It was a frenzied morning, in a good way, and a relief to finally sit down with coffee and the cinnamon bun that Honey Badger brought me yesterday. I’m grateful for the ongoing support of my community, friends who have known Stellar all of his life, too, and care about him and about me. Their offers to pick up and drop off things in town for me have enabled me to devote my energy to this remarkable process of hospice caring for my best friend.
Garden Buddy brought over muffins and tortellini minestrone this morning; she and her guys were on their way to run errands, including a couple of mine. I let the soup thaw in the fridge for tomorrow. I needed to do something with the last eggplants before they disappeared in the back of the produce drawer and had to end up compost. I’ve been planning this dish for weeks, and trying to get it made for days. I’m grateful I had energy today to make this time-consuming but utterly worth it recipe.
I’m grateful for farm fresh eggs from the Bad Dog Ranch, as well as homemade marinara and eggplants from my own garden.
We missed Amy, but I sure enjoyed a leisurely couple of hours meandering between the joy of cooking with a martini in the kitchen, and paying attention to Stellar in the living room. He watched me the whole time, and persuaded me to turn off the TV and turn on some soft instrumental jazz; then he tried out his howl just to see if I’d come, which I naturally did. I’m grateful for a relaxing evening home cooking with Stellar.
The three-step coating process supposedly guaranteed a crispy fried eggplant…… and indeed they were perfectly crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle. I had to try one. The rest I layered in the casserole dish with marinara and fresh mozzarella, then baked for forty minutes.Stellar agitated for more food the whole time I was cooking, and finally consented to patience when I explained that he’d get his own bowl of dinner when it was finished.I mixed his with a bit of kibble just to stretch it, and he loved it.He also loved dessert, even though it was only a spoonful. I’m grateful for my fingers in the feathers of his neck fur, and the feel of his warm velvety ear.
Everyone’s death is as uniquely their own as their lives are. He’s slowly going. I’m in no rush. The more I surrender to what is, settle into the moments that we have left, the less anxious I am about it. I’m grateful for these sweet evenings we’ve been sharing for months, now winding down; grateful for one more evening with him, knowing they’re running out.
Stellar and his sister Moonshine at about ten days old, held in the loving arms of my dear friend Chris, their ‘birth’ mother.Stellar at four, helping in the office.
It was a rough day. Stellar woke crying in the night, and I spent the rest of it in and out of sleep on the floor beside him. He wanted to go out in the morning but couldn’t walk. I spoke with his vet to get clear instructions about palliative dosages for his pills, and the cold reality of the ways mammals die colored the rest of the day. He got himself up late afternoon and went outside, begging for a walk. We tried, but his back legs just dragged in the sling, and he kept heading to the right, going in circles if he didn’t encounter an obstacle like a sagebrush or my leg. I could barely move him along, and found myself crossly impatient.
I’m grateful for the introspective skills I learned in mindfulness training, so I could observe my reaction with gentle curiosity. We were never far from the fenced yarden, yet the prospect of his falling down and not being able to get him back inside made me anxious; that and some other inconveniences, and being so tired… it was a rough day. But now he’s sleeping, and I’m sleepy, and off to bed. I’m grateful for friends who care and understand, and offered help with some errands this week. I’m grateful for perspective, support, the forgiveness of unconditional love, and another day tomorrow to practice.
Stellar and Raven romping in the high country on a hike with Rosie nine autumns ago.
Wherever did he get the idea to climb up and hug me, anyway? Stellar at two weeks old, the day I first met him.Found it! Here is the picture I’ve been looking for. This day was the last time I held him off the ground; he weighed around 35 pounds, and was three months old. Doesn’t look like he was too too heavy, but I don’t have another image after this of carrying him.Just to compensate for the picture I shared yesterday, here is an image from the big snow of 2010, when Stellar was pure muscle and control, at two years old.
I’m grateful for another easy day with Stellar. We have diminished his meds and supplements as of last night to purely palliative, and implemented belly-band use full time as of this afternoon. He was so busy trying to keep himself clean that he was starting to lick sores on the inside of his perpetually damp leg, and a bedsore was starting on his left hip. It was past time to escalate from pee pads. The belly-band keeps his legs and hips dry; without the need to lick obsessively he seems much calmer, which is also easier on me.
Today there was less mobility than yesterday, though I did manage to get him outside to his garden bed for a couple of hours midday, in the unseasonable warmth. I’m grateful for that bit of time outside in sunshine, and for his restful sleep most of the day. I’m grateful for another day to pay attention to Stellar past and present, remembering and cherishing his brief, sentient life. I’m grateful for support from a Buddhist friend for the course I’ve chosen for his transition, and grateful to be able to experience this as a natural transition rather than resisting, and turning it into a source of more suffering for me; and I’m grateful for the presence of mind to savor the lessons I’m learning during this extensive, existential, letting go.
Stellar at five, in my lap, again! I’ve been trying to find this one particular shot of the last time I was able to hold him in my arms. It continues to elude me in various hard drives and backups, but I have a fresh lead to follow tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’m grateful for the joyful journey down memory lane.Meanwhile in real time, he couldn’t get up this morning without assistance. I helped him outside with a sling, but his left back leg just wouldn’t cooperate. A few steps and we turned around. I fed him breakfast in bed. A couple more times he struggled to get up so I helped him out for a short stagger; then he slept all day.Around four, he wanted out, and by golly that leg worked again–just barely.He only fell once on the short Sunset Loop, and then I wrapped him in a belly band for the next few hours. He wanted out again after dark, so I took it off, soaked, and threw it in the washer. He’d be mortified if he knew I was sharing this picture.
I’m grateful for the products available to manage his incontinence. I’m grateful he had a pretty easy day with little agitation, grateful today wasn’t the day. Each day, each challenge, offers another opportunity to practice patience, compassion, and unconditional love. I’m grateful that I have this precious time, these hours each day, to lie beside him on the floor and remember with him the travels we’ve shared back and forth across the country, our joyous life together here for almost fourteen years. I’m grateful for the perspective that allows me to settle more deeply each day into this process of surrender, of letting go: grateful that when it’s over, I really will be able to say I brought my best self to this passage of our lives.
Stellar giving me a kiss in 2010 at Auntie’s house. I’m grateful for all these old pictures of Stellar. I can’t find the exact one I’m looking for tonight, but I’m enjoying the search. I’m grateful for digital archives!
Arrg! Dogs keep on teaching me that “Patience only begins when you run out of it.” My best boy ever did two bad things today, after a lifetime of never doing either. I did lose my patience, briefly. The first time, when I caught him with his face in the bag of new dog food, I just chuckled, nudged him away, and clipped it shut. We had had a great day outside, more putting the garden to bed, pulling up, cutting back, raking, while he napped comfortably wherever he chose to.
He hadn’t eaten too much–I remembered Knobbydog, who was shut in a shed for a couple of hours one time, to keep him separate from some fightful ranch pitbulls: he ate an entire 40 pound bag of kibble, was shaped like a barrel and sick for days–no, Stellar had only eaten a cup or two, I think. But still, it’s a new food, and an abrupt transition can cause…er…digestive distress.
Not much more than an hour later, I set down my wooden bowl with a chicken thigh, turned my back for seconds to adjust his bed pads, and caught him snarfing the whole thigh in one gulp–NO!! I yelled, lunged, pried open his mouth and stuck my hand down his throat. Gone. Fuck! Fucking fuck! I yelled, Bad dog! Yep, I lost my temper. I ran out of patience. The thoughts that flashed through my mind! I wasn’t upset about losing the chicken thigh (unlike Raven’s breadloaf incident), I was worried: chicken bone, gut puncture, horrible painful death…. But as soon as I realized he’d swallowed the thigh whole, no crunched bone, I let go of that worry. And a ghost of Dr. Vincent’s voice reassuring me that a bone couldn’t pass undigested through their guts. There was nothing I could do anyway.
Then, it was over. A flash in the pan. I was in the kitchen washing my hands, and he had gone to sit shamefacedly on his bed. I cut off the other chicken thigh, took my bowl back to the table, sat and quietly enjoyed my dinner; gave him last bite as usual, and some good pats, and it was over. This is so new to me, to experience a sudden strong emotion, like the combination of fear and rage this evening, and then be able to let it go. And have it really, truly be gone.
He is so hungry all the time since this new medication regime. At least I’m not having anymore trouble getting pills into him! But he wants to eat all the time. He’s never been a highly food-motivated dog, that was his sister Raven (and the Knobbyheaded Dog). Now he’s a food-seeking missile. I don’t mind feeding him more, I just don’t want him to eat too much!
I know… what could go wrong at this point? Fretting about what might happen is a waste of energy that I simply don’t have these days. Surrender. He is such a gooood boy. What will tomorrow bring? More patience, I’m sure of that. I’m grateful for patience.
Stellar on my lap a decade ago at cousin Melinda’s house. He was almost four.
I’m grateful for this little aspen tree in the yarden, once again golden; grateful that we’ve both survived another year; that though all the aspens in the high country have now dropped their leaves, leaving mountain slopes grey, this one little accidental aspen glows here.
I’m grateful for the safe reception of an heirloom painting after some confusion about its delivery. When I picked it up from a cottage in town there was a joyful German wire-haired pointer on the deck who hugged and licked me all over. I told her person it would make Stellar’s day to get to smell her on me, and indeed it was the highlight of his otherwise uneventful day. We took a few short walks, he ate and drank a lot, I worked here and there, and spent time outside with him. I’m grateful for an uneventful day.
I’m grateful for a warm, sunny day, which enabled me to wash Stellar for the first time in weeks. Some days he gets almost this wet from his pee alone.
Grateful it was but a dream when I woke again this morning, after witnessing a horrific community tragedy. As we watched from Main Street shops, I spied an avalanche on the nearby mountains. “Avalanche!” I cried and others turned to look. I watched aghast as almost every chute on the whole mountain range released its built up snow in short order, and in the midst of it, saw dozens of skiers trying to ride out the first and biggest avalanche, watched some get tossed and buried (amazed even then by the keenness of my vision). The aftermath was terrible, twenty-five lost on the mountain, triage for dozens more, and all the while the mountains moving closer.
I wandered the stairs, rooms, halls of a sudden building where survivors gathered, emergency response efforts underway, people in tight conversations. I couldn’t find a place to fit in or a way to help. Even worse, I couldn’t find where I had parked my car! so I couldn’t get home to Stellar, to safety. Startled awake for the second time at 7:30, I was grateful to let my body settle into quiet contemplation of a more accurate perception of my world.
After meditating, Stellar and I greeted another gorgeous fall day. We enjoyed several short walks, and he rested comfortably on his outside beds all day, while I swept and winterized the patio and settled the houseplants in their new winter spots in the sunroom. I’m grateful for the mild weather: any time he’s outside is time he’s not peeing inside. Except for incontinence, now, he’s so much happier than he was a few weeks ago. Poor guy, anytime he lies down he leaks. I do at least one load of his laundry and throw away pounds of soaked pee-pads daily. I’m grateful for pee-pads, and for patience, and for knowing that this trial, too, is impermanent. One day it will be over.
A clean bed with layers of sheets and pee-pads will only last a few minutes once he lies down.
I’m grateful for putting the garden to bed before the first snow today at this elevation, which continues after dark lightly frosting every leaf and limb white prior to the first real freeze. I started a week ago, and have been whittling at it for a few hours each day. I’m grateful for putting the garden to bed after a thrilling season. The counter is loaded with the last ripe tomatoes, tomatillos are all put up in the pantry, heaps of parsley are distilled into pesto and frozen cubes; rattlesnake and runner bean pods dry in large paper bags; eggplants and carrots fill the fridge. I’m living the dream.
I’m grateful for putting the garden to bed with tips and tricks from gardeners online. I’ve hung tomato vines to ripen in the upstairs room, beside pepper plants with wrapped rootballs. Some gardeners advised misting the roots, while others just left them dry. I compromised with a quick twist of plastic bag to prevent them from instantly desiccating in this climate, maybe giving the peppers a bit more nourishment as they redden.
I’m grateful for another day with my little helper, covered in snow. Like in the movie Awakenings, he is transformed with drugs, and like those patients he will eventually relapse into inevitable decline. His resilience astounds me. He wants to be alive.
I’m grateful for this sweater that I’ve had for so long I don’t even remember where or when I got it. Decades ago, for sure. It’s soft old cashmere, and feels like a hug. When new, it was for dress up. It’s got a few small holes, and always slips off my right shoulder; now I can only wear it at home alone. Every now and then I put it in a pile to give away, but I always pull it out to wear before I get that pile packed off somewhere, and decide again to keep it.
I’m grateful for this old dog I’ve had for so long he’s falling apart, too. But remarkably, though his incontinence continues unabated, his spirit and strength have improved with the magic of prednisone. He once again has a good walk in the morning pretty consistently, though he fades by evening. Back from the brink! How long this rebound will continue is, of course, uncertain; like everything else in life. We seize the day, each day.
Unretouched photo: I’m grateful for all of our medicines and treats, on the counter this afternoon.
Tonight, I’m grateful for cold cuts, among other things. Stellar’s vet made a house call this morning, and I’m very grateful for that. He hasn’t seen a vet in person since the spring, when his blood counts were all good and her second opinion was that she couldn’t offer more for his lameness than Dr. TLC had him on already. And so we tottered along through summer, before he really began to decline about six weeks ago.
Dr. TLC’s diagnosis today is that he has internal bleeding, likely from a cancer somewhere in his abdomen. Cancer runs in his family. His litter-sister died of cancer just about a year ago. This came as no surprise to me, and I’m grateful to have more clarity about what’s going on with him, and a lot more options for comfort meds as we enter the palliative care phase with an official prognosis rather than simply my intuition. He seems much more comfortable tonight than he’s been for awhile.
Today was a hectic scramble. I returned from the grocery store after PT and began sorting all the dog meds on my kitchen counter. Stellar’s on to the last few pill-wrapper treats, and Rocky doesn’t like to take his pills either. Who does? So I bought some new varieties of cold cuts to hide them in. So far so good on their end with the ultra-thin sliced honey roasted turkey breast, and I enjoyed snacking on a slice also while loading theirs with pills. I haven’t eaten cold cuts (except in store-bought sandwiches) since I was in college. I don’t remember the last time, or if ever, I kept any in my refrigerator. And when Stellar’s gone, so will be the cold cuts. But for now, they’re very helpful, and tasty too. So I’m grateful for cold cuts.
