Farewell To A Friend

(Contributed by Lori Whitwam)

It’s always hard to lose a precious pet. It’s pretty much part of the deal we make with ourselves when we get them, and we spend their lives not thinking about the day they’ll be gone. I had to go through that (again) myself just two days ago.

My 15-year-old golden retriever, Sprocket, went to the proverbial Rainbow Bridge on Tuesday. He was my first foster dog for Retrieve A Golden of Minnesota in 1997. He was 4 years old at the time. When the family I’d chosen for him changed their minds at the last minute, I knew he was meant to stay with us, and he did, for 11 years.

Sprocket was a sweet, willing boy. He took the blue ribbon in his obedience class, and worked with me and his golden-brother, Ripley, as a Therapy Dog for several years. He loved our annual trip up north to a lakeside cabin, where he could ride in a boat, swim, fetch, and roll in the pine needles. He was a very agreeable dog, never wanted to make trouble or be in the way, and enjoyed the occasional sip from my wine glass. He was the tug-of-war champion of the world, and liked to sneak up on the other dogs when they were busy and “stealth sniff” them.

15 is really old for golden retrievers. Sprocket had always been a very healthy dog, aside from all the times he’d “accidentally” swallow bits of a toy, or a sock, or a wash cloth, get lots of x-rays and narrowly avoid exploratory surgery. His problem the last several years had been progressive loss of nerve and muscle function to his hind quarters.

I know that we were able to keep him for at least a couple of years longer than might have been expected, thanks to feeding him raw food, and providing him with great Standard Process whole food supplements, joint support, and herbal pain treatments. He benefitted from chiropractic care, acupuncture, and Healing Touch for Animals ™. But, ultimately, the progression of his condition could no longer be managed.

It was only in the past month or two that I had to resort to giving him prescription pain medications. I’m adamant about not giving any of my dogs unnecessary prescription drugs, and this includes antibiotics, steroids, and NSAIDs. While they might suppress a symptom, making the dog appear better, they can cause just as many problems as they alleviate.

He’d been just chugging along, declining slowly but hanging in there. Then, on Monday, I arrived home and found him sprawled spread-eagle on the kitchen floor, urine and stool around him, a sopping mess. He couldn’t get up on the slate floor. I got him up, and managed to get all 80 pounds of him into the tub to clean him up. (And then I broke down a bit.) When my husband got home, we spent a nice evening with him, baby-gated in the bedroom to keep the other dogs from disturbing us. He fed Sprocket pizza and M&Ms (not good, but at that point it hardly mattered). We knew that in the next several days we would have to make a very tough decision.

Never wanting to be a problem, Sprocket made the decision for us. The next morning, he couldn’t stand up at all. I hoisted him upright, but he didn’t have enough control of his rear legs to stay that way. So, it was time.

Afterwards, I was so grateful that I still have Brody (3 year old Great Pyrenees), Ozark (9 year old Pyr/Golden mix) and Darwin (4 year old golden). All the years I’ve worked in the veterinary business, I’ve worried about people with only one dog. How awful it must be to go home to an empty house, after saying goodbye to your only dog.

I even worry about the people with just two dogs. I feel sad for the “only dog” who is left. I’m definitely a “pack animal,” and insist that I’ll always have at least three dogs, though my husband thinks two might be better. We have three now, of course, and that’s a tiny pack for us. In the 12 ½ years we’ve been in this house, we’ve been “over the limit” of three dogs for all but March-November of 2007. We’ve had as many as seven at one time. I don’t think I could do that anymore, but I do love my three-dog pack. I just wish we were still “four.”

I’ve counseled people for years about how to know when it is time to say farewell to their pets. I know all the answers. I tell people to think of two or three things the pet loved more than anything, and whether they can still do/enjoy those things. Do the bad days outnumber the good ones? Is there any realistic expectation that he or she will see improvement in their condition? Finally, look deep into your heart and ask yourself if you’re keeping the pet alive for the pet’s sake, or your own.

Yes, I know the answers… except when I’m the one who has to answer them. Then, I struggle as much as any of you do.

Please keep my Sprocket in your thoughts, as he adjusts to his new existence, where all good dogs go. I’m sure he’s with my Ripley, who went ahead two years ago this month. Ripley took care of him in life, and will do so now. He’s also getting reacquainted with former pack-mates Porsche, Cricket, Flash, Gulliver, Seko and Ruxpin.

Friends keep telling me that Sprocket was lucky to have found us, and maybe that is true. But I know for sure that we were truly, truly fortunate to have found him, and to have had him for 11 wonderful years.

My Dogs Are Great. Please Help Me!

(Contributed by Lori Whitwam)

On the upside, Brody and Darwin seem to have reached a truce, or at least a cease-fire, and I haven't had to check either of them for bloody puncture wounds in about three weeks. I'm still not sure if this is their doing, or if I'm just getting better at managing it. Either way, no Tasmanian-Devil-style go-rounds and lack of impending bodily harm equals "good."

Brody used to be my "problem barker." He's a Great Pyrenees, which is a livestock guardian breed, and in fact his parents are working livestock guardians on an Arabian horse farm in Illinois. His job, as he sees it, is to patrol the yard for extended periods of time, and bark at any person, dog, squirrel, cat, leaf, cloud, shadow, or invisible ninja he sees (or imagines). The good part, inasmuch as there is one, is that there are long periods of patrol and observation in between barking jags. He is selectively deaf when outside, and at this moment has been outside since 6:30 AM (and it is now 10:53 AM) and is currently barking in the general direction of a tree which may or may not contain a squirrel.

Amazingly, he is no longer the reigning Bark King of the immediate neighborhood. That honor now belongs to Darwin, the three year old rescued golden who joined our family on November 21. I've had six goldens, and none of them have been dedicated barkers. Sure, they'd bark once in a while (actually, Seko's bark was more like a whinny, which was comical coming from such a regal senior male golden), but none of them seemed to make a hobby of it.

I should have had a clue when, while visiting Darwin at his foster home, he barked for thirty solid minutes at the German Shepherd who was there with Foster Mom's brother. But hey, he was excited and really wanted to play. He did that when he came to our family, too, barking at Brody to get him to play... which was a big part of Brody's animosity toward him in the beginning. Apparently Darwin the Golden doesn't know how to bark in "Pyrish." He may have inadvertently barked something offensive, but I'm not sure because Ozark, who is a Pyr/Lab mix and presumably fluent in Pyrish and probably at least conversant in Goldenese, refuses to translate.

Outside, when Brody and Ozark were wrestling, Darwin would bounce and bark in an effort to get into the game. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Which, I think, is when the problem began. We have a large yard, two acres in a subdivision that used to be in the middle of a corn field but is now bordering on Strip Mall Central. We are two houses off a two-lane county road with moderate traffic. The chain link fence between our yard and the neighbor between us and the road is now Darwin's personal racetrack. He has discovered the cars that pass by every couple of seconds, and has decided that if Brody and Ozark are too busy to play, the cars are an acceptable alternative. He runs the fence, barking maniacally at his new "friends," (or maybe they're enemies... he's not been forthcoming on the subject) and chases them away. But wait! There's another one! "BARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!!!!!! Ha! Chicken! Run away! Next!!! Coming from the other direction, huh? Thought you could sneak up on me? BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!" He's run the fence so much that the snow there is now compacted into a narrow, Darwin-width glacier, and in the spring I'm sure it will turn into a muddy trench.

I'm nearly immune to barking. At least big-dog barking. Little yappy-dog barking still gets on my nerves, but I don't have any little dogs, so that's not a big problem in my world. My stress and irritation come because I have always gone out of my way not to impose my dogs on others in the immediate vicinity who may not be as devoted to dogs as I am. So when he starts barking, my tension level begins to rise, worrying that someone in the house next door might be sleeping, nursing a hangover headache, or trying to do some other domestic task that would best be accomplished with some QUIET.

One option would be to shut the gate in the fence that surrounds our back door, deck, patio and pool, thus denying him (and out of necessity the other dogs) access to the rest of the big back yard. That puts another tall wooden privacy fence between him and his view of the road. The downside to this is that he would soon begin to make frequent trips (and potty stops) on the top of the snow-and-ice-covered in-ground pool cover. This is not a big issue right now, but much more problematic as it begins to thaw. Hauling a soaking, freezing dog out after he falls through slushy ice is Not Fun. And yes, I do know this first-hand. Plus, when spring arrives, much poop would have to be scooped and/or pumped off the pool cover turned canine septic tank. Also Not Fun. Even if it's not on the actual pool cover, a winter's worth of large dog droppings in the mulchy area around the pool is also undesirable (or so says my husband, who is the designated poop-scooper, mainly because it bothers him way more than it does me).

Let me be clear about two things. I will not, under any circumstances either de-bark my dog, or use a shock collar. I'd move us all to a remote Canadian outpost first.

Which still leaves me searching for a solution. Trekking down the Killer Steps of Death (currently covered in three inches of ice) in my floppy boots, dog-hair-covered sweat suit, and parka is something I don't tend to do a lot of in the depths of a Minnesota winter. This makes in-person corrections, rewards or distractions difficult.

So far, I'm considering duct tape, a moat (wait, he's a golden, he'd like that... plus it would be frozen, and therefore not a moat but a slippery road running parallel to the highway, so maybe
I should just get him ice skates), super glue, a paintball gun (that was my husband Tom's idea), a helper monkey (also Tom's idea, but he really just wants a monkey), or perhaps a scud missile. We talked about those ultrasonic things you mount on the fence, that make an "unpleasant to dogs" sound when something loud happens near them, but he'd never hear the "unpleasant to dogs" sound over his own bark. A citronella collar sounds like a good possibility. At least he'd smell all herbally. The helper monkey would probably enjoy that. Wonder what frozen citronella is like around a dog's neck/chin, though.

I've always been a dog-person, managing multi-dog packs successfully. Given time, I usually work out any behavior issues we encounter, but this one has me stumped at the moment. Every time I yell at Darwin, Ozark (all 110 pounds of him) gets nervous and flings himself under the end table, where he really does not fit, considering all the junk I have stuffed under there. 14-year-old Sprocket is kind of deaf, making him the luckiest one here, as he is largely immune to both the barking and the yelling.

If any of you have suggestions, I'd love to hear them! Provided I haven't been barked deaf. So you'd better hurry. In the meantime, I will be learning to read lips so I can communicate with the Realtor who will sell me my remote Canadian outpost.

New Rescue Dog

(Contributed by Lori Whitwam)

It appears as if our three-dog pack will expand this week to four. To some people that sounds like a lot. In fact, I've been chastised by members of my own family for having "too many dogs," to which I generally reply with something along the lines of "mind your own business." I tell people that we don't have the hobbies that many families have. We don't own a cabin, a boat, a jet ski, a snowmobile, a motorcycle or an expensive car. We don't spend our money on going out to restaurants frequently, we don't collect antiques, and I couldn't care less about a huge wardrobe or jewelry. We love dogs. They make us happy, and we make them happy. They ground me in the natural world, and watching the pure joy they derive from the simplest experiences reminds me that my own petty problems aren't so awful in the scheme of things.

But, having said all that, I wasn't looking for another dog. Other than when we adopted Brody, a 2-year-old Great Pyrenees, last New Year's Eve, I haven't actively set out to find a dog for our household in 13 years. The right dog always seems to find us at the right time, whether we were aware it was the right time or not.

So there I was last Monday, perusing the Retrieve A Golden of Minnesota website, as I frequently do. While I'm not an active volunteer at this time, I have a 10-year history with the group. I used to serve on the board, was the Placement Coordinator, and originated the website and newsletter. I like to check out the dogs in the system, bookmark ones that catch my eye, and follow their progress through their foster experience to their eventual adoption. But Monday I saw a dog, and the bells went off in my head. I felt the same way I did when I first laid eyes on our Ruxpin, when he was at the clinic where I was working for his neuter. Something told me that this was OUR DOG, and I was right.

I emailed my husband right away, and he replied "NOT FAIR!" But when I got home that night, he still had the dog's page up on the computer. I made some inquiries, got my application reactivated, and before long our information was in the dog's foster-mom's hands and we had an appointment to meet him on Saturday.

Let me tell you a bit about this boy. He is a golden retriever, 3 years old, and had apparently been kept chained in a garage and neglected horribly. He's a short-stature dog, but has a thick bone structure. He should probably weigh about 70-75 pounds, but is barely over 50 pounds. He was terribly matted, so much so that most of his chest and rear end and tail had to be shaved, revealing sores from the knots pulling on his skin and the matted urine and filth. His toenails were nearly an inch long, forcing him to walk on the backs of his feet. He escaped (thankfully!) and was impounded. His "family" declined to claim him, so he was turned over to RAGOM. He's cleaned up now, healing, and is neutered. When we met him on Saturday, you would never guess that this tiny, abused boy had suffered as he did. He has a true golden personality, is sweet, loving and playful, and has managed not to lose his joy in just being alive.

The next step in the adoption process is for him to come to our house one evening this week and meet our three resident dogs. The only one I'm slightly concerned about is Brody, the 2 year old Great Pyrenees. Being a livestock guardian breed, Brody takes protection of his house and yard very seriously, and might not readily accept another dog, particularly a male, into it. But even considering that, Brody is a pretty easy-going dog and has never showed any signs of aggression. We'll manage the introduction carefully, and I'm optimistic that it will go well. If it does, we will go to the foster's home again on Saturday and complete the adoption, and he will officially be a member of the family.

Besides the fact that I immediately predicted a real connection between this dog and my husband (which he needed... he hasn't had his own "special dog" since our Ruxpin died in March), I feel like I can do so much to get this sweet boy back on the road to being a strong, healthy, vital dog again. At our clinic, we promote raw/natural diets, and that will be the first step. I'm sure his skin will improve rapidly with the right diet, some essential fatty acids, and possibly some Standard Process Canine Whole Body Support. We'll assess any other issues he might have, such as if he needs a chiropractic adjustment from many months of being forced to walk in an unnatural posture. Dr. Andrews thinks the physical and emotional trauma he's endured would respond well to some Traditional Chinese Herbs. I plan to take "before and after" pictures of him, to track his progress as he moves closer and closer to true wellness.

I think Ozark, my 8 year old Pyr Mix will likely enjoy having another young dog around to siphon off some of Brody's energy! They love to play, but there are few dogs who can keep up with Brody for long! I have my fingers crossed that he and Brody hit it off, otherwise I will gladly withdraw our application and allow him to be placed in a home that will truly be perfect for him. I know the importance of not "forcing" a dog to fit into a pack. What matters most of all is what is best for the dog, and if that isn't our family, I'll happily watch him be matched with someone who is.

Did I NEED another dog? Nope, and I wasn't looking for one. But this one found me, and I'm sure he needs US. I'm sure we'll find out we needed him, too, in ways we didn't even know.