Pondside Thoughts...

Puma the Wonder Dog's Heart

Puma the Wonder Dog is in surgery. Right now. This minute.  The surgeon is (arthroscopically) cutting a big hole into her pericardium to provide egress for the fluids being released by the tumor that is very slowing surrounding her loyal loving heart. 

As I write this it is a little hard to see the screen through my tears and I realize that I don't feel substantially different than when Lauren broke her leg at the age of 5 or when Amy had her tonsils out at the age of 11.  Don't get me wrong - I don't think of Puma as my child and I know she is a dog. I've had dogs all my life.  They, like Puma, had happy dog lives but unlike Puma, when their time came they either passed away quietly at home or we made the hard decision to put them down when they were in too much pain to bear. 

But that was years ago, when the vet would do his or her best, and then gently tell you when it was time to say goodbye.

Now there are choices. Heart surgeons, full body xrays, CAT scans, MRIs, athroscopic surgery, state of the art procedures, 24 hour lab techs who actually answer the phone at 3AM and give you a comlete report on how your pet is doing at that moment. And then you can call back at 4 and 4:30 and 4:45AM for updates. You can have unlimited video conferences with your pet to see how she is doing while still confined.  In truth, the surgery is minimally invasive and Puma is not uncomfortable after the draining procedure at the end of last week.  But without today's surgery she has only a month or so before her dear heart will be overcome.  

Of course, in step with the advancement of veterinary procedures, the verterinary hospitals have taken detailed lessons from human hospitals on billing practices.  Bills detail every item and procedure.  They lists sutures, skin staples, lavage fluid, chest tube, ligature, drapes, and pages more. And almost none of them costs less than $50.  So the bills mount up at the wind speed of hurricane Irene, reaching well into four figures before you can say STOP!  

Well, that's not exactly true.  You can opt out at any point.  And I would have, given my experience of  how gracious and calmly accepting dogs are.  But Puma belongs to my adult daughters, and as citizens of the technoogical age they cannot bear to do less than everything to heal her even if it means extending her 13 years by only a year or so.  So they will hold bake sales and raise funds online to pay the bills, or most of them.  I understand that, I really do.

So as I sit here on the edge of my chair, nervously hoping with all my heart that Puma's heart makes it through surgery today,  unable to lift the weight from my heart, knowing that we will be here in a year or two at the most, when Puma's dear sweet life must, by the ticking of the clock, come to its natural end. 

 

The Nest is Quiet. Too Quiet.

Sweet A has moved to New York City. It's a good thing. A good idea. She has a great new job and a great new apartment in a wonderful neighborhood, close to friends and her sweetheart. It's all good.

So why do I feel so sad?

Lovely L hasn't lived at home for years and Sweet A spent four years in Colorado before coming home for just a couple years.

I think it's all about permanence. This is the real deal. My last fledgling has fledged, and the nest is feeling terribly, terribly quiet in a that'sthewayitisfromnowon kind of way. So no amount of rational thinking or mantras pronouncing that she is under four hours away by car, no happy thoughts about achieving her goals or the pride I feel in her accomplishments, none of this has anything at all to do with my emotional journey. I have to ride this one out and wait until it *feels* right, which it certainly does not yet. But it will. I know it will. Waiting is not my strength.

Baby Sarah. She's some baby.

Oh, the sweetness of babies, wiggly and new and googly-eyed. Baby Sarah is a wonder at four weeks. She snaps to attention when I catch her eye, she lifts her head and looks around at her incomprehensible world, she is beginning to offer lopsided smiles, and she sort kinda yesI'msureIsawthat plays the stick-out-your-tongue-when-I-do game. She yowls like a banshee when she is hungry and rolls her eyes in delight when sustenance arrives. Yes, Sarah is a keeper. She's some baby.

Dear Aunt S and Uncle L

This entry is dedicated to Dear Aunt S and Uncle L, who love and are loved by so many.  They are caring, giving, completely non-judgmental and devoted. And of course, Aunt S is the only one I'm aware of who actually reads my blog and sends me love notes about how much they enjoy it. Each such comment makes me feel like I've gotten a gold star on my permanent record.

I wish everyone the sweetness of such people in their lives.

We love you, Aunt S and Uncle L!

My Odd Couple

We finally all have airline tickets to Florida for Dad's 89th birthday at the end of April. Lovely L will fly all day the day before, arriving late at night to be picked up by J+J, and Sweet A and I arrive the following noon.  This will be a big surprise for Dad and he will be thrilled. He is the most fun person to surprise. We did this a few years ago, hiding in the coat room of the restaurant and popping out when he got settled in the waiting area.  The spectacle of his thrill and shock and his words and tears of joy were so sincere that several strangers in the waiting area wept openly along with him. This year we will stroll in about 10  minutes after he and his brother and friends are seated and ask if there is room at the table for a few more. Oh, he will be so delighted.

Of course, it takes planning to pull off a good surprise and so I am working with dad's older brother, Uncle George, who is a feisty and fun-loving 92. Many phone calls and negotiations later, the dinner party is planned to take place at 5 PM at a seafood restaurant right on the water in Ft Lauderdale that has "a really super early bird".

In their senior years Dad and brother G have become each others primary support, best friend, fiercest enemy, and co-conspirator. After Mom passed away I really doubted if Dad would make it on his own. But here we are seven years later and Dad and brother G have become this kookie odd couple. They belong to a couple of senior singles clubs, they go to Vegas (baby), the horse races, and at their age every birthday is reason for great celebration so it's dinner and dancing every few weeks with their wide circle of friends. These are all children of the depression, the World War II generation, and they are unwilling to say the least to sit out the last dance. 

But as often as they head out to eke some fun out of their late autumn years, Dad calls to ventilate his most recent rant on the fight he had with brother G, or his hurt feelings, or the reasons why he is going to move to another state because he can't take it anymore and he has to get away from G. Now it's true that brother G is a piece of work and increasingly difficult since he lost  his sight to Macular Degeneration, but the drama of these battles would he very funny indeed if Dad weren't so upset. I know what's coming when Dad starts our conversation with, "I have to tell you something and you tell me if you think I'm right." Oh dear. Here we go. The story that follows is a convoluted tale of soup that wasn't hot enough and a waitress flirted with and a tempter tantrum that resulted in a refusal to get into the car and a 92 year old enraged blind man stubbornly heading out on his own to walk the 2 miles home.

But the very next week Dad has reconsidered his last month's pledge never to travel with brother G again and they are off an a two day cruise for only $129 including all you can eat and $10 in gambling chips so he's packing in advance, in the neat and efficient way Mom taught him. And so it goes.

Puma the Wonder Dog

There’s nothing like the love of a big old devoted dog. They are unconditionally adoring, infinitely forgiving, and exquisitely attuned to our every mood, emotion, nuance, preference. They are eager to please, reluctant to blame, incapable of holding a grudge. Every day is a new opportunity, begun with delight and that weird optimism that shows up as a cold nose, earnestly twinkling eyes, and a wagging tail at 5AM. Well, not exactly 5AM for Puma the Wonder Dog. She prefers somewhere around 11. Maybe noon. On rare occasion she will arise voluntarily around 10. But if you have to get up and out before then, you will be dragging her bodily out from under the covers. Yes, well, okay, she’s in the bed. To be precise, she’s down at the foot of the bed, snuggled under the covers, just a large lump, still, quiet, and definitely in the deep zzz-zone. Calling her does no good. Removing the covers elicits perhaps one open eye. Which then closes. Slowly. The only way to get her up before her chosen hour is to drag her 85 pound furry body off the bed and onto the floor, which is completely unsuitable for sleep, and so she ever so slowly gets herself going.

I believe she learned this from her first love, Lovely L, who acquired PTWD at 6 weeks, and then brought her along on never-ending adventures in Colorado, Utah, and California.  Just the two of them, hiking, climbing, exploring, often sleeping under the stars. Puma learned the value of the foot position in the sleeping bag and the adolescent habit of sleeping half the day away. She’s never gotten past either.

Now she lives in JP with Sweet A and visits me often.  My grandpuppy Puma.  She is a gentle disciplinarian who patiently corrects me when I get things wrong. If I foolishly expect her to go for her walk before breakfast, I will find myself standing at the door cheerfully chirping “walkies!” until I finally catch on and go to the kitchen where I will find her standing over her bowl with an expression somewhere between patience and pity. Breakfast comes before walkies. And so it does.