We don't forget or leave behind; we grow.

I’ve spent a lot of my adult life defending our relationship with our dogs.

“They aren’t kids, you know.”

"They’re JUST ANIMALS.”

Mmhmm. Thank you, well-meaning friends and relatives.

Listen, I get it. Dogs ≠ children. They can’t take care of us when we’re old, they can’t tell us what they’re thinking, we’ll never watch them grow up and leave the nest and become doctors and lawyers and whatever else.

But, do you know how they are EXACTLY like children?

They’re mischievous, they love to play and they can make a toy out of ANYthing.

They do the craziest things that make us laugh until we pee our pants (sometimes literally).

They poop and puke in the most inconvenient places, at the most inconvenient times.

They put EVERYTHING in their mouths.

They love to snuggle.

They’re completely dependent on us for food, water, shelter, discipline, structure, care and love.

And they somehow know the exact moment we need a quiet, warm presence next to us, comforting us.

****************

This morning (Tuesday), I took Ozzie to the vet – the time has come in our young dog’s life to have his, ah, equipment adjusted, shall we say.

And although I didn’t strap him into a car seat, and he was wearing a leash instead of a uniform, and he was, well, going to get the boys chopped off instead of learning about sharing and cooperation, I couldn’t help but compare the experience to my friends who’ve been dropping off their little ones at school this week.

He was a trooper in the car, although he hasn’t had many car rides in his young life. He sat quietly, looking all around, as I told him what a good boy he was being and chattered on about how everything would be fine, and we’d pick him up tomorrow, and everything would be as good as new.

When we got to the vet’s office, he sprang from the car and skipped up the sidewalk and through the front door with his usual joyful lightness, greeting everyone enthusiastically in the lobby, nubbin tail (and entire backside) wiggling at top speed.

It wasn’t until the vet tech took the leash from me, and he turned back and looked at me, confused, that he realized something was up. Up to now, he’d been on an adventure with his mama, in a car with his mama, meeting strangers with his mama. His dark brown eyes looked concerned.

"…Mama?"

I told him he was a good boy, and it was OK, and then he disappeared into the examination room while I confirmed his pick-up time with the front desk.

And then I walked outside, a lump in my throat, and got in my car, feeling kind of oddly empty and more than a little guilty. (Seriously, how do parents of human babies DO this?? You have my eternal kudos.)

I called the vet just after noon, and was told he was in recovery, doing just fine, we can pick him up tomorrow as scheduled. After all, it’s an incredibly low-risk and routine surgery for a male dog.

But tonight, as it’s just T and Murray and me sitting here on the couch… Our family has a little hole in it. Until tomorrow, when it can be the four of us again.

(These are the moments when I feel the losses of our other beloved pets the most.)

****************

Now that we’re expecting our own little HUMAN baby, we’ve started talking a bit about how our relationship to our dogs will inevitably change. They won’t be the center of our world anymore. They’ll have to share us, bigtime, with someone who’s even more dependent on us, who will get most of our snuggles and pats and coos, who will always get to eat before they do.

But today was a good reminder that they are just as much a part of our family as they always were, and always will be. They won’t be squeezed out or shoved to the side as our family grows. They’ll be right in there with us, growing too.

Real brothers...

...sleep together...

...stare out the window at birds together...

...sleep together some more...

...play together...

...look insane together...

...aaaaaand sleep together again...

...attack together...
(although admittedly one is doing the attacking and the other is BEING attacked)

...annoy each other...together...

...wait patiently for Daddy to return together...

...did we mention sleep together?

Yep. Despite the fact that Ozzie's still learning that "Go get the bone!" doesn't mean "Jump on Murray's head and bite his face!" it's official: They're besties.

Wordless Wednesday: Paws of Fury

"You will play with me, even if I have to SIT on your FACE!"

"Oh, yeah? Two can play at this game, buddy. How ya' like me now?"

The Four Paws of the Apocalypse, finally at rest. Briefly.

World? Meet Ozzie.

Since the day we got Murray and saw the joyousness that is two dogs playing together, we pretty much knew we'd have two dogs for the rest of our lives.

Not only is it adorable when they play together (even when it sounds as though they're killing each other), they can entertain each other, learn from one another, be better with other dogs -- and all with relatively minimal effort on our parts. It's really a win-win, like, all over the place.

So we knew, when we lost Bubba, that another dog was in our future at some point. The question became: When? When have we grieved enough, when will it feel as though we aren't trying to "replace" the dog we've lost, when will Murray be so sad that we just have to get him another little brother (which is what happened the last time around)?

In the end, it didn't come down to any of those things. Murray was, actually, OK with being an only dog this time around. Neither of us felt like we were overwhelmed or wanting to replace Bubba -- he'd been sick for so long, we'd made our peace with losing him, as much as one can. It ended up a matter of practicality.

Both of us are home much more now. Caring for the constant needs of a puppy would be less of a burden than if both of us were at an office full-time. We have neighbors who are excellent and willing caretakers if we ever need to go out of town. And, most importantly: We still have Murray, who has proven himself a stellar big brother, teacher, patient playtime companion and selfless snuggler.

T found a couple in our area who were selling boxer puppies. This worried me. I understand my husband's strong desire to get a puppy, so we can train it from day one, but I don't want to perpetuate the puppy mill atrocities. But I agreed to go look, with the understanding that we'd hightail it out of there if I got a whiff of mill-dom. And, because we are impulsive when it comes to these things, I forced T to leave his wallet at home. :)

My worries were put to rest the moment we met the lovely elderly couple. The boxer parents were their beloved pets, living in their home, and not churning out litters left and right. After taking the day to think about it and discuss (to death) all the possible pros and cons, T went out and bought this bed:

...and we brought home our new family member, complete with a blanket and a few weeks' worth of food from that lovely elderly couple. (Have I mentioned they were lovely? They were.)

Here, we introduced the two new brothers. Apologies for the grainy cell phone pics; just assume Murray's face is saying, "Seriously? You brought me another one of THESE?" Shortly followed by "PLAY PLAY PLAY PLAY PLAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY!"

So, world: This is our Ozzie when we brought him home at six weeks old, just a teeny-weeny, itty-bitty thing:

Tiny pink paws! I die.

"Hey, New Mom. You do realize this toy is as big as my head, right?"

There are many things I love about our little muffin. One of my faves is his nose:

It's splotchy! Part of it is pink! His lips look as though they're coated in pink lipstick!

We were pretty much destined to love him.

It helps to remember this when he's biting our toes (OMG, I forgot about puppy needle teeth!), carrying shoes that are bigger than him across the room, chewing on the coffee table and the curtains and the drywall (...really?) and generally just being the spawn of Satan.

It also helps that he knows how cute he is, and understands the value of crawling into Mama's lap for a nap.

They call it "the puppy dog look" for a reason, people.

More photos to come. (Um, duh.)

Nose burns

We live in the middle of nowhere. Our house's heating system? Propane. And it ain't cheap.

But we, however, are.

So rather than crank the heat to tropical levels (cough-Grandma!-cough) and spend $5 trillion to fill our propane tank several times each year, we keep the themostat set at a balmy 58 degrees.

"How can you stand it? Isn't that like living inside a glacier?" Yes. Yes it is. And so, we have these:

Space heaters. One for pretty much every room. (Except the guest room. Sorry, guests.) It does blow up the ol' electric bill a bit, but not as much as you'd think -- and it's eons more affordable than propane.

(Disclaimer: We're very safe: We never leave one running in a room unattended, and we never leave the house without unplugging all of them. Just say no to house fires.)

"So what's the problem?"

Oh, I'll tell you what the problem is. Or, better yet, I'll show you:

It seems that having a BUILT-IN FUR COAT doesn't necessarily mean you're nice and toasty all winter long. Apparently, you also need to be close to the heater.

Sorry, scratch that. You need to be ON TOP OF the heater.

How does it not burn their tiny noses? Your guess is as good as mine.

And, meanwhile, the entire room is still freezing.

But at least the important ones are warm.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: The stairs

The newest addition to our bedroom:



Because sometimes, a dog just needs to get into bed for a snuggle. And if he doesn't have the strength to jump anymore? It's our job to make sure he gets that snuggle anyway.

(Apologies for two dog-related posts so close together. This is just kind of our main focus these days.)

I may have to try this myself

Since he was a puppy, Bubba has slept in one of two ways.

1. Sprawled on his back like a cat:



2. On top of Murray:

(Murray always pretended to be annoyed, but I think he secretly liked the snuggles.)

Since he's gotten sick, it's harder for Bubba to climb onto the couch, and most of his previously-favored positions seem to be uncomfortable for him now.

So he has adapted.

Behold, the new sleeping position:

Always one leg out to the side.

As long as you're comfortable, baby dog.

Wordless Wednesday: True Love

Best laid plans, blah blah blah

So, remember that weekend of nothing I was all jazzed about on Friday?

Well, that'll teach me to brag.

Long story short, I ended up working most of the weekend. And then I did some laundry.

But in between editing content documents and writing marketing copy and deciding if I really cared enough to separate the lights from the darks, I found time to do some of this:



And a little of this:



Not sure what's happening here. I think he burped. Lucky for you, I caught the magic moment on film:



Looking sort of worried -- maybe that Pupperoni from earlier was repeating on him:

All better and back to being the handsomest boy around:

What? Is that a cat??

Pouting, because it WAS a cat, but Mommy wouldn't let him chase it:

Twenty minutes outside, chilling in the yard with my two best boys, enjoying perfect, sunny fall weather...

Work? Laundry? What?

It was the best part of the weekend, and I guarantee it's the only part I'll ever remember. As it should be.

Protected

Every morning when I step out of the shower...




It's entirely possible he just likes the warmth of the steam. Or the sound of the water running. Or the fresh, clean smell of my shampoo. Or the caress of the fuzzy green bathmat.

But I choose to think he's guarding his mama.

And yes, I have to step over him, precariously, every time I exit said shower. Which would be awkward even if I weren't wearing a towel, balancing on wet toes and squinting to try to see without my glasses.

And yes, it's entirely possible that I have, more than once, slipped and nearly fallen headfirst into the linen closet. And/or out the window.

Do I mind?



Nope.

Have a wonderful long weekend, y'all. And please say a prayer for me, as I'm attending an event that has the word "beer" in the TITLE, and I am not much of a drinker. Also I'm 33 now, and thus a little old for all drinking games that don't involve how many times someone says "Woohoo! Big balls!" on Wipeout. In other news: ...help?

Oh, just hanging out

Thank you for all your well wishes. Belly rubs and snuggles are being administered in earnest, and we now own stock in Pupperoni. :)

One day at a time.

Pupdate: If rollercoasters were peppered with occasional bouts of snuggling

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you know that my dogs are my babies.

T and I adore them. We talk to them as if they're people. Assign them real or imagined personality traits. Make up songs about how fat they are.

Dress them up for our own amusement.

As I mentioned about a month ago, we got some news about the babiest of our babies, Bubba, that pretty much rocked us. And not in a good way.

During the week preceding the Fourth of July, we found a little lump under his chin. A few days later, we found another, much larger one on his collarbone. And we started to get scared.

Our vet was out of town for the holiday weekend, so we took him to our backup vet. In the waiting room, Bubba was the only dog who felt he had to sit on the bench next to me instead of on the floor with the other dogs, drawing smiles from the other owners in the room. Personally, I felt this was completely appropriate -- he's family, not just a "pet." (And when he got scared -- by a smaller dog -- and climbed his 80-pound self into my lap, I didn't mind a bit.)

The backup vet felt the lumps, stood up slowly and looked at me. Her face confirmed my fears.

"Lymphoma. Let's get him started on Prednisone right away."

Tears. Instantly. Bubba sniffed the bottom of her examining table, oblivious, and looked up at me, all "Uh, Mom, can we go home now? It's time for my mid-mid-late-morning nap. Thankssomuchlet'sgo."

On the vet's advice, we waited an interminable WEEK to get tests done by our own vet.

Tests? Done.
Results? Positive for lymphoma.
Next step? Decide if we want to do chemo.

We battled and battled and battled over this one.

It would mean three trips to Columbus each week for 6-8 weeks, one hour each way, but we could make that work. It was expensive, but cost wasn't the issue.

Was it worth putting our baby through all that? Feeling sick, stressful car rides, getting poked and prodded...and not understanding that he's going through all this stress and pain and sickness...for his own good?

We read everything we could find online, trying to find success stories (there weren't many). We asked our friends who have dogs, my friends at the dog shelter, our parents, our neighbors -- we wanted every opinion we could find.

Finally, we asked our vet.

(I can't tell you how much we think of and value our vet. Unlike a lot of "country" vets, he doesn't treat all animals like faceless livestock. He definitely knows his stuff, but he'll still get down on the floor and play with a dog like a little boy. That's the kind of person I want taking care of my baby.)

After discussing what it would entail, T finally just asked, "If this was your dog, would you do it?"

He answered instantly. "No. I'd just try to love on him as much as possible and enjoy him with the time you have left."

Bubba enjoying one of his favorite things:
sleeping on his brother (in our bed)

How much time do we have left?

The simple answer is: We don't know.

When we had the above conversation with the vet, he laid it out for us:

• We'll keep him on steroids and antibiotics indefinitely.
• If he responds to the medication, he could go into a temporary remission and stay with us for another 2-3 months. Maybe up to 6 months, but probably not.
• If he doesn't respond to the medication...we could lose him anytime.

For the past month, we've been going on this way. Meds every 12 hours. Healthy appetite. Days-long stretches of lethargy and sad-face punctuated with short bursts of playfulness, after which he's exhausted. Looooooong snuggle sessions.

Oh, how I love that he's a snuggler.

We settled into a routine. We could almost forget for stretches of time.

Then, this weekend, he threw up everything he tried to eat for 36 hours. Even the special boiled-meat-and-rice concoction that always settles their tummies.

We were panic-stricken. We thought we were ready for this.

We aren't. Now I don't think we ever really will be.

Thankfully, he started being able to keep food down again yesterday, and seems to be back to his new/normal routine. But we know now, for sure, that an awful, horrible decision is coming, however many weeks or months in the future.

When the time comes, I'm just praying I'm unselfish enough to make it.

I'm super tan right now...

...and a pretty big event happened in my family this weekend.

But my post about that won't be ready until tomorrow. :)

So, in the meantime, please enjoy this picture of Bubba, taking part in his favorite pastime:

Just hangin'.

What, did you need me for something?

Stay tuned for more on this weekend's events...

All fiesta'd out

Sometimes it's hard being Murray.

Brotherly love, in my living room. (Sorry, Philly.)

So, again, I must stress that we do not pose our dogs.

And have I mentioned just how very much they love one another?

With zero prompting from us, this is how they decided to hang out during LOST this week:


I mean... Dog spooning. How can it get cuter than this??

And, lest you think that this is just a casual arm thrown over a shoulder, please look at Bubba's armpit. That's Murray's other foot poking out under him.

In other words, he has BOTH arms around his brother.

They slept like this for over an hour.

I'm not sure I could love them more if they were my actual children.

Have a great weekend!

Excuse me, sir. There's a doughnut on your head.

It's no secret: I heart me some dogs. And next to our own babies, our neighbors' dogs are, without doubt, the nearest and dearest to our hearts. Besides being Murray's and Bubba's BFFs (well, other than each other), Romeo, Othello and Remington are, frankly, just adorable.

So when Romeo got into a scuffle with another dog and came away with 15 staples in his poor, little leg, we were aghast.

And then we saw him.

And yes, his leg looked awful. But look what he had to wear to keep from bothering the wound:


Um. How CUTE is that?!

Apparently (and maybe you know this already), this innertube thingie now takes the place of the traditional (and hated) plastic cone in the way of anti-licking technology. Instead of a hard, plastic, right-in-their-line-of-sight-so-it-freaks-them-out, taking-out-your-kneecaps-and-chunks-of-drywall cone, now the dog can just gently bounce off anything that gets in his or her way, and still allow their wounds to heal.

Brilliant.

Also, Romy had a built-in pillow whenever he wanted to take a nap. He settled down, rested his head on the doughnut and zonked out. (It may have also helped that he was on some hardcore pain meds.) We took care of him for a few days while his worried parents were dealing with some work emergencies, and he did amazingly well.

We did think the doughnut might prevent him from sleeping sprawled on his back, in his usual style.

We were wrong.

Cutie pie.