EmBARKing on a PAW-some road trip with Chlo

It was time for the annual Mosiman family fishing trip to Black Lake (I'd initially capitalized the "f" in "family" but it lent an unintentionally macabre tone to the event...on our own, we Mosimans are a disaster-waiting-to-happen...we don't need to conjure even the subtlest references to the Mansons to make it worse). For Brad, one of the high points of the trip is fishing with our little dog, Chlo. For 50 weeks of the year, my dachshund is my soul mate...my spirit animal...attentive and conciliatory to my every emotional need. 

Except during fishing and hunting season (Or whenever Daddy barbecues ribs).

It is during these periods of time that Chlo harkens back to her ancestral roots. She sheds the domesticated frivolities of her existence with ease and without regret. She will fearlessly go toe to toe (fin) and tooth to tooth against an armored Northern Pike and sail into the carcass of a downed deer like an Olympic diver. Chlo goes ferociously feral and Brad loves it. 

But Chlo has grown older. Liver disease has left her bloated and unbalanced. Her eyes are a bit cloudy and her canines corroded. And my sweet girl is so tired.

But, as Brad began the familiar process of packing, Chlo eyed the pile of life jackets and rain coats with keen interest. She carefully inventoried the rods, reels, and tackle boxes as they emerged and Brad's heart began to break. "The whole week would be too much for her..." he said sadly as she incessantly accompanied each of his trips to the truck as he packed. 

Uh-oh.

No...no...no. I had successfully extricated myself from these trips YEARS ago...six or more people crammed into a musty two bedroom/one tiny bathroom (with an unreliable toilet) cabin with seasoned fishermen intent on going out on the lake and STAYING out on the lake in ANY kind of weather...this was NOT the ideal environment for Amy Mosiman.

"If she could just come up for a day or two..." Brad brainstomed quietly, careful not to make eye contact with me lest he immediately be turned into stone. 

So that is how I ended up on a four-hour long road trip with my dachshund.

Yes. I drove FOUR hours so my dog could fish.

I chronicled the highlights in real time for her eagerly awaiting fishing fans:

Whereupon Chlo departs for her adventure, enshrined in luxury...to be left alone for seven minutes while her mama fuels up her chariot to fight her way through , not one, but two protective layers of foil to get to the strawberry rhubarb pie tucked securely under the passenger side seat...ignoring me as I wrestled her away and pie-shamed her. Then, onto Grandma's where our heroine begged for bologna in a way NOT befitting royalty. Then she further embarrassed me by pooping dramatically in the lawn before her elderly audience of admirers who applauded her efforts. 

It should go without saying that it was both an honor and a privilege to act as Chlo's chauffeur and the big picture metaphor of my little dog and I taking this journey together was not lost on me.

"Where are you on 81?" my husband asked as Chlo and I stopped to stretch our legs at a little park pavilion. "Eighty-one what?" I inquired, shaking my sharing size bag of plain M&Ms. I did the math to see if the sharing size contains eighty-one pieces of M&Ms. Happily, it did. Sadly, the bag was now empty. "Are you not on Interstate 81?" Brad sighed. "I'm sure I will be soon," I reassured him, luring Chlo back to the car with a french fry.

And thus concludes the story of my and Chlo's five hour journey to Black Lake so she could fish. But, as you already know, the destination may have been reached but the adventure was far from over. A Turkish proverb states that "No road is long with good company." And as companions go, Chlo is pretty paw-some.

I won't lie, saying "Good-bye" to Juno was rough

 I had sent her a one-sentenced text on the 12th and she generously gave me sixteen days before she started to gently poke me with a stick. Joan and I can go weeks and, sometimes months, without talking but rarely does time or space interrupt the flow of dialog. Only crisis can cause that. 

Joan can usually judge my mental health by my blogs which suddenly went radio-silent. 

She had watched as I'd raged, wept, and went to war as my dad suffered a painful demise over the course of three brutal months. She monitored my mania as I temporarily moved with my mother into an assisted living facility in an attempt to ease her sudden and confusing transition. All of it was documented therapeutically in my blogs. Sometimes funny. Sometimes not. 

But now, all Joan had was a one-sentenced text. And she read the world into it. And let me be.

Until yesterday.

Juno was a doofus of a dog. Happy. Clingy. Verbal in the way only a rottweiler can be. Our family adopted the cry of the rottie as our "Bat Signal" when separated in stores and crowds..."Whah-woo!" 

Plagued by chronic ear infections since puppyhood, Juno has...had...been deaf a good portion of her life. We were always yelling at her and she was always responding by wagging that nub of a tail. Her hips were bad. She had constant bladder leakage problems after being spayed. Her joints shivered constantly which we finally attributed to Lyme Disease. She was a hot, happy mess. 

Having geriatric dogs has its own set of challenges. You are constantly aware that you are up against a clock. Every day is a gift. 

The formula is pretty solid. As long as they're eating, drinking, wagging, and pooping...you're still in the
game. But, in Juno's case, the formula wasn't full-proof. We knew we were in trouble. She'd stopped eating. But an entire blog was once dedicated to this animal's depressed hunger strike when Syd moved out. We were still drinking. She demanded to always be with us. Those big doofy eyes were still shining...full of love and trust. 

Anyone not in the game would have easily made the call. But the flood of urine and vomit was of little consequence when she was still stretching out her head so we could stroke her neck. We were using a towel to hoist her up and help her outside. Brad bought her a rotisserie chicken and, for once, we resented the dachshund who happily gobbled it down when Juno ignored our frantic offerings. 

The bedroom became too difficult to navigate so the entire family moved into the living room in a morbid Mosiman sleeping party. 

She made it hard because that girl did not want to leave us. There was no trying to hide or escape. No tucking into a corner or a closet. Where we were was where she wanted to be. The final day, of course, was the worst because we knew what we had to do. Brad had laid with her most of the day after having been up with her all night. I took my turn with her, spooning her on the floor and trying vainly to get her rapid breathing to slow to match mine. I begged my dog to die. I described all the friends who were eagerly waiting to meet her. I told her what a good dog she was. Thanked her for always being so sweet. Apologized for ignoring her...being impatient with her...and not loving her enough. That's the beauty of Juno, though...she had enough love for all of us.

It was time to go for a ride.

I'd envisioned carrying her out on her soft dog bed, Cleopatra-style, but she was too heavy for me to manage so Brad carefully dragged the bed out to the van while I cracked lame jokes about Christmas trees. 

Brad assured the uncertain receptionist that the vet would be okay with servicing us out in our vehicle. 

The accommodating vet kindly and patiently explained how he would administer a sedative first and return in five minutes.

Juno was still chugging like a freight train as we stroked her.

Within 30 seconds of the sedative, she drew in a long, strong breath and let out a slow, shaky sigh of relief. The light went out and our girl was gone. 

I could picture Jesus...on a small, grassy slope. Not in robes. It's 2023, for pete's sake. Jeans. I bet He would rock socks with sandals. "Jesus wears robes," Joan inserted. I glanced at the clock. I'd been talking for over an hour. No, in this scenario, Jesus is wearing jeans. He's calling Juno. "Junie! Junie-B! C'mon, Big Dog!" And she is racing up that slope on strong legs, eager to reach her Master's side. She is leaping with no one having to caution her not to do "jumpies." And she is talking away to Him. Telling Him all about us, I imagine. All the good things. Because Juno was only about the good things. Whah-woo.

Good dog, Junie-B.

Thanks, Joan.

My melon-collie adventures in puppy-sitting

My friend, Katriel, is an exceptional dog trainer. She is highly skilled...consistent, patient, communicating her expectations succinctly and clearly. Typing this, it has just dawned on me that she is also an exceptional human trainer because she uses those same skills with me...EVERY DAY.  But I digress...

So when little Kokoro, our baby Border Collie, entered our lives several weeks ago, I watched, with fascination, as Katriel immediately began working to train her puppy. Now...I don't want to brag but... ALL of my dogs have self-trained (brilliantly, might I add, ever-so-modestly). This method results in a hybrid human/canine relationship of, more or less, equal footing. In fact, I think my dachshund may be listed as a joint owner on my bank account. That is the only way to explain the unprecedented number of packages that arrive from Chewy each week. 

But, if Katriel's ego is SO-OO big that she insists on playing the alpha role in this relationship, who am I to cast aspersions (or, shall we say, interfere) with her carefully laid plans of puppy domination? 

Hello. You have met me, right? (Cue diabolical laughter here)

My dear, sweet friend, Katriel is a control freak. She plans and prepares for EVERY contingency. But there are a few things out there, of course, that are difficult, if not downright impossible, to control. And poor Katriel had to deal with two of them. One:  The heart of a puppy. And two:  Amy Mosiman. 

Katriel set herself up immediately as Koko's pack leader...the loving but firm mother figure...the rule setter and enforcer...the boss. So, yes. Katriel was the boss. But I was the Border Collie's best friend. The crazy, chaotic aunt who blows through bedtimes and considers a box of Cracker Jacks to be a square meal. 

Everyone in Katriel's immediate world fell mind-numbingly in line with her unreasonable training techniques. Poor Koko was expected to sit, stay, and, gasp, express her desire to go outside to relieve herself like some sort of...sniffle-sniffle...animal. Don't bother to call Animal Control. I already tried. I am currently filing a court order to transfer ownership of poor, sweet, little put-upon Koko to a more suitable family (mine). 

All of Katriel's brainwashed soldiers immediately say "Down" to sad little Koko if it even LOOKS like she's going to step one perfect paw out of line. Not me. Each time my bow-wow bestie and I see each other, she climbs up me like a spider monkey. We had a field-of-flowers encounter yesterday when Katriel finally released the leash...yeah...that's right...a LEASH (Oh, the humanity)...so that Koko and I could race across the field (in cinematic slow motion with theme music) to be happily reunited after going almost a FULL DAY without seeing one another. 

The opportunity of a lifetime arose a few week-ends back when Katriel was going to be busy for an entire Saturday and expressed a bit of worry about leaving little Koko for such an extended period of time. "How about she hang out with me in my classroom Saturday morning while I work?" I asked, super-cas. Katriel hesitated  for an insultingly long period of time before relenting. 

Koko and I counted down the days to our playdate. I arrived at Katriel's and released my sweet little girl from her pen (short for "penitentiary"). We explored my classroom and played with her ball a bit before I began setting up to work. Kind and inquisitive, Koko wanted to help, of course. First, she feng shui-ed the area. "Wouldn't the trash can look better tipped attractively over?" she grinned, waving that beautiful flag of a tail. Admittedly, it did have some artistic appeal but we agreed, after knocking it over twenty more times, that perhaps, up-out-of-reach, was the best location. Next on the list was the systematic removal of the pom-poms from my school slippers. I knew that, fashion-wise, pop-poms are considered SO last decade so I appreciated Koko's intervention. I wouldn't want my 4th graders making fun of my lack of style. She apparently didn't like the zippers on my boots either. Maybe Koko would like to go shoe shopping with me. I'd have to ask Katriel.

Each time I began typing on my keyboard, Koko would insist on climbing up on my lap to edit my work. She addressed the matter of my split-ends and split-infinitives at the same time as she chewed my hair reflectively while correcting my grammar. We took a break from all the work we were accomplishing to play outside for a bit and then we had fun running around the school and sliding on all the 3rd grade boot trays in the hallway. When we returned to the classroom, determined to buckle down, Koko made the delightful discovery that, if she reared up and balanced just right, she could stick her snout into the student desks. We uncovered contraband toys, hoarded candy, and a TON of fun play sticks (also known as "pencils"). 

LATER: "How many?" Katriel sighed. "Thirty," I told her. She frowned at me. (She does that a lot.) "EXACTLY thirty?" she asked, doubtfully. "No," I admitted, "Koko rounded them up."

Before we knew it, it was time to go. You know what they say, "Time sure flies when you're having fun." We finished up our time together by chasing a water bottle that fell out of my truck and tumble-weeded its way across the deserted parking lot. The exhausted puppy nestled in my lap on the drive back to Katriel's and the exhausted human collapsed on the couch the minute she returned from her puppy-sitting adventure. 

"Were you able to get your work done?" Katriel wondered when she called to check on me later that day. "We had a lot of fun," I told her, refusing to admit that I'd forgotten the ceaseless energy required to keep up with a puppy. "But were you able to work at all?" she persisted. "Katriel," I snapped, "Just like your little Border Collie there, I HERD you the first time!"