Requiem

It has been a little over six months since we lost Sweet Simba.  I still cry at the drop of a hat when I think of her.  Maybe it's because I never had time to truly grieve.  The last half of 2012 was not a happy time.  We lost Simba June 26, and a few days later I was diagnosed with breast cancer.  Thankfully, it was stage 0 and completely curable, but it was still scary and necessitated a lot of expensive, time-sucking and emotionally-and-physically-charged treatments, to be followed by 5 years of Tamoxifen. Then, in October, Pete lost his job.  It was a new low for our household.  In dealing with all of the other "stuff" life threw at us, I never had the time or emotional stamina to grieve properly.

Or, perhaps it was the manner of her passing.  She suffered through most of the night and part of the morning before we were able to get a vet to the house to ease her suffering and to help her cross.

Either way, I find myself feet firmly planted in the beginning of a new year with hopes that it will be a much brighter one, yet am still unable to shake the stranglehold grief seems to have on my heart.

We have a new golden now.  While he will never take the place of Simba, he at least brings that joy that knows no bounds that seems to be such a big part of the golden retriever heart.  I see pieces of Simba in him, as well as qualities of her predecessor, Trapper.  Yet he is unique, as were Simba and Trapper.  His name is Grayson, and he is fast becoming as big a part of my life as were Simba, Trapper and Dickens (another dear departed buddy of times past) and of course Belle, who is still here to bring us joy. It is my opinion that one can never replace one dog with another - they are all unique unto themselves, but you can fill some of the void they leave behind.  Grayson is beginning to do just that.  And I don't know what I would have done without my precious Belle.  She kept me sane and made me laugh in the midst of my grief, a loving reminder that life goes on and there are others out there who not only need our love, but are ready to give it unconditinally.

I think it is going to be a while before I can completely replace the tears with smiles when I think of my Sweet Simba-Miss Snoogers-Boogie Girl, but I am grateful for the wonderful memories she has left me with and for all the love she gave when she was here on this earth with me.  Simba, even though I still cry, you have always made my heart smile, and always will.

Love,
Your Mommy

Over the Rainbow

It has taken me two weeks to get to the place in my head and my heart where I can sit down and write this. 

Sweet Simba left this world at approximately 10 a.m. on June 26, 2012.  She left behind many wonderful memories that I will be able to look back on some day and smile.  For now, all I feel is the ache of the Simba-shaped hole that is left in my heart.  One of my friends gave that description, and it is very accurate.  I know that eventually the jagged edges will smooth and the pain become tolerable, but there will forever be a hole in my heart where the memory of her resides, just as there is for each of the beloved dogs who came before her. 

She began her downhill journey the Friday morning before, when upon waking, we found she not only could not get up without assistance (which had been going on for a few weeks now when not on a rug), but could not even walk.  Her back legs were crossed and had to be manually pulled apart into position by one of us, and we had to support her back end with a sling made from a towel.  The ultimate indignity – to have to be held up while you try to take care of your business.  Concerned, we called the vet. 

By the time the vet arrived that afternoon, Simba had regained the ability to walk on her own, albeit sometimes with a sideways gait and always with the drop-foot dragging of her left back foot.  She seemed to have rallied, however.  She was eating and drinking just fine.  And her bodily functions seemed fairly normal.  The vet agreed, however, that she most likely was at the beginning of her journey to that other place. 

She did fairly well until Saturday, when she seemed to start to spiral slowly downhill.  She was still eating, but not more than a few bites at a time.  We both moved out to the living room to sleep that night, Pete on the couch and me on the recliner.  We had moved her bed there to put her closer to the door when she needed to go out. By Sunday evening, she had stopped eating and drinking. She had no interest in anything, not even her favorite “baby.”  We decided to move her bed back to our bedroom and to call the vet in the morning if she was not better. 

I woke up at 2 a.m. and realized it was too quiet.  There were none of the “Simba sounds” we had become accustomed to in the last few months.  No coughing.  No thumping around trying to get comfortable.  No “I need to go out” whine. 

“It’s too quiet,” I whispered, thinking Pete was sound asleep.  To my surprise, a quiet voice next to me replied, “Do you want to turn the light on and check on her?”

We found her lying on her bed at the foot of ours, still conscious, but completely unresponsive.  Her breathing was labored, and she would give an occasional uncomfortable groan.  We knew she was leaving us.  The dilemma was whether to carry her out to the van and transport her to the emergency vet about 30 minutes away or to wait until morning and have our own vet come out to the house to help her gently slip away from this earth and the pain she was in. 

We decided we didn’t want her to leave this life in a cold, sterile clinical setting, so we put down a futon and a couple of blankets and lay down beside her to wait for the dawn.  It was agonizing watching her obviously in pain, but it felt like the right thing to do.  She deserved to die at home, on her own bed, surrounded by those who loved her.  That’s how I hope it will be when my time comes.  Around 6:00 I could take it no longer and made a call to our vet.  I knew he would not be in yet, but left a message for him.  I went to make some coffee while Pete stayed with Simba.  Belle and Elwood wandered in and out of the room to check on her.  I think they knew what was going on.  Belle, the ever domineering sibling, was uncharacteristically quiet and gentle when going over to her.  At one point, Pete had to leave the room for something, and I was lying on futon next to Simba when I felt something furry bump against me feet.  I looked up to find Belle sitting at my feet, with her back to me, staring down the hall, for all the world looking like she was standing guard. 

The vet finally arrived that morning and confirmed what we already knew.  Simba was dying.  He let us say our good-byes and helped her slide quietly away into a world where there is no pain, no suffering, and where old gals become young again.  Tennis balls and stuffed “babies” abound, along with other four-footed companions to romp and play with. 

“Crossing Rainbow Bridge” may seem a bit of a cliché way to put it these days, but I like the picture it creates.  A sunny, happy world, free from worldly cares, where old friends can meet again some day.  So, Simba, I will miss you greatly.  I will continue to grieve for a while and mourn your loss.  But I am happy that there is a place where, someday, I will meet you once again Over the Rainbow. 

Love you always.

Mommy

R.I.P. Sweet Simba, Forever my Boogie Girl 

June 26, 2012

First Star to the Right ...

SAN:

Our Sweet Simba has begun her voyage to that Final Frontier, also known as Rainbow Bridge.  Oh, she's not there yet, but time is closing in on her.  She woke Pete at her usual 4:00 a.m. this morning to go out and take care of her old lady "business."  He brought her back in, and she kind of fell onto her bed between my side of the bed and the wall.  About 20 minutes later, I was awakened by a soft, high, keening type of whine.  It was Simba.  Knowing she had just been outside less than half an hour ago, I wondered what was up.  I turned on the light and said, "What's up, old gal?  You need to go out again so soon?  Yeah, I know, us old ladies and our bladders..."  But when I tried to help her up (she has gotten to the point in the last week where she usually needs someone to pick up her bum while she lifts her front half), I soon found that she could not walk at all without assistance, and a trip outside proved unfruitful.  Her left back leg that had developed a drop as of late was now a tightly fisted "claw" and all she could do was drag it.  Her other hind leg wasn't a whole lot more useful.  When we got her back to the bedroom, she dropped herself down on the wooden floor and refused to get up to go onto her bed.  She was definitely conscious but would not respond to our saying her name, clapping our hands, whistling ... nothing.

I had noticed when I first lifted her off her bed that the usual warm spot was not there.  It was cold.  In patting her and checking her out, I could tell her body temperature had dropped a lot.  I thought we were losing her then and there.  Pete did too.  I pulled out an old floor futon and laid down beside her to sleep.  After 20 minutes, my arthritic bones could no longer take the floor, so Pete helped me carry her down to the living room, where I put her on the couch and I sat in the recliner across from her.  She slept.  I didn't.

When morning came, her temperature had warmed up a bit, but she would neither eat nor drink.  Taking her outside did little good in the way of elimination.  Nothing there either.  I was heartbroken.  Pete too.  We both had known for some time this was coming, but it did little to ease the pain.  As long as she wasn't suffering, we decided we wanted her to die at home with people who loved her, not in a cold clinic.  It was the weekend, and our vet was not in, and was covered by an emergency vet service.

We moved her to the recliner next to me, and she seemed comfortable there for a short while.  Then she began to pant and the tremors from the Addisons because a lot worse,  She began coughing.  Pete suggested we get her bed and bring it down to the middle of the living room.  As soon as we got her stretched out on the dog bed, she relaxed and the coughing, panting and tremors seemed to abate.

The problem of ambulating, however, did not get any better.  As the day wore on, I finally got her to eat, but it had to be a certain brand of dog food.  For some reason, a month ago she suddenly decided she no longer liked the better quality food we were feeding and preferred the lower quality (but still good) food.  She flat out refused to eat anything but that lower quality food today.  But at least she was eating.  Not drinking, though.

Finally, late afternoon, we tried again, and she managed to tinkle.  Still not the "other thing, " but we were elated at the potty.  When we got her back in on her bed, she finally began to drink water.  Hallelujah!  Two more tries and about three hours later, we got another tinkle and.... <drum roll> ... poop!  Of course this was all still with the aid of a towel slung beneath her to support her.

The vet is coming tomorrow.  I'm hoping he'll give us good news, but fear the more realistic outcome will be news we don't want to hear.  But for now, Dear Simba, it is "first star to the right... and straight on 'til morning."
 *******************************************************************************
 PETER:

When I first gave thought to putting together some thoughts for this blog, my idea for a title was  "Confronting the Final Frontier."
It's still apt, but as God is merciful, no longer as immediate.
San has given an account of the particulars above. My approach is more visceral, which, I guess makes this more about me than about Simmie Girl, but I plead that you try to see that the two are entwined.
For she dictates what I feel, and how I feel flows back to her in my paltry attempts to try to understand and be as much of a comfort as I can.
I'm not sure I can express it coherently.
I've been told before that I am unemotional. Not true.
Undemonstrative....perhaps.
But today, I have cried. Several times.
And all it took was a look.
The look of pain and confusion as Simba tried to comprehend why things didn't work any more.
The look of confidence in the clear moments. The look that is pure "Don't worry, I'm here." A look that is all Simba, and so reassuring as to melt even a heart of cold fired, case hardened steel.
Most wrenching, the in-between look. The look that truly represents the times when our old gal is off  by herself in "Simba's World." Not concerned with the future, no regretting of the past, just slightly out of phase with the present. A fugue state that defies definition.
I hope, and try with all my might to believe that in those moments, she is looking beyond the light. I cling to the vision that what she sees is "Simba's (perfect) World."
A world where she is forever 2-4 years old. Young, supple and spry. Where she is attended in endless companionship by a boy and girl, both about 10-12 years old. The girl to curry her and teach her the manners of hand commands, and the fun of the games that can be built around them.
The boy to encourage her roguish, clown behavior, and to take her on adventures that best befit pirates and inseparable allies.
And both of them to be able to run endlessly,and effortlessly, almost as fast as she can. Never to be winded. To throw the ball into clear, smooth, and cooling crystal waters with arms that crack like whips,and never tire, that she may please them and be pleased herself by the mere joy that the sharing of the retrieval brings.

I don't know, can't know about these things. I can only hope, and believe, and ask the Powers that it may be so.
But, there are some things I do know.
I know that I have learned of loyalty, of patience,and of forgiveness from this "mere animal" as some of lesser insight might refer to her.
And I have also learned of Dignity.
When the time comes (and it will) when I am able to look up and perceive my own hourglass, with the last few precious grains flowing out, I hope to face them with half the equanimity that I have observed in this simple and loving companion I have been blessed to have known these last ten years as "my boogie girl."
The vet comes tomorrow.  I'm hoping he'll give us good news, but fear the more realistic outcome will be news we don't want to hear.
But for now, Dear Simba, it is now, (and forever)...

"First star to the right....And straight on 'til morning.
And all the love both your Mom and I have goes with you.

Unsinkable

At 14-1/2 years old, we realize our time with Sweet Simba is most likely getting short.  That realization only makes it all the more precious.  With all this gal has been through, it's hard to believe she made it past 4, let alone 14. We sometimes jokingly call her our "Million Dollar Dog."

At age 4 she developed a horrible, horrible cough that took three vets and over a year to properly diagnose as kennel cough.  Yes, they all tested her for it initially, but it always came back negative.  When I got married and moved to Vermont with her, we eventually met Dr Randy Ross, who became Simba's savior with his compassion and never-give-up attitude. After a year of tests and trials (we even tried special food to see if it was an allergy), he decided to send her in for another chest x-ray and a really deep chest fluoroscopy (I believe that's what it was.)  The vet who did the imaging said she had never seen such a bad case of kennel cough.  We had to try three different antibiotics before finding one, which had to be given by injection, that would kill the little buggers.  That antibiotic was so strong that we had to test her urine once a week until she was off it.  Let's just say I must have made a pretty comic figure chasing after her first thing in the morning, pie plate in hand trying to catch some of that urine.  I think she thought it was a game. Every time I would get close, she'd come out of her pee squat and run away.  Ah, Simba, you are so sweet, but so naughty sometimes!   

Anyway, we eventually got that taken care of, but it left her with a chronic cough that took us another year to finally conquer.  We found the right meds and it let up quite a bit.  Of course, by the time we got it under control, she was smart enough to have figured out, "If I cough, I get lots of attention," and it became another method of communication for her.  *Cough* "Mommy, please feed me."  *Cough* "Daddy, please let me out."  *Cough* "I'm bored, please give me attention."  Well, you get the idea. 

Then, a couple of years ago, she blew out her left ACL and needed surgery.  The vet warned us that usually when one side goes, the other is not far behind it.  Sure enough, six months later, the other went.  Surgery had her back chasing the tennis ball in no time, but left her with arthritis and gradually weakening back legs.  When we brought Belle on board, she quickly learned she could bring Simba down by plowing into her back end.  

As time went on, Simba's back legs got weaker and weaker.  She could no longer get up from any surface that was not carpeted on her own steam.  We put her on pain medication, which helped some, but you can see it is a major effort for her to do so, and frequently she still needs help.  If she goes around a corner too fast, down she goes.  She has such an air of grace and dignity about the whole thing, an acceptance of what is.  "Oh... imagine that.  Well, I'm here now.  I might as well take a bit of a rest."  I think a lot of us could learn a lot from her.  Life isn't always easy.  It's not always what you want.  But you might as well take what it gives you and find a way to be happy with it. 

About a year ago, she began the slide into what I thought was old-age dementia.  It was what prompted me to begin this blog.  Recently, she began to stumble and have tremors.  The diagnosis was Addison's disease.  Very expensive to treat, but our vet was willing to work with us and we decided she would still have a good quality of life if the medications worked, so we did it.  It only took two days to see a difference, and by a week she was about as close to her old self as I think she will ever be again.  The tremors, while still present, were not as often or as severe.  And, surprise of surprise - her "crazy barking" and dementia-like symptoms disappeared.  Oh, she's still a stubborn old lady whose hearing and eyesight are beginning to fade, but she is back with us.  Simba's World has gently melded back into our world.  

Our Grande Dame of the household is back with us.  Her tenacity and love of life truly does make her seem, at times, to be .... Unsinkable.

Kitty Police, Potato Thief

Have no fear, Detective Simba is on the job.  We have many nicknames for Simba in the Harrington household.  Among them is the well-deserved moniker of "Kitty Police." 

Over the years she has become the self-appointed House Tattletale.  Elwood's on the kitchen counter?  My little Kitty Police will let out two or three sharp "bossy barks" to let me know.  Poor cat can't get away with anything.  Sometimes his big sister's powers of detection work in his favor, though.  Sister Belle using Elwood as a chew toy?  Simba the Snitch will set up another round of barking.  Seldom are her siblings off the doggie detective's radar.

What many are not aware of, though, is that Simba has another, darker side.  Mild-mannered Kitty Police by day, Potato Thief by night.  I just about fell over from laughing so hard by what I saw when I went to investigate the sound of rustling in the kitchen the other day.  Surprised I had not heard any alert from Simba, I left my work and headed for the kitchen fully expecting to find Elwood had gotten into something on the counter.  Imagine my surprise when I rounded the corner to see Simba in the middle of the floor happily munching away on ... a raw potato.  Torn-open bag of potatoes next to her, she just looked up at me as if to say, "Thanks for leaving this bag of potatoes on the floor for me, Mom."  I have no idea how many potatoes she consumed before I got there.  I'm betting it was at least two. 

Another name we have for Simba is "Miss Piggy."  She will eat almost anything, even peas.  Instead of biscuits, our dogs usually get raw carrots or apples as treats.  I have been known to throw her a piece of raw potato once in awhile when I am cooking, so I guess it should have come as no surprise that she would think of the bag of potatoes as doggie treats.

All I can say is the Harrington Household sleeps soundly at night knowing that Detective Simba, Kitty Police is on the job and will leave no potato unturned in her quest for a safe home, justice and ... a quick snack.

Giving Thanks

First off, my thanks to our friend, Linda Horner, for the photo you see.  I love it.  I captures so much of who Simba is and where she's at at this point in her life.

I was awakened at 4:30 the morning after Thanksgiving by heavy panting.  I turned on the light to find Simba shaking uncontrollably and panting in what was obvious distress.  She was unresponsive when I spoke her name, and it was difficult to get her to move her head to look at me.  When I did, her eyes were far away.  Having had two other dogs who experienced seizures, it was a familiar and frightening sight.  I spoke softly to her, petting her, and finally she tried to stand.  She made it about halfway and was stuck, legs splayed in a halfway-up squat, still rigid, shaking and panting.  Bit by bit she came out of it enough to finally stand.  I helped her out to see if some fresh air would help.  All she did was walk around me in a circle on her leash.  I finally helped her back into the house.  She was still having difficulty walking and needed guidance and support.  She balked at going through any doorway as if afraid.

We were away from home, having gone to Bennington to spend Thanksgiving with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law.  Bit by bit, she seemed to pull out of it, so I guided her to the living room and lifted her onto the sofa and sat down next to her, waiting for morning.  I didn't want to risk going back to sleep and missing another episode if it happened.  Thankfully, she slowly came out of it, and by morning was her usual exuberant, if arthritic, self.  We left around 8:30 for home, where I called the vet.  He was off for the weekend, but I had the emergency vet number just in case.  Since she seemed stable and fairly normal, I opted to keep an eye on her and left left a message for the vet to call me that Monday, which he did.

Bottom line was as I suspected.  It sounded like a seizure, but any tests at that point would most likely come back normal, and even if they didn't, we probably could not treat whatever was causing them because of her age.  He gave me instructions to call him if it happened again, and what to do if it was protracted.

I have noticed lately that my sweet Simba is stumbling a lot more than she used to.  I think something neurological is probably going on and I feel helpless.  But I have decided that to spend the time I have left with her grieving before she is even gone is not only useless, but an injustice to Simba.  She IS alive, and she is HERE right now.  NOW is what I need to enjoy and savor.  I'm making as many memories with her as I can, so I will have those to comfort me when she no longer can.

In other words, I am going forward with the Spirit of Thanksgiving in my heart, grateful to have such an exceptional soul in my life as my Sweet Simba.

Little Girl, Old Lady, Simbalina, Heart of my Hearts... Thank you for being in my life.  I love you, and you make me smile.

Happy Birthday Simba

It's been a quiet day for me at home. I've been bitten by a small stomach bug, and the prospect of having to fend it off at work simply wasn't an option.
What it has done, is given me some time to do something I've wanted to do since my wife's first post. Talk a little about our Dowager Queen from my perspective.
I am Simba's "daddy".
I put it that way, because,as you might suspect, no one is really her "master".
Day before yesterday, our old gal turned 14.  I've been a part of Simbas' World for the last ten years0.
It was not an easy place to get to. I met Simba during my stay in Laconia doing Harvey for San and the Streetcar Company. The two of us (San and I) were just beginning to develop a relationship. Simba had her ideas on the whole thing. They could be pretty much summed up in those early days as "Who the heck do you think you are ?"
I was good to go walking with (on leash), fine to receive pets from, and great when it came time to beg food, but anything in the way of requesting behavior (come here, sit, stay, lie down, off) was either double checked through San (do I HAVE to Mom ?) or simply ignored all together. San, to her credit, stayed out of these arguments. She says she knew I had the necessary skills needed to eventually get her to obey. I think I'm pretty sure she was hanging back just to see if I had the patience to win Simba over and earn her (their) respect. Love me, love my dog. Dog doesn't love you ? Nice knowing you, Jack.
I, with an amazing show of fortitude, persevered. An effort that has been well worth it, for I cannot imagine what these last ten years would have been like without Simba to share them . She has been companion, comforter and confidant. My hours have been enriched by sharing time with her.

Now, as she enters her 14th year (98-if you haven't done the math yet) I hope that in her Doggy Glory Days, there will always be a spot in her memory for me, the ball and the water. I know she will always have a spot like that in mine.