| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Libbie |
Posted - Apr 14 2008 : 9:17:04 PM
Tonight is the first night I've spent alone, meaning without Seamus, in this old farm house since I moved here ten years ago. Not ONE NIGHT here without her until tonight. Yesterday, I received a call from my dad telling me that my grandmother had passed away - she fell into a coma on Friday and passed away Sunday. She was so much fun and so very kind and interesting - always ready with a papaya or a game of cards. This morning, I put down my oldest and best dog, Seamus. She is/was a golden retriever with an amazing capacity for empathy - and patience enough to let a toddler stick his fingers up her nose. Massive organ failure - she wasn't sick, the vet said it looks more like a poisioning. I don't really care what it was. It's too quiet here. No grandmother in the back of my mind, no dog under my feet. My husband is out of town on business, my oldest is with my parents, and my little one is asleep. Darn if I even know what to do. It's just one of those days - wild in it's own almost surreal way, I guess. We all have them, and it's days like this one that make me refer back to the sayings and admonitions I grew up with, "Out of emotion and into motion," and, "This, too, shall pass."
This is my grandma and me - it's so fuzzy - it's the only one I have on the computer - this is in 2006. She's lovely and fun and kind...
...and this is Seamus; the Good Dog...
XOXO, Libbie
"Farmgirl Sister #10," and proud of it!!! |
| 12 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| Jen |
Posted - Apr 28 2008 : 12:55:42 PM
Do you assign silly nicknames to your dogs (pets)? I do it like crazy - some stick, ,and others change day to day. Wanna hear some?
Buddy is always Butter Bean, but also B and Bean-Made-of-Butter
Frank is Franklin, Frankfurter, Frankie Dean, Frankenstein, and Bad Dog!
Duke, our big tabby cat, is generally just D, Mr. Deeds, or Deedsy.
And our little tabby cat who came with our farm was originally Brother, but now he is Mitty Perge (don't ask me why), Mitten, Urchin, or Pitterpin.
Loony, I know.
Jen
Farmgirl Sisterhood Member #9
The View From My Boots: www.bovesboots.blogspot.com
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| Jen |
Posted - Apr 28 2008 : 12:36:52 PM
It's tough to bond with another dog. I'm only just starting to connect with our boys even though they are wonderful dogs. It's just takes time (and time beyond puppyhood - double UGH!).
Jen
Farmgirl Sisterhood Member #9
The View From My Boots: www.bovesboots.blogspot.com
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| Libbie |
Posted - Apr 27 2008 : 08:40:22 AM
I love hearing about your dogs, Jen - I'm still missing Seamus - I don't think that'll end anytime soon - but we have another dog - a little heeler/collie mix that followed us home when we were on a walk on the canal road. He's just darling, but a puppy all the same - and one who "wets" all over when he gets excited. Ugh. I love him, and I just KNOW I'll grow to love him more - he IS a good sheepdog, but he's so different from the calm, lovable retriever that I was so used to...
In the meanwhile, Seamus is buried out on the far corner of our property, right underneath a "pioneer tree;" one of the old, OLD cottonwoods in the valley. It's HUGE, and it's my favorite tree on the property. It's not as "useful" as the elms that shade the house and yard in the summertime, but it is just so graceful and steady and strong all at the same time...
XOXO, Libbie
"Farmgirl Sister #10," and proud of it!!! |
| Jen |
Posted - Apr 18 2008 : 12:12:21 PM
Here's more about dogs I have loved...
Jake was our red heeler who we picked up from the side of a winding, treacherous country highway in Missouri about 8 years ago. He was full grown and heavy with the "baggage" of being dumped. As my husband Chris aptly put it: "Jake was the most worthless dog I ever loved." Jake started out our relationship by pooping down the front of our stereo and peeing all over everything (including me & Clarence), but we kept him anyway. He barked incessantly with the most obnoxious voice, chased UPS truck relentlessly, high-tailed it in times of trouble, and bit people's heels. No wonder he was dumped off on the roadside, right? But no matter how many times we thought about ditching him at the pound, we couldn't do it. Slowly but surely, Jake became family. He followed me like a shadow almost every minute of every day of his life. And just in the past few years, he became a kid dog - loved our girls like crazy. The cranky old bugger would just come up & plop into their laps. I always said that by the time Jake died, he'd be a darn good dog. And he was.
He was hit by a car last year, leaving us just as he came to us - on the road - and boy do I miss him.
Our new dogs are Buddy, a boxer mix, and Frank,a bull terrier mix. Both are funny, smart, wonderful dogs. Buddy doesn't have a cross bone in his body - he's just pure sweetness. Frank is one of the most kid-loving dogs I've ever known, but the terrier in him shines through with stubborn insolence now and then - and he loves to eat and roll in anything stinky. Oh well, no dogs are perfect, but I'm sure glad to know them!
Jen
Farmgirl Sisterhood Member #9
The View From My Boots: www.bovesboots.blogspot.com
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| Jen |
Posted - Apr 18 2008 : 10:57:01 AM
Tears....I swear we could be RELATED, Libbie. Thanks for beginning this story even though it hurts so much to write it. I really believe it will help you heal & recall the great times with love & joy.
PS - that was a wonderful article about your grandmother - what a lady; what a life!
Jen
Farmgirl Sisterhood Member #9
The View From My Boots: www.bovesboots.blogspot.com
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| Libbie |
Posted - Apr 17 2008 : 9:33:02 PM
And then there's Seamus (it's Irish, and pronounced "shay-mus." It's a boy's name, and she was a girl, but what the heck, right?) - affectionately known as "the Seamlet."
Here's her story:
back in early 1997, I was dating the man who would become my husband. He was working on the trail crew up in the Uinta Mountains, and I was working at a law office in downtown Salt Lake City. I went up to visit him for the weekend, and we went on the most loverly hike - springtime, and it was so beautiful. On the way back to his cabin, I said, for no reason I can remember, "If I get to name something, I want to name it Seamus. Seamus Heaney is one of my favorite poets." He laughed, said it was a funny name, and we hiked back. Well, there was this scrawny, dirty, coughing little dog tied up to the stair railing on his cabin, with a Cool Whip (yuck!) container full of dog food next to her. What does he say? "There's Seamus." She is shaking and just not doing well - skinny as can be. I ask him if we should keep her, and he says that he can't - he's working too much. It was at that moment I decided that she WOULD be my dog, but I didn't say anything. We didn't know if she was housetrained or anything, so we kept her in the bathroom that night, and she whined the whole darn time - but no accidents. Then next night, we let her have the run of the hard-floored part of the cabin, and we woke up with her snugged up against the outside of the bedroom door. She wanted to be with us (I like to think she wanted to be with ME!).
I took her back with me - and took her to the closest animal shelter in hopes that they wouldn't find her owner - did I say that? Anyway, I called the shelter about ever 15 minutes to be sure that they wouldn't "accidentally" euthanize her, and finally, I went to pick her up. When I was at the desk signing papers, however, she bolted out the door to the parking lot. I thought she would run away and be scared. I ran after her, only to find her sitting by the door to my car. I really think she knew she was supposed to be my dog. Then, we drove home...
Tune in for the next installment of "THE SEAMUS STORY" in a little while. I still get so sad...
XOXO, Libbie
"Farmgirl Sister #10," and proud of it!!! |
| Libbie |
Posted - Apr 17 2008 : 3:04:09 PM
Thank you so much - you are so very kind - all of you. I wanted to share an article that was published today in the "Honolulu Advertiser" (the newspaper) about my grandmother. Here's the link: http://www.honoluluadvertiser.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/200804170100/SPORTS15/804170365 My Dad is "Jim, Jr." - just so you know where I fit into all of this.
She was so wonderful.
XOXO, Libbie
"Farmgirl Sister #10," and proud of it!!! |
| Jen |
Posted - Apr 16 2008 : 5:46:51 PM
I second that! Tell me about your other dog(s), Libbie. Heck, let's all tell some good dog tales...
Jen
Farmgirl Sisterhood Member #9
The View From My Boots: www.bovesboots.blogspot.com
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| Mountain Girl |
Posted - Apr 15 2008 : 3:28:13 PM
Jim said he isn't going to any heaven that doesn't admit dogs: ) JoAnn |
| Jen |
Posted - Apr 15 2008 : 2:45:09 PM
Yep - there has to be. Love and lots of hugs, Libbie.
Jen
Farmgirl Sisterhood Member #9
The View From My Boots: www.bovesboots.blogspot.com
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| Libbie |
Posted - Apr 15 2008 : 07:06:10 AM
Oh, Jen - I couldn't make it through Clarence's eulogy without tears. You are talented, and I can tell how much Clue was loved. It's so hard, isn't it? Thank you for letting me/us read this - it puts some words to how I feel right now, and I'm sure, if I looked right now, I'd see Seamus, along with Clue, running in their shadowy ways across the sky. Dog Heaven. There just has to be one...
XOXO, Libbie
"Farmgirl Sister #10," and proud of it!!! |
| Jen |
Posted - Apr 15 2008 : 06:54:02 AM
I've been there - not so long ago - and I understand the absolute hole in your life, Libbie. Especially now in my adult years, I have really tried to get through grief by keeping busy, but I'd never heard "Out of emotion and into motion." My new mantra for hard times.
Have you read Pam Houston's story "Home is Where Your Dogs Are" in her true story collection A Little More About Me? It's a saddy but goody about her beloved dog Jackson. The last paragraph always makes me cry...
"There will be more dogs laid to rest here, and horses, and maybe one day, even me. In the meantime, I'm going to go outside and take my remaining three dogs walking. We'll go up to the top of the hill and howl a little elegy for Jackson. Tonight we'll look for the shape of his bones in the sky."
It inspired me to write a eulogy of sorts for my dear dog a couple years ago. Writing it really helped me come to terms with it all.
Today, we said goodbye to our old friend Clarence. So, please join us in tipping a hat, saying a prayer, or offering a smile as we see him off to wherever good souls go when they leave this place.
One of the first things most people noticed about Clarence was that his body was a burden no one would want to carry. His small frame was riddled with such severe arthritis that, upon viewing his x-rays, more than one veterinarian told us it was amazing that he could even walk. But he walked like a champ, sometimes up mountains and sometimes for miles, and he was never happier than when he was racing after a tennis ball at top speed. Thankfully, Clarence (who we often called Clue) found joy in all sorts of simple pleasures that seemed to well outweigh his pain. He loved pine cones and windy days, bites of toast, chasing waves on the beach, “herding” the vacuum, and cuddling in bed.
When we first saw him one summer day in 1997, standing at the gate of his kennel in the Missoula, Montana Humane Society, we both knew without saying a word that he was our dog. It wasn't until we went home that I asked Chris, “Did you see that funny little black and white heeler-looking dog?”
Of course, he knew just which dog I was talking about, and we couldn’t help but drive back to town to give him another look. Malnourished, listless, and weak, it was no small miracle that the Humane Society had kept him alive for more than two weeks after finding him anonymously tied to a tree in front of the building. During our visit, the scruffy little guy limped impassively around the yard of the pound with us, scratching at the ground now and then like it didn’t matter much if we took him or left him. But when we sat down on the curb to mull over the responsibility of bringing a dog into our unpredictable lives, he leaned against Chris with the weight of his whole soul. How could we refuse him?
As we were reluctantly leading him back to the kennel that he shared with only a tennis ball, the Humane Society manager told us a story we would recount for years to come. It seems Clarence had been out in the play yard with other dogs when a much bigger bully knocked him off his feet. Clarence had hardly hit the ground when he pulled himself up snarling like a wolverine and terrified the other dog into belly-up submission!
At some point during the two-day waiting period of the adoption process, Chris and I set out on a “vision quest” to decide on a name for our new dog. We headed up Lolo Creek to a small, clear pool where we sat watching tiny trout and mulling over a lot of names that didn’t seem to fit. The fact is, Chris had already given him the right name before we went on our quest, and it was Clarence. I didn’t like it at first – it seemed an awkward name to call a dog, but it had belonged to Chris’ grandfather, a bare-knuckle boxing miner whose strength, Chris said, had come straight from his heart. In that light, there just wasn’t any other name.
Once we got Clarence home, he never wanted to leave the twelve acres and doublewide trailer we rented at the base of Mormon Peak in the Bitterroot Mountains. The first time we took him for a ride down to the Harvest Foods grocery store in Lolo, he hopped desperately toward the rear window of our ’78 Subaru, trying with all his might to get back to his new home. His trust grew with time to the point that he actually looked forward to trips in the car, but every time he heard the tires turn onto our rock road, he would start whining excitedly – the sound of crunching gravel meant we were home.
Looking back, Chris and I are glad that we didn’t know just how bad Clarence’s physical condition was when we lived in Montana. We might have treated him differently, and he may not have grown and thrived the way he did. We hiked him up and down the mountains, carrying him only when it got so difficult for him that he had to lie down. We took him fishing on the Bitterroot River almost every weekend, and he learned to relish the sound of reeling because it meant he might get a fresh, flopping fish to nibble.
We let him sit outside in the snow to bask in cold morning sunshine. We encouraged him to chase sticks and tennis balls. We fed him just about anything he would eat to put meat on his shrunken hindquarters, calling him "Roundy Poundy" for moral support. Before long, Clarence grew to love the feeling of working his body and eating and awakening his senses to the world. He grew to love being a dog.
In the years that followed, we moved restlessly in search of careers in Fisheries and Wildlife biology. Clarence spent six months living at my parents’ house in Sequim, Washington the year we served as caretakers of Protection Island National Wildlife Refuge. Those months of brief weekly visits to the mainland were hard on all of us, but Clarence did enjoy spending time with a clan of other dogs, playing soccer in the kitchen, and helping with nightly chores around the little farm. That October, when our supervisor agreed to let us take him to the island, Clarence became a great, salty sea dog. He would ride on a blanket in the pilothouse of our 32” aluminum Munsen, often swaying with surprising balance and calm on the temperamental waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. He loved living on desolate Protection Island more than I’d even imagined he would. The sandy ground was soft under his feet and the wind blew nearly every day. I can still see him sitting beside us on the crest of the 200-foot cliffs, gazing out over the waves as they crashed against the sand spit below.
The next year we returned to Missouri, our home state, for the spring. We lived in a lovely old farmhouse outside of Columbia where home life was sweet in spite of our nasty job trapping rodents for the University. It was there that we found our second dog, Jake, a red heeler with a host of attitude problems. He'd been booted out a dangerous rural roadside and survived there for 3 days before we finally took him home.
Clarence and Jake, who soon became loosely bonded companions, traveled with us back to Washington that June so that we could take a job with the Forest Service. In the Columbia Gorge the dogs reveled in salmon streams, endured life in a small green trailer where long rains turned the world outside to mud, romped in high country snow, and huddled in our Blazer outside the Hood River hospital the night our daughter Rita was born.
Clarence’s episodes of paralyzing pain began that year, and although they were few and far between, they were almost devastating in their severity. We took him in for x-rays, and for the first time saw the sharp bone spurs that surely pained his every movement. More than once, we feared he wouldn’t make it out of these debilitating periods, and we dreaded having to decide to put him down. But Clarence wasn’t ready to go just yet. He found the strength to get up, move on, and hold his tail high once again.
Overall, we were able to think of Clarence as a pretty normal dog for the next year. Then, when he vanished from our deck in Joplin, Missouri on July 6, 2002, we were reminded that this dog was anything but normal. That afternoon, he was standing at the back door one minute, and the next he was gone. All we could suspect was that some unexpected fireworks next door must have scared him away. He was petrified of popping noises like gunshots, but normally he would scratch at the door or hide beside the house if he was frightened. This time, he vanished.
We began searching right away - our property, barbed wire fencelines, neighboring fields, and road ditches. There was no mottled fur left on a barb, no sign by which to follow him. Our friend was simply gone. Every scenario of his disappearance seemed improbable at the time, and we found hope in our own disbelief. His health was nearly as good as ever, but even so, he lacked the agility and stamina to traverse the countryside for any distance. Did he become ensnared in a length of fence that we missed? Did he collapse somewhere out there from heart attack or exhaustion? The southern Missouri heat index was in the nineties and rising, and he was likely overwhelmed with stress.
We left the porch light on that night in hopes he would find his way home before the coyotes found him, but he didn't return to our door. Anguished hours of worry and anticipation became days of futile searches.
At 1:15 in the afternoon on July 14, eight days to nearly the minute I realized Clarence had disappeared, our neighbor came to the door and told me there was a dog under his flatbed trailer that might be Clarence. He hadn’t been able to move the dog because it growled so ferociously at him. I was just packing up to go on a work trip with Chris that I hoped would distract me from my loneliness, but I dropped everything and hurried next door to see this dog. After many false alarms and wild goose chases in search of Clue, I was scared to hope, but sure enough, it was his funny face I saw peeking out from behind the tire of the trailer. I feared he might be in bad shape after his eight-day ordeal in the scorching heat, but when I helped him out, he wagged his tail and spun around as if no worse for wear.
My neighbor said, “Boy, it looks like he’s seen his better days.”
“No,” I assured him, “He looks perfect.”
Even as much as I'll miss him, I harbor no earthly regrets for Clarence’s life. He was with Chris and me for some of the best years of our lives - years of youthful energy, adventure, and hope. We lived in wild places where a dog could feel free. We met moose and bears, elephant seals and gray whales, and Clarence sniffed up every bit of it. As I’d hoped, he even lived to love our beautiful daughters, Rita and Sophie, whom he followed faithfully for as long as he could walk.
Above all else, Clarence was truly loved. We weren’t the only ones crazy about him – family, friends, and even a blue-eyed paint mare in Montana adored our dog. He charmed strangers everywhere so profoundly that they'd stop and talk to him in soft, reverent voices. I don’t think that any of us really hopes for more in a lifetime than love like that.
Our dog, whose fierce heart and knowing eyes have changed us forever, blessed us with nine good years. After a hard run of declining health, we felt sure he was ready to go this morning (June 9, 2006), and he slipped peacefully away – as if the comfort he had been waiting for had finally come.
Rita wanted to plant sunflowers in a circle on his grave in the corner of our garden, so we did. Afterward, when I told Sophie that Clarence might be soaring in the lovely clouds right above us, she said, “I think I see his shadow in the sky.”
And so tonight, though a deep hollow space looms in our house, we will rest with some relief knowing that Clarence is free from the weight of a broken body. Clarence Clue has finally begun to fly.
Jen
Farmgirl Sisterhood Member #9
The View From My Boots: www.bovesboots.blogspot.com
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