back to health; she died quietly at home in her own bed with my brother, me, and Schatzie at her side.

 Schatzie again joined our family, this time permanently.  He now walks over and curls at my side, causing me to flashback to a scene from three years ago.  Schatzie was going to visit Mom for the first time after her hip fracture.  She had refused for months to let me bring Schatzie.

‘It would upset him too much.” she had said. 

Over the months, Mom fought to take a few steps with a walker.  Once she had regained enough mobility that a return home was plausible, she consented to a visit.  I put Schatzie on a leash, leading him from my car to Mom as she sat shaded by the overhang of the nursing home. 

But Schatzie would not go near Mom.  Instead, he curled up next to my chair and refused to budge.  

“Come on Schatzie…. Go to Mom,” I repeatedly coaxed him.  

Mom kept her eyes down.  I knew she was confused and hurt by his rejection.

Schatzie and I had gotten up to leave as I tried one last time to get him to approach Mom.  As I walked with him to Mom’s wheelchair, he leaned into her legs and moaned, a low, rumbling sound.  Schatzie moaned for several minutes before settling down next to her. 

Schatzie now follows me wherever I go in the house, curling by my side while I sit at the keyboard, in a near corner while I make dinner and next to my easy chair at night.  When I am with Schatzie I often am flooded with images of Mom, from recently and over the years.  Schatzie still scarfs his and Buddy’s food from both bowls; but, he has taken to first gently touching Buddy’s nose with his own. 

 

Four years have passed since Mom’s death. Schatzie, like Buddy before him, has left us. We wander an unnaturally quiet home and put away his bowls and toys, pick up the plush rugs and bedding. And moan the loss of the strong-willed intruder who stole our hearts.

Dog Bites Man

I know—“dog bites man” is the oldest story in the book. Such that it’s not considered news. But recently it became personal. A couple of days ago our old dog bit my husband.

The reason for the bite? My husband had gently tried to wipe some of the “goop” near Schatzie’s eye. No stitches required but at least two puncture sites near the fingernails. And a throbbing redness.

As on most days, my husband had painstakingly walked Schatzie to the park at the dog’s snail’s pace. The dog can hardly walk but still thinks he should go to the park. My husband then gave Schatzie his many medications in homemade cheese balls. And then fed Schatzie a carefully crafted breakfast.  Which the dog turned his nose up at. I added more goodies to try to get our skinny dog to eat. 

You might say that the biting is excusable. After all Schatzie has dementia. And is in pain with arthritis. On his last leg, so to speak.

But that’s not really what’s going on. Biting is what Schatzie did in his prime. For example, Schatzie bit us—twice each--after we first inherited him from my Mom. It’s only in his later stages of dementia that for the most part he has forgotten his aggressive ways

My husband, bless his heart, (Please forgive the only language quirk I picked up from living in Alabama for two years. I believe it roughly translates to you are saying or doing something stupid but I’m too polite to say that.) does not blame Schatzie. Here is what he said: “Biting is the one thing that dogs can do to let the humans know they don't like what they're doing. Humans just have to show them who's the pack leader. Besides, I knew the risk going in. After all, I'd been bitten before by him doing something similar (eye drops). Could I have been more calm & assertive? Yep.”

I say my husband watches too many episodes of the dog whisperer. Biting is one behavior I don’t think is ever acceptable by dogs, at least not to their loving families. In fact, under the standard set by the several collies that have been part of our family, they would have gone farther than that on biting rules. For them, biting was never an option, save an attack on one of their family members.

Anyway, the latest is Schatzie now has idiopathic vertigo or doggy dizziness for some unknown reason.

Having four legs should be some advantage. Instead, he looks like a drunken sailor times two. When he tries to go forward and to the left, his back end lists to the right. Lots of falling, picking up, and spitting up from the associated nausea. The vet says he may get over this in a few days, learn to compensate, or this may be the end.

I don’t really know what to think. Or what to hope for.  Except I hope my husband’s bite doesn’t get infected. And I hope Schatzie stops acting like a drunken sailor and starts to “shape up or ship out.” That’s not an Alabama expression as far as I know but something my Mom use to say when as kids my brother and I weren’t doing what she expected. I just wish she were here to deal with her old dog and tell us what she would have done.

Not Dead Yet

Schatzie, our fourteen-year-old sheltie, had been looking and acting like he was on death’s doors for the last several days, or maybe it’s been weeks. Sometimes it’s hard to know how long something has been happening when you are in the midst of it.

But he now has rallied. For at least a year he has needed help most of the time just to stand. His walks have gotten to be just the short half block to the park, not the half mile he use to walk. The four steps into and out of the house have become a major barrier. One that requires assistance from one of both of his human companions.

We were thinking the end was near. What with his recent loss of appetite, struggles to stand after we help him up, and apparent disinterest in most of life.

And he may still be a short-timer. But two days ago we woke to find him curled up next to our bed, with his head comfortably tucked under the dust cover. You ask why that is peculiar. Mainly because our bedroom is up a long flight of stairs that he has not even tried to climb in months. Yet somehow two nights ago he had climbed noiselessly on his withered old back legs all the way to the second floor.  And the following day he made it around the whole half mile track, though at a snail’s pace most of the way. And then he actually bounced twice as he barked upon sighting a squirrel and his “nemesis”, a boxer who chews his iron fence whenever he sees Schatzie.

I had been wishing I could know what Schatzie is trying to say about his condition. My latest guess is he is saying, reminiscent of the scene from a Monty Python movie, “I’m not dead yet.”

A Dog's Life

My dog is near his end. Most of the time he can’t stand without help. He can’t walk up or down stairs without his human companions supporting him. And he has dementia. Some days he doesn’t seem to know us, doesn't want to eat. But other days he has the joy of life in his eyes. And he often has the joy of smell, his one sense that seems to still be working well. 

Helping to lift him is not helping my old spine and painful arm. But at least there are options for me. Not so much for Schatzie and his multiple problems. We've changed up his meds,  and consulted with the good dog doctors. We talk about quality of life, whether he is in pain. And what to do about him if he manages to live until Christmas and we take our Christmas trip.

The real problem is I hate having the power, or is it the responsibility, of deciding when he’s had enough.

In every previous case with a beloved dog when we made the final decision I knew in retrospect I probably had waited too long. But how to know that when you are making the decision eludes me. I wish I really could channel Schatzie's voice now and know what he is thinking.

Meaning of Life

I know the meaning of life.  And I will tell you.  But first I need to tell you a little about me.

The most important thing you need to know is I am not a small collie.  I am a big dog.  I was born what you Two Legs refer to as a Shetland Sheepdog.  I will grant that my kind looks a bit like a small collie.  But I always have stood tall and proud. 

I was the biggest of my litter.  In my prime I weighed over forty pounds.  Now I’m down to a sleek 36 pounds.  And I have always known I could take on any dog twice my size.  I also could take on the Two Legs, but I have learned to respect my Two Leg Pack and follow their lead for the most part.  You see, I’m a veteran canine companion to the Two Legs.  

What can I say?  Not much, just “Woof,” and “Grrwl.”  But I’ve had to learn to communicate with “Two Legs”.  Just the same, they know I say plenty when I look at them.  Or nose the back door.  And especially when I pace around or dig in the carpet.  And how about the times I drop a toy at their feet?

I’ve been through a lot.  I have outlived my first Pack of Two Legs.  Now I live with the younger generation.  So it is no wonder I worry when the routine changes at home. 

Just this week, the leader of the Two Legs left early in the morning.  Even though he was out of bed before the sun was up I offered to walk with him in the park.  Instead he left in the car without me or the female Two Legs.   So I went back to sleep.  An older canine needs his rest.

The female Two Legs walked me later, at the usual time.  She also fed me, gave me my pills, and even my breakfast dessert (a spoonful of oatmeal on one of the Two Legs' plates).  But I had no one to beg toast or eggs from.  She eats only oatmeal in the morning. 

What were they thinking: I didn’t want my second breakfast just because one of them left early?  I don’t think so.

It is so quiet around the Pack when just one Two Legs is here.  She goes upstairs to her computer for long stretches.  When I first joined this Pack I would follow her up and down the stairs.  I don’t how many times we went up and down.  But I do know all those trips use to wear me out.  Now I nap downstairs and wait until she comes down again.  If she were dragging four legs up and down the stairs at my age she would know to just stay put until it is time to eat or walk again. 

The Leader of the Two Legs at least plays music for me.   Not always what I want to hear.  Maybe once a year they play something with canines in it.  The rest of the time it is Two Legs’ music, lots of singing and other sounds, not found in the canine universe.  But I like most of it anyway.

So today both of the Two Legs were home.  At the table at breakfast, they were both available for me to possibly participate in a second breakfast.  But then I smelled there were no eggs, bacon, or even toast.  And I heard the dreaded word from one of them: Diet.  Oh no.

To distract myself from the possibly lean times ahead I brought them a squeaky toy.  That way we could practice catching a live breakfast.  If the Pack doesn’t have any meat to eat they could just let me off lead at the park.  I’m sure I could catch us one of those squirrels.  And I bet they make good eating.

I’m getting more philosophical in my older age.  I’ve come not to expect as much from Two Legs as I once did.  The human kind certainly don’t think like canines.  For example, even though I warn them of dangers, such as a dog near the house, they don’t really appreciate my bark. 

So I only bark when absolutely necessary.  There is one rude bulldog who hurls nasty insults.  I have to put him in his place with a few well-thought-out rejoinders.  I ignore those yappy, pillow-sized dogs entirely.  Some Four Legs are just beneath my dignity to respond to. 

In my older age I now need a number of long naps during the day.  So I don’t mind when the Two Legs go out for awhile during the day without me.  But they should know I expect them to be here when it is dark or especially if it is stormy outside. 

And the whole Pack should be home to share meals and walks.  I am a big male Sheltie and don’t especially want to be known as pretty.   But I tolerate my Pack petting me and telling me how pretty I am.  I know it makes them feel happy.  And it makes me happy too.  So here it is, what I have learned in thirteen years in this world: having two good Two Legs to share that happy feeling is the meaning of life.

Pillow of Pleasure Beats Cone of Shame, Paws Down

Dorothy’s Idea of the Day:

After a late night of staying up to watch the Cardinals win the World Series I decided to let my dog write my Blog today.  Here's what Schatzie wrote.

Ordinarily I give the “Two-Legs” in the family, as I like to call them, credit for some sense.  They keep my water bowl filled, my food bowl refilled twice a day, and also take me to the park regularly.  But after a recent visit to my doctor, where he completed the removal of some pesky thing that had been growing on my leg (I had gotten a good portion of the removal process started for him) he sent me home with what I refer to as the “Cone of Shame.”

Dignity and mobility are two very important traits to keep, especially as you age.  My owners did not seem to realize this when they left this cone-shaped plastic device around my neck.

First, it is hard plastic, uncomfortable to lie in, impossible to see around and don’t get me started about what it is like trying to navigate stairs or your water bowl.  I was careening into unseen objects everywhere because the stupid cone blocked all of my side vision.  Two nights in a row I had to get the Two Legs out of bed to help me go up and down the stairs or around the furniture.  And then they had to sit with me for hours while I calmed down.  Frankly I don’t think my heart can take this much excitement at my age.  And I have to say the Two Legs were pretty sluggish in their walks in the park the next days.

Finally my owners came to their senses and removed the Cone.  But they apparently were still convinced I was going to try to save them a trip back to the doctor to remove the stitches.  And yes, I had been thinking about that.  Because they then placed the pillow of pleasure around my neck.  Its official name is the “Kong Cloud”: an inflatable pillow that looks a lot like the neck pillows Two Legs use to rest their heads. 

Now I can walk around without bumping into things.  I can drink or eat in comfort.  And I don’t even mind being seen wearing the fashionable blue collar.  My owners bought it at Feeder’s Supply for about $25 and it was worth every dollar they spent.  As it says on the package, “Your dog will love you for it.” I guess the collar does not come in Cardinal red.