Leo’s big outing

It was an early start this morning: Leo had a 9:15 appointment for his annual jabs, and it was my job to get him there (and pay for it all). While I’ve never been a “morning person”, the actual reason I don't like appointments that early is that it means dealing with morning traffic, and it’s impossible to know how heavy it’ll be until I’m in it. On top of that, at this time of year, thick morning fog can be another problem, and it was today.

Leo was actually due for his jabs in February, and they sent me a reminder text. I kept forgetting to deal with it, so they sent another text. I kept forgetting again, mainly because I was thinking about changing vets (the one we’d been seeing left that branch). However, the main problem, as it so often is, was that I only remembered when it was after hours.

Last week, I was sitting at my desk and decided to go the chain’s website, then navigated to the vets at my local branch. I wanted to see if they had any vets at the moment, but noted I could book online. With a shrug and a “why not?”, I set up an account (separate from the retail store one I already have…) and went to book an appointment. They had two available this week: 9am and 9:15am today. I chose the latter, hoping that traffic would be better, with most people who needed to be at work by 9 off the roads.

The traffic was mostly tolerable, it turned out, and were delayed just by two red lights and slow-moving trucks. I was well aware, though, that I could’ve shaved around ten minutes off my trip if the long-promised road connecting our houses directly to the rest of the city was open (still no announcement of an opening date—of course—more than a year after the first already three-years-late date was suggested).

Leo got the American expat vet that one of the kids first saw there after we’d shifted to Hamilton (we hadn’t seen her since; we saw a South African expat in the following years). She was good and nice (which I already knew), and won Leo over with treats. After that, I smiled inwardly when she noted that Leo was 400 grams heavier than last year, so he needs to cut back a bit—like father, like son! Although, I’m carrying around a bit more than an extra 400 grams…

I asked for her advice on cutting his nails (something Nigel flat out refused to do—he was afraid he’d hurt them). She said they’d do them right then, and saw that they were quite long. It seems unlikely that the groomers actually cut his nails last time (November), even though I specifically asked if they did that and was told yes. Two claws on his back paws were so long they were curling back into the pad of his foot—poor guy! And, bad daddy!!! for not noticing. The vet suggested I bring him back in six weeks for another trim (because some were too long to properly cut this time).

Grooming, however, is another issue entirely. It’s still very difficult to get an appointment with a groomer, especially with my trust issues adding another barrier. So, some months ago I started watching YouTube videos by a professional groomer who believes that not only can anyone learn to groom their dog, it’s also a bonding opportunity. Aw!

Around 15 years ago, we had a wheaten terrier named Saibh. We had a wonderful groomer for her, but she left the industry and recommended another lady I took Saibh to. That lady complained about Saibh, said she’d never groom her again unless Saibh was sedated, and demanded more money for having to deal with Saibh. I felt awful—for Saibh, obviously; I couldn’t possibly have cared less about the grumpy groomer’s feelings, and I knew I’d never go back to her.

Saibh had some “quirks”, likely caused by her breeder, who was later prosecuted at least twice for bad practices and banned from breeding dogs (many of his dogs had congenital defects, or severe behavioural issues, and several were put down because of them). Not surprisingly, Nigel and I both thought the guy was contemptible scum, but we felt fortunate that Saibh got away so lightly, with mere quirks.

With few options, I started grooming Saibh. I was getting pretty good at it when Saibh died suddenly of a heart attack. Her own congenital conditions had caught up with her.

Jake came into our family, then Sunny, and while I found some pretty okay groomers, we decided to start grooming them ourselves. Nigel bought several pairs of dog clippers, including some professional grade ones, all of which I still have, of course.

When Leo joined the family, he was just shy of one year old, so when Nigel and I tried to groom him, he was still a puppy. The last time we groomed him, around the time of his second birthday, he bit us both and drew blood (well, a tiny bit…). We never really finished grooming him, and then we ran out of time: That last grooming attempt was around three months before the furbabies' other daddy died.

When Nigel was in his final days, he kept pushing me to get the dogs groomed—and he was doing that, I knew, because he was well aware that he was running out of days. He knew people would come round to the house after he died, and he was embarrassed (For me? Imagining how he’d feel? Both?) that people would see the dogs looking so shaggy. That was, obviously, the absolute, very last thing that could ever be on my mind at the time.

My brother-in-law organised grooming for me one of the times I was visiting Hamilton in the weeks after Nigel died. It was such a small thing, really, but, to me, him doing that and even driving us there and back was a huge act of kindness at a time I needed it most. And, the dogs were awfully untidy.

So here we are in 2023, it’s difficult to get a grooming appointment, and Leo’s fully adult now (me, not so much…). I know he hates being left at a groomers because he wants to stick with me. Over the past several months, I’ve been getting him used to me trimming matted fur with scissors, and also with the clippers )so he can used to the sound). I’m about ready to start, and I hope he is, too.

Leo’s spent much of today sleeping, as dogs often do after getting their jabs. Early this afternoon, with another shrug and “why not?”, I lay down on the bed so he and I could have a nap together (it was an early start this morning, after all). He thought that was a splendid idea. He’s a good boy.

Two years into this march of changes

Two years ago today, everything began to change. I’ve been alluding to it all week, because it was only after Sunny died I fully realised how things had changed so dramatically over a short period of time. When I shared the Memory (above) on my personal Facebook, I said:

And this is the event that started the massive changes to my story. It was the first reduction in our little family in years, but only the beginning. Seven months later, Nigel died. And now, after the loss of Sunny, my little family is exactly half the size it was on February 13, 2019. There’s been so much to deal with over that time (including my own health challenges), and I actually have no idea how I’ve made it through it all. To be sure, the love and support of family and friends has been a big part of that, a huge part, but most of the time, most of every day, I’m alone with the furbabies. Is it because they depended on me? Was it luck? Was it sheer stubbornness? I wish I understood what the “secret” was so I could help others, but all I know for sure is that for the past two years I’ve been dealing with near constant change, some of it indescribably painful, and I’m still here. Maybe that’s all that matters.

There were a few changes close together in 2007, but after that it was only about the family growing, right up until February 14, 2019. The timeline went like this:

1999: Our cat Curzon came into our lives when Nigel gave him to me for my 40th birthday. Our dog Saibh joined us a few months later. We moved twice, and they were with us for several years.
2007: Saibh died unexpectedly in May, 2007. Jake joined the family in June. Then Curzon died in September. 2007 was the trying year, but our family, including Jake, remained unchanged for several years.
2010: Bella joined the family in April, and then Sunny joined the family in December of 2010. Our family again remained unchanged for several years.
2018: Leo joined the family in May.
2019: Bella died two years ago today, on February 14, 2019.
2021: Sunny died on February 2.

There have been a lot of highlights over those years, of course, but when Sunny died I realised that I’ve been caught in a Danse Macabre for the past two years—beginning two years ago today. That was why I titled a Memory from February 2017 “Two years before the two years”. I wasn’t trying to be cryptic, it was just the way I saw it. I could never have guessed that two years later everything would start to change, and it would be relentless change for the two years after that.

So, this isn’t really about our furbabies, past and present, it’s really about how temporary life is. For nearly ten years, the life Nigel and I had was awesome as we added furbabies (when Leo arrived, Nigel jokingly said, “We bought a zoo!”), and we all lived happily together. And then it all started to change. This was behind my sharing the Memory about going out for lunch, because I was in the moment that day, blissfully unaware that that time was running out fast. And I shared a memory about a perfectly ordinary night (in which I was similarly in the moment) because three days later the changes began.

It’s fashionable these days to talk about “mindfulness”, which younger me probably would have called just “being in the moment” or maybe “living for today”. Then, it was mostly considered selfish and self-centred, now it’s presented as a mark of emotional and spiritual maturity. I’m not so sure.

As I showed this week when I shared ordinary FB Memories, I was often in the moment, but that couldn’t possibly have prepared me for the loss and change heading toward me at breakneck speed. That’s because it doesn’t matter how much “mindfulness” one engages in, absolutely nothing can insulate anyone from dealing with deep loss, and worse, once such a loss arrives, we’ll suddenly remember all the times we weren’t in the moment, when “mindlessness” would probably be a more accurate word. And it’s hard to avoid feeling regret when that reality arrives.

We all—everyone of us—live our lives as if we’ll live forever and nothing bad will, or even can, happen. We’re wrong. As I said last December:

The harsh, cold reality most of us choose to ignore is that we’re all going to die. It’s the only thing that’s certain about life: Birth itself isn’t a certainty, and neither is anything that follows it except for death. We’re all in a long queue leading to the exit from life, but we just don’t know where it is or how soon we’ll get there.

My family is now half the size it was two years ago, and I know more changes are inevitable. That includes my own death, though I won’t have to deal with the aftermath of that, at least. Still, I can’t possibly know what will happen when, because we can’t, and so maybe what I said today is the core reality: I’m still here. Maybe that’s all that matters.

Despite it all

Today I went and collected Curzon's ashes. The woman at the vet—the same place I took Saibh when she died—said to me that we were bound to have some good things happen because our karma was unbalanced, so we must be in line for some good things to happen. That would be nice.

But as I left there I was...okay. I mean that literally. I'd dreaded it because I thought I'd lose it on the way home, as I did when I collected Saibh's ashes. But, while I was sad and a little teary, I was fine.

I think that the fact that Curzon was sick for awhile and deteriorated meant that not only did we have time to prepare, but also when the end came it was a kind of a relief, a release for us, too. Anyone who's seen a loved one deteriorate and die will probably know what I mean.

All I know is that despite everything, I was okay. That's a good thing in itself.

The only trouble is that last week I fell far behind in my work and it took me until around 2am yesterday to finish up. So, I'm off to bed early tonight so I can get more done tomorrow than I did today. That's okay, too.

Curzon 1998-2007

I was dreading this, probably more than anything in my life. No, definitely more than anything. Today we had to take our cat Curzon to be euthanased.

Over the past few days, he steadily deteriorated to the point where he stopped eating anything by Sunday (he probably had a tiny bit on Saturday). Yesterday his routine changed, too: He didn't leave the house until nearly 9AM, and was back by late afternoon. As soon as he came home, I looked at him and saw how fast he was breathing, like he'd just run a long race, and I knew we'd have to take him to the vet.

When Nigel came home that evening, he felt that Curzon was starting to really struggle, it was so much work to breathe. Curzon seemed to have trouble moving himself to shift his body and he seemed a little disconnected. Nigel and I talked and agreed that we'd take him to the vet this morning.

I didn't sleep well last night. Actually, I didn't sleep much at all. I was dreading waking up in the morning and finding Curzon had died, and I was also dreading waking up to find he hadn't died, since I knew what we planned to do.

I rang the vet early this morning and made the appointment. They asked if I wanted him cremated (yes), and if I wanted him returned in a nice rimu box or just the cardboard one (cardboard). They were questions I wasn't really ready to answer.

He stayed in the bedroom in the morning, and when I'd finished my shower he was trying to get out, but couldn't quite jump over the baby gate that kept the puppy out. His eyes had life in them again. We closed the door, he lay on the floor for awhile, then crawled just under the bed.

I got dressed and picked him up while Nigel got the cat cage. I sat on the edge of the bed, held him, talked to him softly and stroked him, trying to calm him—he always hated being restrained. I'd just told Nigel that I thought he had a fever because he was hot on my leg, when I realised he'd peed on me. He would've hated that; he hated dirt boxes, too, and always wanted to do his business outside.

I quickly changed and Curzon ran into the en suite and immediately lay down on the floor, seemingly exhausted. Nigel put the clothes Curzon had been sleeping on into the cage (they were a t-shirt and sweatshirt I'd slept in, so they had my scent and his on them). I picked Curzon up and put him in the cage. He complained and again seemed alert.

He complained a few times as we left the house and got in the car. Nigel was very upset. I was, too, but I tried to act normally toward Curzon, telling him we were going to the vet, he knew that place, and it would be alright.

We got there. Nigel and I had stomachs tied in knots. Nigel took care of the consent form and paid the bill (a little crass to pay in advance, I thought, but I understand). I sat with Curzon, touching him through the cage and talking softly to him. We were ushered in to the exam room.

The vet examined Curzon, noticed that his breathing was much worse, even since last week. He felt his abdomen, easy to do since Curzon lost so much weight. He said he could feel what seemed to be tumours on Curzon's liver, meaning the cancer had likely spread. He said that Curzon might have lasted another week, at most, but it would have been increasingly difficult for him and he would have struggled more each day. We were doing the right thing, he assured us.

The vet explained that Curzon would be given essentially an overdose of anesthetic which would put him into an irreversible coma. Once the brain stopped working, everything else would shut down, too. He said he didn't like the phrase “put to sleep”, even with children, because it implies the animal can be awakened. They can't be.

The vet got clippers to shave the fur so he could access a vein. Curzon freaked and complained when he heard the noise. So, the vet got different, quieter clippers. As he worked, he talked soothingly to Curzon. When it came time to administer the drug, I stroked Curzon gently and held him, the vet gently stroked Curzon. In a few seconds, Curzon lay his head down, a breath or two later and movement stoppped. The vet said, “He's gone, I'm sorry.” Then asked if we'd like a few minutes alone with him.

When the door closed, I lost it. Curzon had been my special boy, a birthday present unlike any other. Every night for eight years he slept right up against my side, apart from nights when we were away or the few nights he stayed out all night (including the second night after Saibh died). He sometimes woke me in the night, after going out to go to the toilet or on patrol, wanting more scratches and cuddles. I never minded.

We stayed with Curzon a few minutes, I don't know how long. He looked like our Curzon of old, peaceful at last. We knew that there was a person with a cat in the reception area (we could hear them), so we waited for the vet to take Curzon away through the back door before we left out of the front door.

And that was that.

We picked up lunch on the way home, just as we did when Saibh died. We let Jake out, opened up the deck doors for him, and took care of some other things. We weren't quite ready for lunch when I heard a noise in the dining room. I thought Jake knocked something over. I went over there and a bird suddenly flew up and against the window. It tried frantically to get out. I unlatched the window and it ducked out and flew away.

Some Maori believe that a bird visiting a house is a symbol of death. Nigel immediately said it was Curzon coming to check on us. If so, it means it was fitting that I was the one who opened the window to free the spirit. In any case, the symbolism is nice.

Nigel said I was strong during the procedure, but I mainly just wanted to make Curzon feel at ease as much as possible. I knew he'd be distressed if I was standing there balling my eyes out, which is what I was doing inside.

Curzon would've been nine years old in November. Barely middle aged. The vet explained that these cancers might possibly be caused by things like exposure to building work, and our next door neighbour in Paeroa was constantly working on his house. Curzon loved visiting there. There were farm paddocks nearby, too, and farmers love to spray chemicals. Or it could have been something near here, like maybe some illegally dumped paints or solvents in the bush behind our house, or from the drainage creek down there. We'll never know.

All I know is that my special little boy is gone. The nightmare of the past few weeks is over for us all.

It's been a time in which Jake hasn't received all the attention he deserves, since we've been distracted, and we haven't been able to enjoy him as much as we should have been able to. I told Jake that I want him to promise to live to be a hundred human years old. He just wagged his tale at me. Then he ran off to get one of his toys.

And life goes on. But today—again—our world feels a bit smaller.

The top photo is of Curzon lying in the bush next to our house just this past March. The photo on the left side is from June of last year. Embiggen the photos to make them prettier.

Dreaded day

Ever since Saibh died, I’ve been dreading today. Over the past three and a half years, more or less, she was my constant companion—wherever I was, she was close by. I’ve always had a bed for her in my office, and she spent most of her day sleeping in it. Even when I wasn’t in the room, I’d see her in her bed whenever I walked past the door.

The space is empty now. For the first time ever, I’m completely alone in the house. I have the TV switched on, a bit louder than is necessary, just so the house doesn’t feel so empty and I don’t feel so alone.

Today is also heavily overcast with rain expected. That doesn’t help. But despite everything, we’re basically doing okay.

I’m past the initial shock now, and even moving past the guilt. When she died, I thought if I hadn’t opened the doors that day, she’d never have known that dog was out there, or if I hadn’t gone out to bring her in, maybe she wouldn’t have gotten that extra bit excited that was needed to cause the heart attack. But neither her behaviour nor mine was unusual in any way, and, as Nigel pointed out, if it hadn’t been that dog on that day, it would have been another, and maybe on a day when I wasn’t there with her.

The vet speculated that she had a congenital heart defect and, if so, she was sort of on borrowed time. We now know that many of the animals from that breeder had severe problems—physical or mental—often leaving their owners with no choice but to put them down. We never had any of that (Saibh was from an earlier generation from that breeder, well before the problems became known). And, Saibh never suffered.

So, time, along with some clearer thinking, has helped somewhat.

But what’s also helped immensely is the huge amount of support we’ve gotten. On Saturday we took a road trip to Nigel’s sister’s house in Thames, and she organised for more of the family to come round for lunch. They’d all signed a sympathy card for us, and gave us a couple scented candles. It was a loving gesture that meant a lot to us.

We’ve also had support from family and friends by phone and email, and my friend Jason did his own memorial post on Saibh.

What has astounded me, however, is the fantastic support from my new friends I’ve met through this blog and my podcast. There were the comments on my blog post about Saibh, as well as sympathy from my friend group on Twitter. And there have been emails, too. Many people have shared their own stories of a lost beloved companion animal, and that’s comforting, too.

In many ways, what this has shown me is that the specific technology isn’t the point of the Internet, but instead, it’s still the human connections that matter most. There are people I’ve become friends with who I never would’ve met without this blog or my podcast, but despite the unlikeliness of it all, we’ve connected and shared parts of our lives. Long may that continue.

Which brings me back to Saibh. It was chance that brought her into our lives, and chance that took her away from us. We’re still deeply sad that she’s gone, and I’m sure there are still more tears to be shed. But for the first time since Friday, I can appreciate what she brought to our lives, and what all the human connections still bring.

Thank you to all of you who left comments or offered support in other ways. We truly appreciate it. We’re working through our grief and we’ll come out on the other side in time. Thank you all for helping to make that path a little bit easier.

Saibh 1999-2007

This morning our dog, Saibh, died suddenly from a suspected heart attack. She had no previous illness nor any problems we were aware of. She’s been my constant companion since I started working from home four years ago. Obviously, I was her companion, too.

This morning she went spare, as she often did, when another dog appeared in the park next to our house. I went to her to bring her inside, as I often did. She looked at me, then back at the fence barking all the while, turned slightly, raised her head and then stumbled a bit as I got to her. I picked her up as she went limp. She died in my arms.

I tried to revive her, hoping she’d only fainted, but I knew better. I rushed her to the vet, breaking speed limits by enough, probably, to threaten my licence. It was too late.

Nigel met me at the vet, and they gave us several minutes alone with her to say goodbye. She looked like she was sleeping and would wake up at any minute. She didn’t wake up.

We’re at a loss. The house seems so quiet, so empty. The cat can’t figure out what’s happened, of course. He’s lucky, but he’ll miss her, too, once he realises she’s not coming back.

There are people who think that devotion to a pet—a companion animal—is silly or worse. Fuck them. This dog meant the world to us, and our world got a little bit smaller today.

Goodbye, Saibh. We’ll miss you.

There won’t be any podcast and probably no blog posts until next week sometime when I feel a bit better.

Update 19 May: We've had some wonderful words of sympathy here and by email. Thank you to you all—your words mean a lot to us. Special thanks to my friend Jason who put up a great blog post about Saibh, sharing some of his own memories. At times like this, I love the Internet.

Open door evenings

We had some hot and sticky days recently, with the humid warmth continuing into the evening. We don’t have air conditioning yet, so we open doors and windows to let the (warm, humid) air move. When there’s a breeze, this can provide some relief. When there isn’t, fans help. Neither removes humidity from the air, of course.

This can be noisy as neighbours and their dogs make ordinary living noises. Nothing to complain about, nor to take much notice of, because we make noise, too.

But leaving the doors open into the evening also means Saibh (our dog) wanders in and out. One night last week, she wandered outside around 10pm or so. Neighbourhood cats (not including ours) had gathered nearby, and their discussions were starting to get loud and heated. Saibh started barking, so I went out to get her. She was stubborn. So, I picked her up to carry her into the house.

On the way back, I looked up: The skies were ablaze with stars. It amazed me the first time I saw so many stars in Auckland’s night skies. In Chicago, stars were always invisible, due to light pollution. The stars are even more amazing out in the New Zealand countryside, but to me, even Auckland’s clear night displays are breathtaking.

I scanned the skies, as I always do, looking for the Southern Hemisphere’s Southern Cross constellation. It’s depicted on a number of national flags, including both Australia and New Zealand. The Aussie flag has a more accurate depiction, though neither flag has all the stars: It’s now known to have eight, only about five of which people can see.

It’s nice to know that with political fights, wars, and so much more going on, something as simple as a star-filled night sky can stop me in my tracks. I wish others could experience the same. Sometimes it’s the ordinary that’s truly extraordinary.

Weekend Distraction

I was going to do a proper post today. Something meaningful, probably. I even started a couple different posts, but it’s a cool, grey day in Auckland and I just couldn’t focus properly

So, instead, I thought I'd introduce our “fur children” with these recent snaps. I meant to post them before now, but better late than never.

Our cat is called Curzon. He’s an Ocicat who’s just turned eight and is named after Cuzon Dax in
“Star Trek” because the breed has spots running down their spine and on their stomachs, much like the character he’s named after. He spends a lot of his day sleeping in different parts of the garden (as these photos demonstrate), or on the deck. At night, he cuddles up next to me.

Our dog is Saibh (rhymes with “five”), a soft-coated wheaten terrier who turns eight this year. In these photos she needs a clip, but was just bathed and brushed the day before. Her name is Irish Gaelic for “goodness” (or so the baby naming website told us). Our previous dog was named Bart after Bart Simpson, and he lived up to the name. We thought we’d play it safer this time.

Oh, and just to prove there’s no favouritism, I made sure each “fur child” got the same number of words in their mini-bios.