Pupdate

 

As is evident from the above photo, Miss Maudie was not at all happy with her vet appointment on Monday. We really just went for vaccinations, but the doc had to check her out first, and someone in the room (I’m not naming names, but there were only three of us in there) snapped at the good doctor who had been so gentle and careful with her. Oops. Thus the muzzle for everyone’s safety.

We did get those vaccinations, finally, but before that, the doc and I had a long chat about Maudie’s left hind leg. When she had her first vet appointment a year ago, I had the vet who saw us at the time x-ray her leg because I noticed that every third bounce in her gait was a skip—as if she had a peg leg. That vet (who no longer works at this hospital) examined the x-ray and found nothing.

This vet found something. (Shout out to Banning Veterinary Hospital in Banning, California, for keeping that digital x-ray as part of her chart so we could quickly pull it up and look at it together. Dr. Sobotka (who worked patiently with my spicey dog, bless him forever) stared at that x-ray for many long moments before finally saying, “I think I see the problem.”

He pointed to a shadow on her left femur that I would never have been able to discern, comparing it to the opposite leg.

“She has an old injury here,” he said. “Unfortunately, since it healed on its own, there’s nothing we can do to fix it.”

It’s okay. I didn’t cry. Well, not then, anyhow. And anyway, I already suspected as much, watching her run, knowing that she had clearly been kicked in the past. (See my post of December 17, 2025.) But I had to ask, so I did, if the injury would be consistent with someone kicking her. Yes, it could have been that, he told me, his voice as sad as my face probably looked.

Whatever. We already know that someone threw this dog away after they were cruel to it. Karma is a bitch. Not my dog, though. She’s a little sweetheart. (Even if the vet tech did have to enlist help from the back to hold her down so they could immunize her. Sheesh!)

I gave Maudie an old older lady name because it is my intention that we will grow old together. So we’re starting on that journey together, both having leg issues. Dr. Sobotka suggested massage for Maudie’s leg, encouraged our hiking (yay!) while warning that one day (like me) she would begin to have some pain from arthritis in that spot, at which point we can start her on some meds to help with that. We take one day at a time, and after every hike I will be scrutinizing her gait to make sure we don’t attempt anything too rigorous for her. We’ll be fine.

Oh, and one last suggestion from the doc (after I inquired): Maudie needs to lose weight. Yep. This little chowhound has gained eight pounds in one year. So much for using treats to help socialize her. We will cut back on everything, and I promised the doc that when he sees us next year, we’ll both be five pounds lighter (insert grimace here).

Now if I can just get my neighbor next door to stop giving Maudie bacon….

After the vet visit. Poor baby!

Miss Maudie: Year One

 Day One: "What is this place?"

I saw her as I strolled through the San Bernardino City Shelter with a friend. We were looking for her dog, a gorgeous German Shorthair Pointer that had somehow been left behind. Jeanette works with this breed in cadaver search and recover, and she’d seen Maggie’s profile online. I agreed to go with her to “look” (ha ha ha ha ha) because it had been a year since Thomas died, and I kept wanting to believe I was ready for another dog. (Here’s the truth: We’re never “ready,” are we? Like, “Okay, whew, I’m over that heartache. Where’s my new dog?” Nope. Not ever. Still… I needed a hiking partner. Maya needed a sibling. It was time. It was hard.)

Then I saw a blue heeler curled in the tightest dog donut ever. Thomas, you may recall loyal reader, was one quarter Australian cattle dog. But… I was looking for a male. The kennel card indicated this was a female. And a two-year-old. I didn’t want a young dog. (We older folks are constantly doing math: I was 70. If the dog lived to be 16, I would be 84. Would long dog walks be sustainable…?)

The stray hold on Jeanette’s dog wasn’t up yet, so we left. I came back the next day and sat by the little heeler’s kennel, talking quietly to her. I came back twice more, the final time with Jeanette on the day she picked up Maggie to take her home forever. I started to leave with them.

“Weren’t you going to do a meet & greet with that blue heeler?” she asked.

Sigh. I supposed so.

When the kennel worker saw which dog I wanted to meet, she physically cringed, her shoulders slumping.

“Okay,” she said, “We’re going to go really slow with this one.”

I waited 15 minutes for her to get the terrified dog cornered and leashed. When they emerged, finally, from the kennel area, the dog straining at the end of the leash, trying to escape, the whites of her eyes showing, I stood quietly grounded, not making eye contact. As soon as my girl saw me, she ran to me, dragging the kennel worker along behind. The anxious dog sat on my feet, then turned and stood, placing her paws on my waist, begging to be picked up. As if she were a puppy.

“Whoa. She’s never done that before,” the kennel worker said.

“I guess she’s going home with me,” I said.

In the weeks that followed, I ascertained this from Miss Maudie’s behavior:

1. She had been someone’s spoiled baby. When I showed her around the house, she saw the couch and wanted to climb up on it, but she looked to me for permission first. “No,” I told her. “No dogs on the couch.” She has never tried to get up there since.

2. She had some type of obedience training. When I asked her to sit, she would move around behind me and sit on my left side, as dogs learn in some classes. She still does this.

3. She had been hit and kicked in her past life. This became clear immediately. If I raised my hand, she ducked. If I lifted a leg, she jumped away. I learned to move slowly, to signal to her that I was just going to pick up something or put something down. She still flinches at times when I touch her without warning her first.

4. She is wary of adults, but reactive to young children. Twice on the hiking trail she has lunged at and tried to nip very young kids with absolutely no provocation, just the kids walking silently past. It triggers something in her. I think I know what that is.

For the uninitiated, there is a children’s cartoon entitled “Bluey.” The main character is a blue heeler (or the cartoonish semblance of one). My great-granddaughter loves Bluey. Sadly, kids’ love of the show has caused parents to buy puppies “just like Bluey!” Except… your average cattle dog is nothing like the kind, mild-mannered cartoon character. Cattle dogs are sassy and independent. And they nip. Boy howdy, do they nip. I’ve had Miss Maudie 366 days as of today. She has nipped me at least that many times, if not twice that many. She has never done this aggressively; she nips when she’s happy or excited. Still. It pinches….

I suspect that Maudie was someone’s beloved puppy. Until she wasn’t. Until she grew up and asserted herself and nipped, whether out of joy or because someone was smacking or kicking her. Then she was dumped. Or, more likely, the “reporting party” that had her picked up by animal control, claiming she was a “stray,” had had enough of her.

Their loss. My gain.

Maudie is my ride or die out on the trail. She will stand between me and anything, big or small, be it bobcat, coyote, raccoon, or human. Her joy abounds—especially if there’s water, her favorite thing to find in the whole world. She loves that even more than dead decaying animal carcasses to roll in. (Ick.)

What she can do now:

Walk nicely on a leash with Maya.

Release a toy/bone/whatever at my command “Let me have it.”

Stand still when we see critters at my “NO CHASE” command (which must be given sternly, because damn it, she wants to herd those deer!).

Give kisses on command. (Thank you, Maudie!)

Return to me every time I call. (“Come by me!” is the command.)

Untangle herself from her leash at the command “Fix yourself.” (This is fun and amazing to watch.)

Jump into the truck (“Load up!”) and straight into the crate she travels in, turning around and waiting for me to zip her in.

Wait patiently for her food until I release her with the “Okay!” command.

Speaking of patience; she is the most patient dog I’ve ever had. I write in the morning. She waits. I walk her and Maya early, then eat breakfast, then sit down to work. She knows at the end of my writing session, she gets another walk. She will lie patiently for as long as it takes—until I stand up. Then she’s on her feet in seconds, wagging her tail, ready to go.

Maudie loves Maya. Like, loves her. Kisses her, nips her, nuzzles her, and did try to cuddle up to her at first but Maya snapped at her. Aww, poor Maudie!

Maudie hates Jenny. Disdains her. Lifts her lip and bares her teeth at her. Jenny will never cease in her effort to make peace with her. But that’s why I love Jenny; she reminds me daily that we can love those who don’t love us in return, who treat us in ways we don’t deserve. Hey, it’s their problem, right? Not ours. Good kitty, Jen!

Has it been 366 days of love and joy with Miss Maudie? No. It certainly has not.

She hoovers up as many things as she can get away with while we’re out walking, literally trotting down the street with her nose between her front feet. Her favorite day is the day after trash day. She has stolen food that people left on graves—cheeseburgers, chow mien noodles, green… stuff. She has managed to find at least two rotting rabbit bones and crunched them down before I could even give her the command to “leave it.”

Like other dogs of her ilk, she loves to roll in nasty stuff, the nastier, the better. (Her life motto seems to be “Anyone’s trash is my treasure.”) She is so smart, she has learned to drop back behind me on the trail so she can roll in something behind my back so that I don’t see her and stop her.

She is dirty more often than she is clean.

But hey, she will come right into the shower with me and allow me to bathe her, so there’s that.

And even when she’s naughty, she is at least entertaining. Even when she’s nipping me.

So here’s to whomever decided to ditch this dog: Thanks! She is loyal and loving and hilarious and beautiful. Your trash. My treasure.

How Maya is Grieving

 

Maya Angelou Murphy

A number of people have asked how Maya and Jenny the Cat have been doing since Thomas left us. Both feel his absence, for sure, and I have no doubt that they sense my sadness as well. Consequently, Jenny has slept with me every night since our last day with him. I believe cats sense when humans are ill, and she interprets my sadness as a state of being unwell. (Purrl, before her, could also sense when I was physically ill or deeply sad, and she would crawl under the covers in those times and place her body against mine, purring as a mother cat would do with kittens—even though Purrl never had any of her own.)

Maya is another story altogether. Thomas, it seems, was her assumed body guard. When Thom could still go for walks, I would sometimes walk them together around the block, and Maya would actually be happy and excited on the leash. (In case you’re unaware, unless we’re hiking, Maya hates going for walks—because it’s just “too peoply” out there.) In the morning, with Thomas here, Maya would run into and through the kitchen, then tear through the living room, looking for things to play with, hopping and wagging her tail and barking if I didn’t get her breakfast ready fast enough. It was hilarious and entertaining every morning.

At the time of this writing, Thomas has been gone for two weeks and two days, and for two weeks and two days, Maya has gone right back to the safety of her bed after we come back in from the back yard. No running through the house. No hopping. No playing. She looks for him in the kitchen, and when she sees he isn’t there, she simply retreats to the den and curls up again.

This makes me very, very sad for her. She had come so far, but seems to be withdrawing again. I’m giving her extra love, of course, and simply going to sit with her often. But she has lost her rock, her anchor. (It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t realize that looking to Thomas for protection would be like Dorothy looking to the Cowardly Lion to do the same.)

As some of you know, months before I lost Thom, I had begun looking for a dog companion for Maya, a confident dog that would help her continue to recover and make her feel safe on walks, perhaps draw her out to interact with me more. And I wanted to get a new dog settled into my pack before Thomas left us, so that his passing would be easier on Maya. Alas, that did not happen. But, to that end….

<Spoiler alert: Big Announcement ahead>

On Friday, I adopted a dog. Before you go thinking that I rushed out to my nearest shelter and impulsively grabbed a sweet dog to comfort me in my grief, let me assure you it did not happen that way. Like, at all. This dog’s story—and I do know the entire back story—is so complex and complicated that names will be changed to keep the guilty from being publicly shamed, and I won’t even be able to share all of it here. But in my next post, I’ll give you an update on my new little girl, Stevie (not her original name), and I’ll tell you as much as I can. (If you want the full story after that, you’ll have to call me and be sworn to lifelong secrecy.)

For now, I can tell you this: Despite everything that has happened to her in recent weeks, Stevie is filled with joy and enthusiasm. Her tail never stops wagging. She loves everyone she meets—people, dogs (cats, I hope). She’s got sass and spirit (thus her name; that’s “Stevie” from Schitt’s Creek, not Stevie Nicks, though she would do for a namesake, too).

That’s all I know for now because she isn’t even home yet. She’s still in dog jail. I can’t pick her up until her spay surgery, and that can’t happen until Tuesday because of the holiday. Oh my dragons! Hasn’t this dog endured enough?? But wait—you don’t know that part of the story yet. More to come, but let me conclude by sharing one more thing.

You may be thinking that I’m all excited about bringing a new dog home. The truth is, I am 20% excited and 80% terrified. New situations and changes in routine are very difficult for me, to say the least. I function much better when things are the same, day after day—calm, steady, predictable. This is part of my mental health journey, and though I am aware of it, that doesn’t make new situations any easier. I know. You’re thinking, “New dog! Yay!” and I’m over here wringing my hands and worrying about whether my new girl will chase Jenny or pee on the carpeting or somehow (heaven help us) escape the yard. But I felt exactly this way when I brought Maya home. Well, no, with Maya I was 10% excited, 90% terrified. OK, maybe 5% excited. Really. Same with Thomas. And look what became of that.

So if you call to get the whole scoop on Stevie and I sound flustered, just reassure me that the sun will rise the next day, Jenny will come out from under the bed eventually, and Stevie will add another dimension of joy to this home that has been far too quiet without the tip-tapping of Thomas’s feet on the floor. Stay tuned. Here we go…. And may the New Year bring a new dimension of joy to your life as well (preferably a rescue dog, but that’s just my own bias speaking).

Celebrating Sgt. Thomas Tibbs

 

My sweet boy died on Friday. I started crying Thursday, midday, during my phone call to schedule an appointment with Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice, and didn't stop fully until.... Well, that hasn't happened yet, but at least I'm having long moments without tears. Not right now, though. Right now I'm crying.

Of course I've known for months this day was coming; his health issues were worsening, his arthritis pain becoming more and more difficult to manage. He wasn't comfortable... but he was still enjoying treats and cuddles, so he lived with discomfort, and I lived with anticipatory grief... a lot of anticipatory grief....

So I'm trying to let that go, now, and just celebrate his life. My god, the boy started out (at intake with Upland shelter) looking like this:

He was six years old, covered with mange, and starving. The shelter had him from June to January, treating his medical issues and trying to get him to engage with humans. Then I brought him home. At first, he was frightened of everything, even the cats. Except his bunny. He loved his bunny.

In the first couple of years, he spent a lot of time curled in a ball--much like Maya did when I brought her home. His recovery was very gradual.

I walked him every day, sang to him every night, and showered him with love. Finally, after five months, he wagged his tail at me. Two years in, he finally let me give him a belly rub. After I retired in 2016, he began to love other things--riding in my truck, going for hikes... and Purrl.

And of course, in recent years, Lamb Chop.

To me, he was a miracle. Ten years ago, he hated being touched, had no idea how to play with toys, and there was absolutely no joy in his life. While he never did learn how to play with toys, he did love chasing treats, and he gradually came to accept then welcome pets and ear scratches and back rubs. Oh, how he loved back rubs. And, up until his last days, his big tail wagged every day.

What a gift he was! My hiking buddy, my emotional support dog, my daily validation that love is indeed powerful. In fact, I learned more about true, unconditional love from Thomas than I have words for here. 

Thom's story is amazing, so of course I'm going to write a book about him. I started taking notes for that project last year. I will begin writing the book in early spring. I hope it honors him--and all those folks it took to get him out of the horrific situation he was in and safely into a shelter where kind volunteers never gave up on him. Bravo to them. And bravo to Thomas for overcoming so many fears. Good boy, Thom.

A Cascade of Nostalgia

 

Forest Falls, named in part for a very tall, very beautiful cascading waterfall (called "Big Falls") at the east end of town, is a small village in the foothills below Mt. San Gorgonio in Southern California. I made my first sojourn there when I was in high school when a group of “Jesus freak” young people like myself car caravanned there from Riverside. I still have photos and many fond memories from that day.

A half dozen years after that first trip, I returned to Forest Falls to attend my very first writers conference at Forest Home, the beautiful conference center there. At the age of 21, I had entered a national writing contest, won third place, and the person who called to make that announcement told me, “I see that you live in Southern California. In addition to everything else you’ve won [publication in a national magazine with a readership of six million, plus books on writing AND the entire Chronicles of Narnia series, just for fun], we’d like to send you to a writers conference.”

Did those lovely folks have any idea how attending that conference would catapult me into my dream of writing and publishing? I don’t know, but it sure did.

When my children were old enough, we returned for a day of hiking, picnicking, blackberry picking—and, at the end of it, a trip to the ER for stitches after my eldest son stepped on a piece of broken glass while wading barefoot in the stream.

I can assure you, when I returned many years later with three young grandkids in tow, I made sure all of us kept our shoes on.

At some point in my adult life, I picked up a friend who was trying to decide whether or not to leave her abusive husband. I took her up to Forest Falls in my beloved VW bug. While we rock-hopped over rough terrain to get to the falls, we also attempted to navigate the equally challenging topics of “commitment” and “self-esteem.” Good talk. Good walk. But when we returned to the car—the only one at the trailhead on a weekday—we discovered it had a flat tire. In the hours previous, I had been trying to convince my friend that she was stronger than she realized. When she saw the flat, she began to wring her hands and cry. (Mind you, this was decades before the convenience of cell phones.) She was not reassured when I told her not to worry, we would, together, fix the flat ourselves. But we did, handily. At some point, a young man with a six-pack of beer pulled into the parking area on a motorcycle. He took a seat under a tree and watched us do the work—and I was grateful that he never offered to help, just sat and downed his beer, one after another. Because when we triumphantly finished and climbed into the car to leave, my friend told me how empowered she felt. Booyah.

In the past, the trip to Forest Falls required some planning, as it was some distance from where I lived. Moving to Calimesa, however, put me much closer, so that now I can get up there in just over half an hour, traffic permitting.

So of course, I had to take Maya. Here’s what happened when I did:

As soon as we left the car and hit the trail, we saw the giant sign erected by the Forest Service: The area around the waterfall was “closed,” for all intents and purposes. Why? Because in order to get to the falls, you have to cross Mill Creek, and (as mentioned in my previous post), the water in the creek is running so high and so fast, it’s treacherous. Plus someone dies every year by trying to climb the falls, and I think USFS is simply tired of calling Search and Rescue to pack out another dead body. Seriously.

However—we could still walk along the creek, which we did. (Click here to see a bit of that.) Until she saw people. Too many people. There may have been a total of five or six at various points along the stream. But for her, one human (besides me) is too many. So she panicked. Where to escape?? Into the water. She headed straight into the stream and would have paddled to the far side had I not reeled her back in. (When we hike, she’s on a fifteen-foot lead, so she really did get pretty far before I wrangled her closer to shore.)

 

When I wouldn’t let her retreat, she did what I have taught her to do when she’s fearful, which is to sit down and take a breath. (Okay, I know you can’t really teach a dog to take a nice deep breath, but she sits, and I do the deep breathing.) Yep, she sat her little bottom right down in that ice-cold water. Silly dog.

 

We didn’t stay much longer; I had things to do at home. But I did stop to take pictures, and realized (shout out to all my Baldy friends!) from a certain point, you can see all the way from Forest Falls to Mt. Baldy. And yes, of course I waved when I realized that. You never know who might be waving back.

 

Rising Out of the Gloom

 

It’s been a very long time since I’ve been kissed, and it finally happened today! Details to follow….

If you live in Southern California, you know that we’ve been having day after day after day of first “May Gray” and then “June Gloom,” those mornings in which the marine layer from the Pacific Ocean has drifted far enough inland to cover everyone in light to heavy fog. Yesterday was no different, the damp and tangy layer so thick I had to use my windshield wipers as I drove Miss Maya Angelou Murphy up to a hiking spot that, while quite familiar to me, had been previously undiscovered by her.

Thurman Flats is located off Hwy 38, a mile or two to the east of the Hwy 38 and Bryant Street junction. There is a small brown Forest Service sign for it that indicates “Picnic Area, ¼ mile.” You can't miss it if you drive slower than the 70mph most locals want to drive on that stretch of highway.

And there is indeed a beautiful, tree-shaded picnic area there, but I wasn’t intending to have a picnic. I just needed to rise above the gray gloom that had been hovering physically outside my house but also mentally inside my head. I know, I know; we writers live inside our heads. I try to come out and play from time to time… but… a lot has been going on that I’ve had to… ruminate upon. We’ll just leave it at that.

The photo above was taken from the parking lot at Thurman Flats. Note the pretty blue sky, the low cloud cover in the valley below. Yes! I could feel my spirits lifting as I called Maya out of the car.

Challenge #1: Would Maya be willing to cross water and boulder hop with me to get to Mill Creek? We had to pick our way over places like this:

But that girl was ready and willing, as she always is when we hit the trail, and across she went, stopping only when I asked her to so I could get a picture. Then on we went.

Through the trees and blackberry brambles, keeping an eye out for both bears and snakes, we carefully, cautiously traversed the trail and found Mill Creek gushing madly with water pouring over and around boulders at a level I’ve never seen it, and I’ve been going there for decades. Hooray for snow melt!

Challenge #2: Would Maya come willingly to the edge of the roaring stream? Or would she fear it?

Challenge accepted, of course. She trotted right up. I held her back from the edge. I didn’t want her to take a dip in the icy water then have the current drag her in (and me along with her). There is a very short video of her coming through the woods to find the water, which you can view by clicking here.

We walked along the edge of the stream for a bit, but it had broadened so much, the trail was obliterated in some spots. It was early when we went, and my car had been the only one in the parking lot, so I was surprised to find a pair of men’s shoes by the shore. Did he walk back along the trail barefoot?  Did he realize when he arrived home where he’d left them? Who knows. I left them where I found them.

 

We headed back—which was when my kiss was finally bestowed. We had almost reached the narrow trail leading to the parking area when I heard a commotion and looked up through the foliage, half expecting to see a bear. Nope. It was a bounding dog, a large coonhound, followed by an even larger German shepherd. They barreled straight for us.

Challenge #3: Would Maya completely freak out? Or allow the over-excited doggos to greet her?

Turns out, she didn’t do either, really. She sat down, which is what I’ve taught her to do when she’s frightened. The dogs ran up and sniffed her, but she remained sitting quietly, not trying to run. I could hear the dogs’ person trying to call them back from yards away, shouting as loud as he could to be heard above the roaring stream. I looked up to see him moving down the trail—a man about my age, backpack on his shoulder, two smaller terrier mixes following at his heels. He called to me, something by way of apology, I assume. I laughed and shrugged because I couldn’t hear him, then turned my attention back to the dogs just as the coonhound leapt up and kissed me right on the cheek!

Wait. You didn’t think the kiss was offered by a man, did you? Nah. Just a sweet dog saying hello—and leaving huge muddy paw prints down my sleeve and all over the front of my jacket. Closer now, the man called once more to his rambunctious boys, and both galloped off, leaping over boulders and kicking up sand. I’m guessing they had a great day. Maya and I left them to return home, driving back down into the drizzle, but not minding it one bit.

 

Maya, One Year In

In all the sadness around Purrl’s passing, I haven’t really felt much like writing. Slowly, I’m coming back to my words, tamping down the emotions, moving forward despite the ache every time I hear or write her name…or see her picture.

So, despite a muted celebration at home, I didn’t mark Maya’s one-year adoption milestone.

There isn’t much to say, so I’m going to let a couple of pictures tell the story.

She’s come a long way from the wild-eyed, terrified dog she was at the rescue.

As I’ve stated before, she absolutely loves to hike, and now, when I lead her through the garage and out to the driveway, if she sees the car sitting with the passenger side open, she knows we’re going for a ride, and she charges forward, diving into the back seat, curling into a ball behind the driver’s seat. As soon as we reach our destination and I open her door, she’s ready to hop out, sniffing the air as she goes.

This is her happy place…out on the trail, away from homes and cars and people. When we go for walks around home, she still requires the Gentle Leader collar to keep her from dragging me down the street. Out in the wild, though, she walks without fear, stopping often to look and listen.

Her favorite things are meals, treats, and her big brother Thomas, whom she adores. Maya’s idea of a perfect day would be breakfast early, a walk around the block with Thomas before the sun comes up (she literally struts beside him, she feels so safe and happy), treats upon returning home, and then remaining curled in her bed the rest of the day, emerging only for potty breaks and more treats.

By late spring, it should be light enough to get a video of her when she, Thomas, and I head out to the back yard at 5:00a.m. Her behavior then is nothing short of astounding. Every single day. And every day, it makes me laugh—quietly, so as not to wake the neighbors. This girl can jump! She bounds out of the house after Thom, chases him into the yard, leaping and hopping, stops just long enough to pee, then races back, bonding and leaping, to the patio, then back into the yard. It’s a sight to see, truly. When I can document it, I’ll drop a YouTube link here.

In the meantime, we walk every day, and every day I tell her what I used to tell Thomas years ago: “Don’t worry, baby. Someday you’ll be a real dog.” She’s getting there.

 

Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, eight years in

 

I didn’t want to let January slip by without acknowledging that special “Gotcha Day” for Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. When I adopted him, my vet said he was “six-ish.” Oh my dogs, that was eight years ago….

My best boy is fourteen now. In the last four years, he’s been diagnosed with pemphigus, pancreatitis, irritable bowel syndrome, arthritis, and age-related bronchitis. He eats special food and has more medications stockpiled than I do. His eyes are getting foggier, and he is rapidly losing his hearing. (Turns out that last malady is a godsend; he never woke at all when the fireworks began on New Year’s Eve.) Although he can no longer hike with me, he still enjoys his daily ride in the truck, using a ramp to walk in and out of the extra cab.

With every passing month, his decline is more pronounced. Conversely, with every passing day, he becomes more and more in love with being loved.

It’s hard to believe that this is the same dog that hated being touched when I first brought him home. I had to leave his collar on all the time because getting close to him required herding him into a corner so that he had no way out. Once I had his collar, I could clip the leash on, and he would come along, but reluctantly. (It is exactly the same behavior Maya exhibits now, by the way, so I have every confidence that someday she will no longer panic when I approach her.)

He still hates going for walks, because he hates having the leash on. (“Something bad must be about to happen,” is what he thinks—the whole time. Always.) But he’s so happy now, that even though he still resists getting his collar on, he makes a game out of it. He does this every. single. day. Even if he’s not feeling well. You can see that crazy game if you click here. (I took the video for this post, so yeah, it’s him last week.)

I had him two years before Thom let me rub his belly. Funny how that happened. He only ever wanted to be outside, in a far corner of the yard, curled in a ball. (Again, this is Maya’s behavior now, only she’s in the den, not outside, and that’s where she stays all day, every day, except when we take potty breaks or go for a walk or hike.) At my vet’s suggestion, I made Thomas come inside for a while each day, and I gave him a soft bed to curl up in while he was there. I’d been watching some ridiculous daytime show that demonstrated dog massage, all of which I thought was a bunch of hooey, but while I was petting him, I just started doing it—massaging his head and the back of his neck. After a few minutes, he was so relaxed, he rolled over on his back. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to replicate the experience the next day, but he wasn’t having it. It was weeks before he did it again, and after that, only rarely.

But then I retired. When I did, our days hiking increased. Our time together increased. He began sleeping next to my bed at night (instead of outside or in the garage, as he had once preferred). If I wake in the night, I lean over the side and rub his back, just to hear him sigh that sweet doggie sigh of contentment.

Three years ago, I asked him one night if he ‘wanted brush,’ holding up his dog brush and setting it on the floor outside my bathroom as I finished brushing my teeth. He laid down on the floor and waited, and when I finished, I sat with him for twenty minutes, brushing out his fur and singing to him (and Purrl, because she’s always jealous and has to be in on everything, like all pushy cats). The next night, I stepped out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth, only to find him waiting in the same spot, looking up at me expectantly. “Seriously?” I said. “Okay.” I sat on the floor and brushed him again.

Thus began our ritual of “getting love” every night before we go to bed. I don’t always brush him. Sometimes I give him head rubbies or a back massage. But you know, I highly recommend the practice. It becomes like a meditation. Just fifteen minutes or so of quiet and deliberate relaxation and deep breathing before bed. With a dog, of course (or cat, I don’t discriminate—but if it’s a cat like Purrl, she’s going to climb up and claim your lap and then God help you when you try to get up). It still takes him several minutes of quiet brushing or back rubs to feel secure and relaxed enough to flop over on his side. When he does, he often dozes off now, sprawled on the floor, knowing that he is safe and loved, and that tomorrow when he wakes up there will be good food and treats (after his walk) and lots of soft blankies for napping.

It doesn’t take much to make a dog happy.

Come to think of it, we should all take heed of that.

Bringing Maya Home

The short version:

They picked her up and put her in the back of the Subaru, where I’d put the seat down and arranged some towels and blankets. She was quiet as I drove the 70 miles back home. When we arrived, I managed to get her to step down out of the car—and realized that on the drive she’d already chewed halfway through the harness I’d put on her at the rescue, and when I tried to lead her into the house, she looked directly at me as she bit all the way through the one-inch cotton lead I’d just purchased. So I picked her up and carried her into the laundry room. She went straight for the fluffy, cocoon-like “anti-anxiety” bed I’d gotten her, where she curled in a ball and silently remained for days, except for short periods of time when she was taken to the yard to relieve herself. One week in, she didn’t appreciate the sound of the dryer going, and as I watched, she excused herself by climbing over the “tall” pet gate I’d placed between the laundry room and kitchen. She trotted twice around the living room until she spied the den, then chose it as a much quieter habitat. I promptly moved her bed in there, where she spends most of her time sleeping next to my big writing desk.

She’s been here a month, and she’s made tiny increments of progress. She now (sort of) walks on a leash. Words in her lexicon:

No (when she starts to chew the leash—she learned this one in two days)

Collar (so she knows to sit still while I put it on or take it off)

Outside (whenever we go out)

Maya (not the name the rescue gave her)

On the first day, she was calm and lady-like in her meeting with Thomas, and he was equally a gentleman in meeting her. They now go in and out of the house easily together. The cats are curious about Maya, and she is curious about them, but everyone has made peace with the new pack member.

And they will all live happily ever after.

The long version (and this is the tougher one to read, so if you have things to do, click out, get on with your life, and just know that Maya Angelou Murphy is safe in her forever home now):

Last spring, I saw her profile on the website of a rescue I had donated to in the past. (Something I now deeply regret. Keep reading and you’ll understand why.) I saw her again in late December and was surprised she hadn’t been adopted. She was medium-sized and female, so she fit what I was looking for in a new hiking partner, since Thomas can no longer hike with me. I filled out an application and was told I could come meet her on the weekend.

Thus began a series of visitations with her that extended over a period of six weeks, during which time she began to relax a tiny bit in my presence, and simultaneously, I alienated nearly everyone (with one exception) on staff with the rescue.

The first time I went there, they had Maya in a small crate—with a chair sitting next to it. That’s how they wanted me to “meet” her. I explained that it would not be possible for me to assess her needs or her personality under those conditions, and I finally convinced them to put her back in her kennel so that I could sit with her in there, but it was a tense conversation, during which time the staff members admitted that because she “got upset” every time they put a leash on, they never did anything with her. No walks, no socialization—she had not even been spayed. I was told that “with a hundred dogs on the property,” there was “barely time to feed and clean up after them.” That was the care Maya received in the time that she was there—feeding and the feces removed from her kennel. Vaccinations when they were due. That’s it. She was filthy, her nails were overgrown, and she had no idea how to interact with humans. I thought they’d had her in these conditions for a year or so. She’d been like that for three. 

They told me she was three years old, and they listed that age on her adoption paperwork, but her rabies vaccination listed her correct age as six. At some point during my weeks of visitation, they finally had her spay surgery done. Her certificate of sterilization also shows her age as six. Staffers on site told me she’d been confiscated from a hoarder, but I later learned she was pulled from another rescue that had her for a long time and never did anything with her, either.

There were other issues with this rescue—too many to document here. On one of my visits, I was petting one of the dogs allowed to roam the property, and I discovered a huge, live tick (still trying to wiggle its way under his skin) on his neck. The staffer I notified was annoyed that I pointed it out. Nothing was done to eradicate or treat for the tick on the dog. Another small dog running loose tried to bite me. I managed to move my leg out of the way in time. There were, in fact, one hundred dogs on the property—barking, baying, howling, whimpering and spinning in their kennels. The noise and chaos were overwhelming every time, and after each visit I had to sit in the silence of my car for long minutes before beginning the long drive home just to decompress before getting on the highway.

Each time I left, I was heartbroken to leave Maya behind. But I couldn't bring her home if I couldn't somehow, at least minimally, manage her on a leash. Each time I returned, the hostility directed at me by the staff seemed to double, as if my request to simply sit on the ground in Maya's kennel and pet her was an imposition. But the day came when she finally relaxed and allowed me to handle her, so I decided it was time. I knew she wouldn't begin to recover until she came home to a quiet routine in a setting where she could feel safe.

The first day we met, at the so-called "rescue"

A dog like Maya is not what I went looking for. But….

A dog like Thomas is not what I was looking for when I brought him home, either.

Yep, it’s going to be another long road to recovery with this little girl. But doesn’t she deserve a chance? Just as much as Thomas did? Just as much as any dog does? And I would say to my critics (and oh my goodness, can I just say here—since my critics never read my blog anyway—just shut up. Shut up. No one asked you, it’s not your decision, and I’m the one caring for her), what is it you think Maya is going to take from me that I don’t have to give? Time? Love? Patience? Pffftttt.

I already know what I will get back from her eventually, and I can’t wait, but I don’t really have to. I love Maya… just as she is. Someday, she may be able to trust enough to love me back. Just knowing she is safe now, she has the care she needs, lots of love, good food, daily walks, ear scratches, a soft bed that she loves, treats, two kitty friends and a big brother carefully showing her the way we do things, is enough.

And they will all live happily ever after.

The Broken Ones

This was how Thomas looked when he arrived at Upland Animal Shelter in 2013.

For my thirty-seventh birthday, my daughter gave me a kitten. A scrawny little squalling thing with huge ears and a feisty attitude.

“The lady said she was the runt, so I picked her because I knew that’s the one you would want.”

My daughter was still a teenager, but already she knew me so well. Yep, I’m betting that is the one I would have chosen. Calpurnia (named for the beloved housekeeper in To Kill a Mockingbird) grew into a beautiful little cat who lived a long life and was a great companion.

When Cal died, I sought out a rescue group in Upland, and the nice volunteer introduced me to many a pretty kitty, torties and tigers and the like.

“Do you have any black cats?” I asked. Cal was black, my young cat, Boo Radley was black, and by then I knew that black cats, like black dogs, have a harder time finding forever homes.

“Well, we have one,” she told me. “She’s very small, and she’s missing half her tail.”

“I’ll take her,” I said. The volunteer insisted that I “meet” her, so she let “Sugar Plum” (I know; I cringed at the name, too) out of her cage. She jumped to the floor, strolled purposefully across the room to the bench where I was sitting, and, jumping up, hunkered down next to me.

So that was that.

(I told Sug on the way home as she rode silently in the cat carrier, “I’m sorry, but Sugar Plum is a terrible name for a cat. Don’t worry. We’ll think of a new, cool name for you.” Ha ha ha. That never happened, and for a dozen years with me, she was Sug, Sugie, Sugie-Pie-Honey-Bunch—and Sugar Plumpkin, the very fitting name my daughter gave her.)

Despite her rough beginning in life (she was not born with that stump of a tail; someone took the rest of it, and I don’t like to imagine how), Sug was absolutely the best little friend, a great mouser, terrific bed warmer, and, in her last years with me, my sweet little comfort at night as she developed the habit of placing her head in my palm as we drifted off to sleep.

Of course, I have blogged here on several occasions about my good boy, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, the feral dog sheltered by the Friends of Upland Animal Shelter, good folks who refused to deem him “unadoptable,” despite how absolutely terrified and shut down he was. Thomas was so, so broken in his spirit, he would not respond to humans, would not even make eye contact.

“He just needs someone to take him home and give him a safe place in their yard to live out his days,” one of the volunteers told me. Thomas had languished in the shelter for six months, she said. No one wants the dog who isn’t tail-waggin’ friendly.

Except me, I guess. Because I brought him home—even though he turned his head away every time I looked at him, and I had to corner him in the garage every time I wanted to put a collar on him, and he flinched every time I touched him. (He still does, mostly, unless I warn him a touch is coming.)

At first, everything about him was challenging. He wouldn’t eat or drink or relieve himself in daylight. He walked on a leash but was so terrified of people walking by or motorcycles starting up (even if they were blocks away) or cars driving past that I had to always keep a tight grip on the lead because I never knew when he would suddenly bolt in the opposite direction, straining all the muscles in my left arm. He’s blind in his right eye, so I have to remember to hand him treats with my right hand on his left side.

Oh. Treats. He wouldn’t eat them at first. Then he developed the habit of showing up when I made toast in the morning. I started setting pieces of the crust on the floor near him. If I ignored him, he would creep up and grab his piece and run off with it to eat it. After months and months and months of this morning ritual, he finally, one day, accepted a piece of toast from my hand, turning and running away as soon as he’d secured it. Now he knows the command “take nice,” which means he has to very gently remove his highly expensive, low fat, human food grade peanut butter treats from my fingers.

Another new trick he has learned is getting into the truck for his daily ride by walking up a ramp. We began this process after I learned of the arthritis in Thom’s shoulder. No more jumping. I bought a sturdy pet ramp (after reading several reviews), then started training him (with his peanut butter treats) to stand on it while it was level, then walk on it level, then walk on it when it was slightly raised. The last step confused him. He didn’t understand why I wanted him to walk on the ramp and also get in the truck. His look said it all: “Can’t I just jump in, Mom?” But he’s a patient old guy now, and he humored me, walking up the ramp as I led him on the leash. Now as soon as it is placed, he walks right up it and into the truck, no lead required.

Who says you can’t teach on old dog new tricks?

Thomas last night, waiting patiently for me to peel his favorite dessert: A raw carrot.

Sadly, the one trick I can’t teach him is how to reverse the aging process.

Three weeks ago, Thomas had a seizure.

Thank goodness I was there to see it, to know what happened, to stroke his back and comfort him. I called Dr. Lebovic, the “Home Vet” and best veterinarian I’ve ever had. He validated what I suspected; while this could be “a one-time thing,” chances are Thom will seize again eventually as his body slowly breaks down. “When we need to” we will talk again of “next steps,” Lebovic said.

In the meantime, Thomas is taking a vitamin-rich food supplement and also a CBD supplement (again, human food grade) that helps with his arthritis and his anxiety.

I will do whatever it takes to keep him happy and comfortable. Because my point here is, as broken as he was when I brought him home, he didn’t stay that way. And he has been the best, best buddy. We have logged hundreds of miles walking and hiking together, and hundreds more driving around so Thomas could view the world from the safety and security of the extra cab of my Ford Ranger. His anxiety and fear of humans was completely justified and understandable to me, and he was worth all the extra effort it took to bring him around to being “almost a real dog,” as I like to tease him.

There have been those, even among my family members, who have criticized me for taking on a dog with “too many issues.” Let me tell you if you’ve never experienced it, the joy and triumph I felt when that sweet boy finally, after two years, trusted me enough to roll over onto his back and let me pet his belly was so overwhelming it brought me to tears. And I cannot count the number of times—especially in this past year—that I have been ever so grateful to be able to lie down next to him and stroke his fur until the tears stopped flowing or my heartbeat slowed to normal.

Thank you, dear, faithful Reader, for allowing me to reminisce for a bit, and for reading once again about how much I adore this big, fluffy, teddy bear of a dog.

All of that, really, is just preface to say this:

Six weeks before Thomas had his seizure, I met a dog that was described by the rescue group as “shy” and “three years old.” In reality, she is six (at least) and absolutely terrified of people—just as Thomas was. I had to visit her four times before I felt I would be able to manage her if I brought her home—which I did, having committed to her adoption the day before Thom’s episode.

So yep, here we go, another broken one. But ya know what? Thomas has taught me so much about how to help a broken dog heal, this one should be a piece of cake.

Okay, I’m joking. Seriously, I laughed out loud when I wrote that.

But stay tuned. For the most part, Miss Maya Angelou Murphy is spending her time either curled in a tight ball or hiding under furniture. But she’s home. And I will definitely keep you posted about her progress.

See what I mean?

Gotcha Day #7

 

I used to love going into Petco or Petsmart, reading labels, talking to dog and cat rescue volunteers on the weekends, browsing the cat toy aisle. Then the pandemic happened, and at my daughter’s suggestion, I began using Chewy.com. Besides saving me money and allowing me to stay home and stay safe, the folks at Chewy actually sent Sgt.Thomas Tibbs a birthday card. How cool is that?

I count his “Gotcha Day” as his birthday. Sort of. I have no idea how old he is, but he’s definitely a senior boy now. At his initial exam, I asked my vet his approximate age and he replied, “Maaaayyyybe six-ish…,” so that would make him at least thirteen. How those years have flown.

Seven years ago, I went to my local shelter looking for a 30-40 pound friendly female dog. I came home with a 60 pound feral problem child with severe fear and anxiety issues. The first time I actually touched him was the day after I adopted him, after he’d been neutered and I had to pick him up from the vet. In those first hours, I wondered if I’d lost my mind. He wanted nothing to do with me. I had to corral him in the garage in order to get a leash on him. He was afraid of everything—people, cars, motorcycles. (The sound of a motorcycle engine blocks away would send him into a panic.) Cell phones. The cats.

The first five days were challenging. Then he adjusted to the routine, allowing me to catch him and walk him (though he kept his tail tucked the entire time). For months, he spent his days curled in a tight ball in a corner of the back yard, and he spent his nights restless and pacing. We walked every day, and I sat with him at night before bedtime, petting him and brushing him, but he would flinch every time I touched him. So that he wouldn’t feel alone, I gave him a stuffed bunny my son had given me the previous Easter. She became his favorite companion, his emotional support friend. I lost track of the number of times he buried her in the back yard. She would sometimes remain underground for months. But like him, she is resilient, and while he no longer ‘hides’ her, he does get anxious when I wash his bedding and, once again, Bunny Tibbs disappears for a few hours, only to return smelling of that awful stinky laundry detergent.

He still flinches when I touch him. Every. single. time—except in the wee hours of the morning, when I lean over the side of the bed, reach my hand down and stroke his head if he’s having a bad dream. Then he sighs and settles, stretching his legs and drifting back to sleep.

About a year and a half ago, it occurred to Thomas that he actually liked being petted and having his back rubbed at night (something I’ve been doing just about every night since bringing him home). He realized that my bedtime ritual meant he was going to “get love,” and he started his new habit of plunking himself down on the bedroom floor just outside the bathroom, wagging his tail and watching me brush my teeth. When I finish, he moves his head excitedly from side to side, sort of pointing to his back with his nose, if that makes sense. When I sit on the floor beside him, he immediately flops over on his side. As I rub his back and scratch his ears, his entire body relaxes. Sometimes he falls asleep there on the floor. Sometimes Purrl gets jealous and bites his toes. Or the tips of his ears. Owww! She’s lucky he never retaliates, just sits up, looking crushed and startled, then lumbers to his feet and trots away.

Lately, we have been doing fewer walks out in the hills together. His joints are old and creaky, and he hates doing hills. (So do I, but they are necessary in order to maintain fitness. As a dog, he doesn’t care about all that.) I’ve started him on a new supplement, and I’m hopeful it will help him with that, but even still, he’s not enjoying the walks out there, so I’ve had to go by myself.

We still walk, though, every morning after he’s eaten his breakfast, usually around 5:30. Sometimes we leave the house late enough to see the first glimpse of the sunrise. We do a lap around the block, during which time he basically power-walks me so that he can get back home and get his Kong filled with peanut butter treats. In the evening, I take him ‘round again, just at sunset. He hates to walk when there are people still out and about, but he has learned that part of being a good boy is to tolerate what I ask of him, so he goes, but reluctantly.

After all these years, he never overtly shows me affection apart from wagging his tail when he’s happy, and he’s still learning to trust me. His medical issues—first pemphigus, then a bout with pancreatitis a year ago, then another day-long ordeal in the emergency room for stomach issues in December—have drawn us closer, however. He is always so relieved to finally return home and feel safe again that it strengthens his bond with me. He knows that when he hurts, I will help him.

Conversely, I know that when I hurt, he will help me. The past year, with its social unrest and political chaos, to say nothing of the pandemic, has been difficult at best and heartbreaking in the worst moments of it. In those times, though, I seek out my own emotional support friend, who lets me say as much as I need to, or cry if I need to. He never interrupts or cuts me off in mid-sentence to interject a point he feels is more important than what I have to say. He just listens. And sighs. And goes back to sleep. Even if his fur is dotted with my tears.