I said goodbye to another dear friend today. It was harder than I can describe with words. Sandy the Bear was a great cat. I am the only one who ever knew it, but she was the most affectionate cat ever known. When I was alone, or when Annie was asleep, she would come out of hiding and talk to me. We would have lengthy conversations, where I would talk to her, and she would talk to me as if she understood exactly what was going on. She would crawl up to me and purr so loudly... I'd be reading or typing on the computer, and she'd crawl onto my chest and snuggle in under my chin. She didn't do it because she wanted anything. She did it because she liked the affection. She liked the contact.

Sandy had complete trust in me. It wasn't always like that. When she first came to live with my first wife and me, she liked my wife, but not me. The first month she was with us, my hand was continually scarred with evidence of her denial of me. She finally decided I was ok, and we'd been good friends ever since. No one knew how old she was, but we are fairly certain she was at least sixteen, and my dad thinks she was older than that. At any rate, I believe she was taken from her family too young, and she never got the hang of the cat box. Her whole life she has had trouble using the cat box. When I brought her to California, she did fairly well with the cat box, but when we moved to this house, she lost all interest. She ruined our original carpet, and April all but demanded that we get rid of it and get new stuff. We did, and shortly after April left, Sandy started finding new places to destroy the carpet. I've dealt with it for a long time, and noticed recently that she had found a new spot in Annie's room. I loved her, but I couldn't stand the urine stains and smell any more. For over a month, I've been thinking that maybe I should let her go. When I finally decided I could/should go through with it, it was even harder than I thought.

I sat on the living room floor this afternoon to work on a board layout review. She came out and sat next to me. She could tell I was busy, and was content to just lay next to me without getting in the way. Her purring practically drowned out the music sweeping the room from the stereo. Every now and then I'd reach down to pet her, and she'd talk to me. I rolled over to my back and held some documents up to the light, and she climbed on to my chest. I could feel the reverberation of her purr all the way through my body. I didn't know what I was going to do. She had complete trust in me, and I was about to betray it. As long as I held her, she knew she'd be ok, and here I was about to do the opposite.

Feeling like crap, I closed the computer a little after 4:00 and picked up Sandy. We got in the truck, and she found a spot near the passenger door to deal with the change in surroundings. Shortly after passing through Boulder Creek, she got up and came to me. She sprawled out on my legs, looked out the window for a little while, and then finally settled down. She was with me, and I would never let her come to harm, so it must be ok. She spoke little, but continued to tuck her head into my jacket for protection. I didn't think I could do it. Every time I had to slow down for traffic or signals, I thought about turning around. I'd talked about this with Annie a few days ago, and she immediately went to tears and looked at me like I was a monster for suggesting it.

In the parking lot of the vet clinic, I waited at least five minutes. Sandy looked at me with those trusting green eyes. It was all going to be alright, right? We walked inside, and the vet folks were very accomodating. When Sandy and I finally entered the care room, the vet asked me if I wanted to do blood work or anything to see if there was anything that could be done. I was torn apart. I didn't decide this on the spur of the moment. Her ideas did not agree with the evidence, and I didn't feel that anything could help her learn to use the cat box. Please, please don't make this harder on me. The cat that had just been in that room had bolted through an access window to get out of being treated for something, and when we finally got down to the injection, she had her assistant hold Sandy's head. I couldn't speak, or I would have told her that as long as I was there, Sandy wasn't going to react to anything. After all, she trusted me. Nothing bad could happen to her as long as I was there.

The needle went in to her leg, and I continued to scratch her chin and cheek like she has always liked. I wanted to stop it, but I didn't. Within moments, she was gone. The vet kindly asked me if I'd like a few minutes with her, and I nodded, unable to speak with the constriction of my throat. She indicated a door behind me that would allow me to leave when I was done without anyone seeing me. I pet her and asked her forgiveness. I closed her eyes to remove the look of fear, and wrapped her in the blanket on the table.

On the way to the truck, I saw an elderly woman going to the clinic with white hair, and a slightly hunched back.

Annie doesn't know.

I feel like shit.
Dr. Death...

Tolkien Salinger Hockanson came to live with us a little over five years ago. He is an English Mastiff by breed, but frankly, I don't think he is a great representative of the breed. I don't mean that in a bad way. He is a terribly affectionate dog, and does his best. He is just... a little... intellectually challenged. We got him because Soren was getting older, and April knew that when Soren passed, I wouldn't be able to get another dog for a long time. So, we decided to get a Mastiff as a Christmas present for the family that year. Tolkien arrived from New Mexico in a crate, and we instantly fell in love with him.

Within a few days, I had to fly out for a conference, and April had become worried about Tolkien's behavior. She took him to the vet, and we found out that he had Parvo. He had to have been exposed to it before we got him, given the incubation time. The breeder said he'd pay half the vet bill, but after almost a year of trying to track down where our money was, he finally won. We gave up. This breeder was crap. We knew we were not getting a show-quality dog, which was fine, but they weren't exactly forthcoming on how far he deviated from the breed. He has long hair for an English Mastiff, his teeth were messed up enough that the vet told us that he might have to have teeth pulled if they didn't move on their own (otherwise he wouldn't be able to eat). At any rate, April's decision to take Tolkien to the vet saved his life, and he recovered from the Parvo.

My previous animals were named for scientists and philosphers (Madame Curie and Soren Kierkegaard), and April and I decided to start naming animals for authors... hence Tolkien Salinger. He is a very affectionate dog, and is probably smarter than I give her credit for. He is lazy, as is typical for the breed, but ever since Soren passed away, he has taken his role as protector very seriously. He's getting better at determining who is worthy of barking, and has ceased to... um... soil himself when someone shows up. He used to run under the deck (which is why we call him the Troll) to bark, or run behind the house. The UPS carrier told me one time that he had never seen Tolkien until I happened to be home during a delivery. He's about 185 pounds (my guess), and I have to say it is far more impressive when he barks now without it being accompanied with his urinating on himself.

To give support to the claim that he might be smarter than I give him credit for, he is very careful who he barks at. Of course he doesn't bark at me, nor at my neighbors, but I started noticing that he stopped barking at the mail carrier. I finally found out why. When the female carrier shows up, Tolkien saunters out and waits patiently for her to turn around. His tail wags slowly, and he stands with his eyes focused on her truck. The vehicle comes to a complete and unnecessary stop, while she finds what she is looking for. Out of the mail truck soars a dog treat, which he gladly receives. The same story goes for the newspaper delivery people, which is wonderful given that the newspaper comes around 5:30 in the morning. Although that lady spends a few moments talking to Tolkien and telling him how beautiful he is...

The neighbors often yell at him in a very unflattering tone. A far cry from how they used to treat Soren. Their name for him was ‘Handsome’. When we were outside it was very common to hear “hello, Handsome!” floating over from the neighbors. When Tolkien goes over there, the words I hear floating aren’t fit for print. Granted, it’s probably the result of Tolkien’s desire to defecate on their driveway. I figure it’s a fair trade, though, given what their cats do to my motorcycle and the garage.

I decided to write about Tolkien today because while I was talking to my sister, she asked me what that terrible noise was. It was Tolkien howling to the coyotes, which had apparently found something worth howling about. He stood by me in protective mode, and I of course, felt much safer…

He is a great dog.

Dr. Dolittle

Geez. I haven't written in so long. I think I'm having the shakes. Unfortunately, work has become very consuming, and I feel guilty taking time away from it to write. I should be working today on Sun stuff, but decided there were just too many things I needed to get done around the house. Of course, then all heck broke loose as I was organizing my recycling for a trip to the center in Ben Lomond...

I was moving some beer bottles into a container for hauling when the SPCA arrived flanked by a host of Santa Cruz County's finest. Apparently there was a native Santa Cruz Mountain denizen that had been reported missing by its family, and I was the last known location for the creature. We found the poor thing sipping left over beer from the bottles that I had stored in the garage. The SPCA was livid, complaining that I had been a bad influence on a minor and my neglect had turned the poor sod into an alcoholic. Apparently, he had been working through several cases of empties. I tried to coax him out of the bottle he was located in, and it took an hour. Every time I thought he'd come out, he turned around to see if there was not just a bit more brew in the bottom of the bottle. I didn't know what I was going to do. Fortunately, he managed to slink his way out of the bottle. What a terrible sight...

In an attempt to help, my neighbor suggested that he be asked to slime a straight line. Unfortunately, I’d never seen one of his kind do that when sober, so I didn’t want to use that as a test. Not to mention, surrounded by liberal screamers and a posse of deputies, his nerves were a little shot.

Fortunately, I wasn’t arrested. I agreed to pay for therapy, and he has to go to AA. The SPCA is going to manage his case, and they’ve threated to come back at me if he doesn’t get better.

I’ve got to start locking down the empties…

Bad Influence...

Before I begin, here he is in all his snuggliness... after the fact...

Annie and I had a discussion a couple of weeks ago where I voice a concern that we weren’t taking very good care of Tolkien. He had a place to get out of the rain, and plenty of food, but we didn’t take care of him like we took care of Soren. At that time, I gave him a (poor) bath, and let him in the house. He’s been wanting to come in the house ever since.

Now, I have to be honest here. Tolkien is a bit of a mutant. He has long hair for a Mastiff, and he is… well, intellectually challenged. That said, he is one of the most affectionate dogs I’ve ever known. He is a massive Teddy bear. Before Annie comes home tomorrow, I decided to give Tolkien a thorough bath. That means he was going to get soaped twice. Given the better cleaning power of warm water, I decided to give him a bath in the bathtub. I cleaned the living room floor, washed his blankets (surprisingly got the dog smell out of them), and got ready to do the deed.

I brought Tolkien in, and he went towards the blankets, I sternly redirected him to the bathroom, and closed the door. At this point, I think I should give some history to explain what I expected. I know it’s not to expect the same behavior from different pets, just like it’s not right with respect to children. However, Soren was an amazing bath-taker. You just told him it was time to take a bath, and he climbed in. You washed one side of him, and told him to turn around. He did. You told him to stay there while the conditioner did its job. He did. You rinsed him off, with the request that he turn around. He did. He got out, stood there while you dried him off, and then he went a little nuts running wild around the room in his cleanliness. Tolkien? Not so much. I told him to get in the tub, and he put one paw up. He decided it was too tall, and reclined on the floor. Granted, this tub is taller than my last one. After twenty minutes of trying to encourage him, and informing him that if he didn’t he would become a permanent outdoor dog (which he interpreted as mumble… mumble… mumble), I realized I was going to have to do it for him. I wrapped my arms around this 150+ pound dog (probably four feet from nose to butt), and tried to assist him into the tub. He promptly went to the floor again. I tried again, this time only trying to get his front in the tub. This worked. After getting his front in, he thought about backing out, but my knees prohibited that action, and the shower-door rail hitting his chest convinced him the easiest way of dealing with this was to simply jump in the tub.

I think I was sweating by this time.

I grabbed the shower wand and started soaking him. After making sure the close side was done, I stupidly told him to turn around. Old habits die hard. He looked up at me like I was an idiot, and started to sit. Fine. I did my best to soak each side, and applied the first soaping. He was very good after that. The drain was not as accepting as it started to get more than it wanted of dog hair. I soaped him once, and told him to stay. He did. He didn’t whine. After a few minutes, I came back and rinsed him. Then, I soaped him again. This time I managed to get him to turn around to make sure I got the far side. If you’ve never done it, bathing a dog the size of a small cow is a bit of a challenge if they aren’t into it. He waited with the second sudsing for another five minutes, and I rinsed him off. I had to pull the plug completely out of the tub to make sure it would drain.

I left him in the tub to shake in hopes he wouldn’t do it in the other part of the bathroom. This is a stupid thing that people do that has no chance of being successful. Yes, he shook in the tub, but when I opened the door and invited him out, he did it again. Toweling dry became a game where he rubbed against the wall, depositing copious amounts of hair on the textured finish. I gave up, and he ran happily to his blankets, as is seen in the picture.

Next time, we are going to the Do-It-Yourself downtown…

Understanding why that was my ex-wife's choice for dog bathing...

Annie will be displeased that she missed a very special Christmas visitor last night.

The siding on our house was installed very poorly. It is very evident when standing in the gutted master bedroom. There are cracks and fissures all around that provide air, light, and... other things to pass into the house. Last night after dinner, I went to bed and continued where I had left off the night before in my current book. Yes, I've read it many times before, but I'm low on reading material. When that happens, I turn towards my library and try to figure out if I've forgotten enough of the material to warrant another reading.

I nestled down and opened up Stephen King's It. I was reading a particularly spooky part. I had entered into that heightened awareness that leads one to expect ghosts, goblins, witches, demons, or whatever spooks a person to be floating through the hallways, or outside the bedroom window, or... God, help us... under the bed. Lilo was snoozing off and on against my legs when the light dimmed a little. My gaze went to the ceiling, as did Lilo's.

In amazement, I watched the ceiling hypnotically as a bat flew around the fan. It made at least fifty circuits around the room. A couple of times it flew down to check out Lilo, my book, and me. Before I could pull out of my fascination, it flew out of the room. No, I don't know where it is, but I don't mind. It will find its way out, or I'll find it, and help it back into the wild black yonder. I figure I owe them. Not only do they eat an incredible number of insects, but they have civil engineering insight. After three years of a vacancy sign hanging up on the bat 'condos' that Annie and I made, the terrible winds in the last storm brought the pole down. I always knew the pole wasn't great, but I'm pleased to say that the bat houses came down from twenty feet in a storm without any damage. Annie and I know how to build things... maybe we struggle with hanging things.

Batty.

There are a number of people and, well, animals that have a wonderful ability to simply deal with life as it comes. It's amazing. No frustration, no irritation, no thoughts about how it should have been. This is not a trait that is associated with a certain spieces, or something. No, it is completely about character...

I walked through the dining room this morning, and saw Lilo lying on my coat. Now this is not normally a strange thing. However, the coat in question is a full length wool coat that I had draped over a chair, and the coat ended up spreading on the dining room table a foot or so. Lilo was snuggled into the coat on the table. I wanted to kick him off the table, but couldn't do it. I went about my business, and several hours later (must have been a good nap), I heard a noise that indicated something had fallen. I went into the dining room, and found that Lilo had fallen off the table, and knocked the chair over against the wall. The chair was leaning on two legs, and the coat was no longer draped over as much of the surface... it was certainly not on the table. Lilo looked at it without any concern. His only goal was rebuilding a comfortable place to lay. He managed to pull the long coat down the chair, and even though it was at a strange angle, he made a place to lay. No worries, no concerns. He was perfectly happy.

Some day, I'll be able to do the same...



Jealous...

The Hockanson home has been performing experiments. It has nothing to do with procrastination. As it turns out, after careful data collecting, and environment control, the Hockanson Experimental Laboratory for Worthless Scientific Facts has determined the following: It takes one week (+/- one day) for a laundry basket full of clothes to become furniture.

Evidence:

Other:

1) I’m in the wrong profession. I had to call a plumber to auger out the drain. I had everything ready, helped him haul the auger down to the septic tank, and connected it to the electricity. Last night I had cleared everything away from the septic access. I thought he would need about fifteen minutes to clear the blockage. I was wrong. I helped him get set up, went into the house to get the checkbook, and came outside just in time to see the clog break. It took five minutes. From the time he turned off of Highway 9 until the time he returned to Highway 9, he couldn’t have spent more than 20 minutes. It cost me $125…

2) Chutes and Ladders is a great game for practicing math. Annie and I played two games, and since the spinner only has numbers one through six, we could easily practice adding numbers 1-6 to numbers up to 100… Good stuff.

Laundry is put away, cat feels homeless...

The sun has almost completed its journey over the redwoods. This is the signal for me to get off the computer and get to work, as it will ultimately be too bright on this deck (I have several) for me to see the screen. However, I couldn't shut down with saying something about Lilo's break from routine. When I have no place to go or anything urgent to be handled, I get up in the morning, make a pot of coffee, and retreat to the deck for my morning web browsing. Lilo doesn't understand why his needs are not higher on my list in the morning. Rather than accept that I'm too self-absorbed during these mornings, he assumes I just need to be reminded that he would like some canned food. His efforts to jog my memory are very simple. He meets me at the door, and begins talking to me. He runs to the kitchen, talking the whole way. Since his desire to get to the kitchen is more extreme than mine, he goes much faster than I. In an act that defies my need for logic, he manages to run through my legs several times as I stroll the fifty feet to the kitchen. Either he is actually able to be in two places at once, or when he gets too far ahead, he runs back just to try to trip me. Maybe he's hoping I'll understand better if I've fallen flat on the floor and can look me straight in the eye. Meanwhile, Sandy is also talking about her need for canned food, but she's too smart to get under foot. She's seen Lilo take flight a few times when his timing involves crossing over a rising size thirteen foot. This typically goes on until the sun clears the redwoods, and I take care of my morning chores.

This happens all the time... except for today. I'm on my fifth or sixth cup of coffee, and he hasn't budged. He is just sprawled out on the floor. He looks at me as I go by, but has nothing to say. Sandy has a look of concern that without Lilo's encouragement she will a) not get any canned food, and b) not look like the "good" cat if she resorts to Lilo's tactics (never mind the cat feces on the floor that she has deposited during the night). I don't honestly think Lilo is sick. I think he's exhausted. He spent several hours outside yesterday. Normally that would not happen. However, I saw him dodge under the deck, and I wasn't about to crawl under there to get him. The next thing I know, he is on the opposite of the house rolling in the dirt and chewing on grass. It was starting to get late, and he jumped up to go under the house. I informed him (we understand each other) that if he didn't come out, he'd spend the night under there. At that point he permitted me to carry him into the house.

Maybe if I let him do this more often, I'll not feel so much like the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk during my coffee mornings.

Fee-fi-fo-fum

For once, I can't tell you exactly how old I was when this happened, but when I was about 10 or 11 my dad woke me up after I'd gone to bed. He was kind but urgent that he needed my help. This was new to me. What could I possibly do that my dad couldn't do? I groggily trudged up the road to the hog operation. We had a sow that was giving birth, and not well. Dad was concerned that she might have a stillborn or something that had blocked the canal, and she might die from it. As I recall, she hadn't delivered the afterbirth, yet. I was the only family member with arms small enough to go up the canal. I lubricated up with some Vaseline, and stuck my young arm slowly into this sow. I found nothing. However, after I extracted my arm (I went past the elbow), she was much better. She recovered, and everything was fine.

This was the first of my more involved experiences as an amateur vet. I don't count the exercises in castrating pigs. I do count the saving of the calf that had been abandoned by its mother in below-freezing weather a couple of years later. Once or twice, in my "later" years, Soren came into conflict with things (other dogs, a mailbox) that left him with a fairly significant wound. My first wife and I would sew him up. During those instances, though, I was more of the assistant. I calmed Soren, and he lay very still, while Elizabeth went to work with the alcohol soaked thread. They all healed perfectly, except for one. He got a wound on his leg that was in an area with very little meat. It was very close to the bone. Although that healed, there was a piece of skin that always stuck out from his leg (I'll spare you the name that my buddy Flanders gave it). It never bothered him, although years later a vet cleaned it up so it wouldn't be so obvious.

Why do I bring this up? Annie just had her first experience with "the Amateur Vet". Two weeks ago, the day before I left for Chicago, I gave Tolkien an overdue bath. During the procedure, I discovered that his ears were swollen. In fact, they were very warm to the touch. I knew he had an infection. I was leaving town, and didn't know what to do. I felt confident that he would make it until I got back. Upon my return, I noticed that his ears were still the same, but he had been scratching himself so bad (he has terrible allergies) that he had some wounds on his body. I knew he needed to go to the vet, but once again, I had to travel. It was not possible to get him to his regular vet before I had to leave, nor was it going to be possible to get him in on Friday. He had to make it through the week. When I returned from Portland, the poor dog had signs of a ruptured infection. His ear had yellow sludge on it. Today, I gave him another bath, and checked him over. One of the ears was really bad. The infection was not in the ear, but rather on the ear itself. I knew what the vet was going to do, and knew that I could do it (except for the antibiotics). I had him dried and clean, and asked Annie to come and help. She held his leash, and talked to him reassuringly. I took my sterilized razor, and lanced the bulge in his ear. No, Annie didn't throw up. Several times she covered her eyes as I drained the wound. Tolkien was actually grateful. I'd massage the ear to remove the residue of the infection, and he gave his satistfied moan. We worked that ear for about a half hour. I sterilized the ear several times, and moved to the other one. This one he didn't like. To make matters worse, I couldn't get anything out. I'm wondering if he has been flopping his ears so much that the gristle has built up, and it's not an infection.

We disinfected the other incision, and gave him a couple of treats. I'm watching him as I write (before I return to the laundry), and he seems much better. I think I'll be lucky to get him to the vet on Tuesday, but I think he'll be ok. He honestly seems better than he has in quite a while. He's been looking for something to bark at. He's barked at imaginary people on the road, and imaginary monsters in the trees. Of course, I hope that's not because he suddenly can't hear.

At any rate, Annie handled it well. I chastised her briefly that she was more concerned about getting sprayed by water as I rinsed Tolkien's ears than she was about Tolkien being frightened, and she snapped back into consoling him.

I'm really tired, even though it's early, and I have blood and puss on my jeans. I'm ok with that, because my dog is better, but don't count on hearing about Annie's birthday unless I strangely get a second wind...

Dr. Dolittle

I have concerns about Lilo's health. Not his physical health, but his mental health. He seems to have a "thing" about feet. He is constantly rubbing on my feet when I'm lying on the floor. He also seems to love rubbing against my Doc Marten sandals. He can spend a lot of time just rubbing on them. My mother would tell you he has a death wish, but despite her belief, my feet don't stink. I mean, come on, I hardly ever wear shoes. How are my feet going to start smelling? Anyway, Lilo's infatuation with my footwear has me wondering about his level of sanity. Oh well, at least it's not Annie...

Hiding my shoes...