Commanders Post at The Warpath - View Single Post - The animals give their affection unconditionally, and they are less judgemental thread

JoeRedskin · 02-06-2013, 05:22 PM

Continuing on with the dogs of my life ...

ABBY: Abby (short for Abigail) was a four year old yellow lab we adopted. She was also the anti-Otis.

After Otis died in early February, I was in no mood to get another dog. In March, however, my wife heard of an older “rescue dog” that was in need of a home. My wife pretty much used emotional blackmail to force me to agree to taking the dog. When we got her, she was incredibly hyper and destructive with bad epilepsy to top it all off. I simply didn’t want the dog. At all. I was deeply hurt by my wife for forcing me “replace” Otis so quickly with this animal. Damn, I hated that dog.

Then a strange thing happened. She grew on me. Like mold.

At first, Abby didn't seem to know how to react to us. We were people who treated dogs like family, not like property. Clearly, her prior owners did not do that. Don't get me wrong, I think her prior owners tried do right by her but she was their first dog ever and she was a handful. They just didn't get that dogs aren't wind up toys. Soon enough, however, Abby adapted to being a part of a family rather than being owned by a family. She calmed down a little, became less destructive and just wanted to be around us.

Abby lived to be with people. She loved them - big people, short people, any people. She particularly loved HER people. Every day she let us know that we were her favorite playmates. She drank beer, was convinced she had thumbs, and was the most vicious "tug" player I have ever known. Sometimes I think she hated to sleep b/c it meant she would have to wait to play with us.

I say she was hyper (and she was) but she was also sweet and, around our new son, gentle. She never stopped being destructive and hyper. Also, her epileptic siezures caused more than one trip to the vet at strange hours. There were a few seizures where we thought she wasn't going to pull through. She did and each time, after a bit of rest, she was back to her regular self. One look from her and it was clear she was saying - "Sorry about that folks - did I miss anything? Okay then - are we playing yet?"

Yes, she was the anti-Otis, but that was okay. It was, in fact, good. Abby lived to play and played to live. Every day, she demonstrated that it is God's desire for us to enjoy life and eke every moment of fun from every breath we take. To me, in a very real way, she was the embodiment and physical manifestation of God's "Joy". Damn, I loved that dog.

Then she got sick. Really sick. Cancer sick.

In November/December 2005, we took her in to have some tests done on a cyst that wouldn't go away. They came back bad - very bad. She had a type of cancer that, by the time it was detected, was already throughout her system. With drugs and love we kept her alive through Christmas and into the New Year. She died a quiet peaceful death in January, 2006. We had her for only two years. We miss her deeply and love her still.

BRONWYN: Another yellow lab from the same breeder from whom we had gotten Otis and Trajan. It was as if Abby picked her for us. She, too, lived to play and played to live. Not as hyper or destructive as Abby, but just as enthusiastic about a game of tug and a romp in the field.

Unfortunately, she was also dumb as a post. I would sit in my chair and pretend to throw a ball for her while actually letting it fall behind my back into the chair. She would search for a it, give up and bring me another toy. Wash, rinse, repeat until I had about five to ten toys behind me and she would get this deeply perplexed look on her face “Dad … you threw all the toys into outer space … what are we going to do now???” Not the dumbest dog I have ever owned (that honor goes to another that will be described later) but probably not many pegs above vegetation. Again, however, she was a sweet, sweet animal.

She was my son’s dog from the moment she padded into the house. Trajan was slowing down at this point and a high energy puppy, while fun in short bursts, was tiresome to him for any extended play. For a four year old boy? A playful puppy was the definition of joy. My son tied a rope around his waist and ran around so she would chase him, or he would chase her if the mood struck them. Sometimes the chaser/chasee role would switch four or five times in the space of a ten minutes. It was chaotic fun to watch and inevitably ended with the two of them collapsing in a hug filled with dog kisses for my son. She loved to stick her paws into the bathtub when he was taking a bath and play “Hey Aidan, watch me eat the water!”. This amused him to no end. Theirs was a special relationship between a boy and his dog. He bonded with her on a deep level. ... It should have lasted for years.

One of Bronwyn’s really bad habits was that she was a bolter. Open a door and, if you weren’t vigilant, she was out it in a flash. She loved to be outside. We tried to be careful and cure her of the habit but, short of stiff arming her, it was a habit she just wouldn’t break. When you live in a row house 100 or so feet from a main drag this is a problem.

When Bronwyn was nine months old, I just wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about something else and didn’t realize she was right there. Open door, out sprints dog – straight for the field where she and Aidan would race and chase. I called and ran after her. She thought we were playing, she kept running. Right across a main street. Right into the path of an oncoming car. I saw it coming. I know it was going to happen and I knew I was going to watch her die. I saw it hit her. I was helpless. Front right bumper. Full on body shot. Nothing the driver could have done. The car’s tire ended up on her hind leg.

She wasn’t dead. Bloody and damaged I carried her to the house. We got her to the vet somehow. She had a broken back, fractured skull, broken femur and all the ligaments and tendons in her ankle were shredded (the foot was being held on only by the skin).

Bronnie made a full recovery. They had to put a metal band on the femur but that was it. We kept her in a crate for six weeks to keep her as motionless as possible and give her back vertebrae a chance to heal. We carefully changed the bandages on her leg. Eventually, her back healed fine - lumpy, but fine. Additionally, the scar tissue in her ankle hardened and essentially fused the ankle so it wasn’t flexible. After the six weeks, Bronnie was given a clean bill of health and was racing and chasing with Aidan again. She ran with a gimp and lost a second or two off her 40 time, but she didn't seem to notice at all. Amazing. We couldn’t believe it. We called her the miracle dog.

Until the miracle ran out. About six months later, after we came home from our Christmas (2007) family visits, our neighbor - who had been watching her for us - told us Bronwyn was acting a bit off. That was a Wednesday night. We took her to the vet the next day and they told us it was pancreatitis. They were wrong. It ended up being IMHA – an auto immune disease that caused her own body to attack her system. We gave her a blood transfusion. It didn’t take. We gave her a second. It didn’t take.

On Friday, my wife and I were leaving to check on her. As I was putting on my shoes, my four year old son walked up to me and, in a voice a son reserves for the Dad who fixes everything, Aidan whispered to me “Dad … please don’t let Bronwyn die.” It was the most powerless I have ever felt in my life. God and I still have conversations about that one.

On Saturday, four days after Christmas, jaundiced so bad that the whites of her eyes were orange, her brain so fried by the disease she could not recogize us - or anything, we put her down. She died in my wife's and my arms as we cried our unheard goodbye. She was 16 months old. It was a horrible, horrible end to a beautiful, amazing dog.

My son cried, a lot, and uttered one of those deeply insightful lines that pain sometimes brings – “Dad, I feel blue to down to my bones.” I comforted him the best I could.

The next night, my wife was giving Aidan a bath and started crying thinking about Bronwyn Bath times. In an attempt to be comforting, but, instead, sending my wife into paroxysms of sobbing, my son looked at her and said “Don’t worry Mom. As long as Bronwyn is alive in our hearts and in our minds, she hasn’t really died.”

We miss you Bronwyn. Aidan is keeping you alive and will continue to do so until you meet him at the Rainbow Bridge.

(to be continued ...)

02-06-2013, 05:22 PM	#7
JoeRedskin Contains football related knowledge Join Date: Mar 2004 Location: Second Star On The Right Age: 62 Posts: 10,401	Re: The animals give their affection unconditionally, and they are less judgemental thread Continuing on with the dogs of my life ... ABBY: Abby (short for Abigail) was a four year old yellow lab we adopted. She was also the anti-Otis. After Otis died in early February, I was in no mood to get another dog. In March, however, my wife heard of an older “rescue dog” that was in need of a home. My wife pretty much used emotional blackmail to force me to agree to taking the dog. When we got her, she was incredibly hyper and destructive with bad epilepsy to top it all off. I simply didn’t want the dog. At all. I was deeply hurt by my wife for forcing me “replace” Otis so quickly with this animal. Damn, I hated that dog. Then a strange thing happened. She grew on me. Like mold. At first, Abby didn't seem to know how to react to us. We were people who treated dogs like family, not like property. Clearly, her prior owners did not do that. Don't get me wrong, I think her prior owners tried do right by her but she was their first dog ever and she was a handful. They just didn't get that dogs aren't wind up toys. Soon enough, however, Abby adapted to being a part of a family rather than being owned by a family. She calmed down a little, became less destructive and just wanted to be around us. Abby lived to be with people. She loved them - big people, short people, any people. She particularly loved HER people. Every day she let us know that we were her favorite playmates. She drank beer, was convinced she had thumbs, and was the most vicious "tug" player I have ever known. Sometimes I think she hated to sleep b/c it meant she would have to wait to play with us. I say she was hyper (and she was) but she was also sweet and, around our new son, gentle. She never stopped being destructive and hyper. Also, her epileptic siezures caused more than one trip to the vet at strange hours. There were a few seizures where we thought she wasn't going to pull through. She did and each time, after a bit of rest, she was back to her regular self. One look from her and it was clear she was saying - "Sorry about that folks - did I miss anything? Okay then - are we playing yet?" Yes, she was the anti-Otis, but that was okay. It was, in fact, good. Abby lived to play and played to live. Every day, she demonstrated that it is God's desire for us to enjoy life and eke every moment of fun from every breath we take. To me, in a very real way, she was the embodiment and physical manifestation of God's "Joy". Damn, I loved that dog. Then she got sick. Really sick. Cancer sick. In November/December 2005, we took her in to have some tests done on a cyst that wouldn't go away. They came back bad - very bad. She had a type of cancer that, by the time it was detected, was already throughout her system. With drugs and love we kept her alive through Christmas and into the New Year. She died a quiet peaceful death in January, 2006. We had her for only two years. We miss her deeply and love her still. BRONWYN: Another yellow lab from the same breeder from whom we had gotten Otis and Trajan. It was as if Abby picked her for us. She, too, lived to play and played to live. Not as hyper or destructive as Abby, but just as enthusiastic about a game of tug and a romp in the field. Unfortunately, she was also dumb as a post. I would sit in my chair and pretend to throw a ball for her while actually letting it fall behind my back into the chair. She would search for a it, give up and bring me another toy. Wash, rinse, repeat until I had about five to ten toys behind me and she would get this deeply perplexed look on her face “Dad … you threw all the toys into outer space … what are we going to do now???” Not the dumbest dog I have ever owned (that honor goes to another that will be described later) but probably not many pegs above vegetation. Again, however, she was a sweet, sweet animal. She was my son’s dog from the moment she padded into the house. Trajan was slowing down at this point and a high energy puppy, while fun in short bursts, was tiresome to him for any extended play. For a four year old boy? A playful puppy was the definition of joy. My son tied a rope around his waist and ran around so she would chase him, or he would chase her if the mood struck them. Sometimes the chaser/chasee role would switch four or five times in the space of a ten minutes. It was chaotic fun to watch and inevitably ended with the two of them collapsing in a hug filled with dog kisses for my son. She loved to stick her paws into the bathtub when he was taking a bath and play “Hey Aidan, watch me eat the water!”. This amused him to no end. Theirs was a special relationship between a boy and his dog. He bonded with her on a deep level. ... It should have lasted for years. One of Bronwyn’s really bad habits was that she was a bolter. Open a door and, if you weren’t vigilant, she was out it in a flash. She loved to be outside. We tried to be careful and cure her of the habit but, short of stiff arming her, it was a habit she just wouldn’t break. When you live in a row house 100 or so feet from a main drag this is a problem. When Bronwyn was nine months old, I just wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about something else and didn’t realize she was right there. Open door, out sprints dog – straight for the field where she and Aidan would race and chase. I called and ran after her. She thought we were playing, she kept running. Right across a main street. Right into the path of an oncoming car. I saw it coming. I know it was going to happen and I knew I was going to watch her die. I saw it hit her. I was helpless. Front right bumper. Full on body shot. Nothing the driver could have done. The car’s tire ended up on her hind leg. She wasn’t dead. Bloody and damaged I carried her to the house. We got her to the vet somehow. She had a broken back, fractured skull, broken femur and all the ligaments and tendons in her ankle were shredded (the foot was being held on only by the skin). Bronnie made a full recovery. They had to put a metal band on the femur but that was it. We kept her in a crate for six weeks to keep her as motionless as possible and give her back vertebrae a chance to heal. We carefully changed the bandages on her leg. Eventually, her back healed fine - lumpy, but fine. Additionally, the scar tissue in her ankle hardened and essentially fused the ankle so it wasn’t flexible. After the six weeks, Bronnie was given a clean bill of health and was racing and chasing with Aidan again. She ran with a gimp and lost a second or two off her 40 time, but she didn't seem to notice at all. Amazing. We couldn’t believe it. We called her the miracle dog. Until the miracle ran out. About six months later, after we came home from our Christmas (2007) family visits, our neighbor - who had been watching her for us - told us Bronwyn was acting a bit off. That was a Wednesday night. We took her to the vet the next day and they told us it was pancreatitis. They were wrong. It ended up being IMHA – an auto immune disease that caused her own body to attack her system. We gave her a blood transfusion. It didn’t take. We gave her a second. It didn’t take. On Friday, my wife and I were leaving to check on her. As I was putting on my shoes, my four year old son walked up to me and, in a voice a son reserves for the Dad who fixes everything, Aidan whispered to me “Dad … please don’t let Bronwyn die.” It was the most powerless I have ever felt in my life. God and I still have conversations about that one. On Saturday, four days after Christmas, jaundiced so bad that the whites of her eyes were orange, her brain so fried by the disease she could not recogize us - or anything, we put her down. She died in my wife's and my arms as we cried our unheard goodbye. She was 16 months old. It was a horrible, horrible end to a beautiful, amazing dog. My son cried, a lot, and uttered one of those deeply insightful lines that pain sometimes brings – “Dad, I feel blue to down to my bones.” I comforted him the best I could. The next night, my wife was giving Aidan a bath and started crying thinking about Bronwyn Bath times. In an attempt to be comforting, but, instead, sending my wife into paroxysms of sobbing, my son looked at her and said “Don’t worry Mom. As long as Bronwyn is alive in our hearts and in our minds, she hasn’t really died.” We miss you Bronwyn. Aidan is keeping you alive and will continue to do so until you meet him at the Rainbow Bridge. (to be continued ...) __________________ Strap it up, hold onto the ball, and let’s go. Last edited by JoeRedskin; 02-06-2013 at 08:58 PM.