Dog Is Love

Lughnasa and the Labor Day Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Kate and her 76th. Veterinarians. Their love of dogs. Rigel in their care. Still. Kate’s teeth. Emergency fund. Ruby. A fine car. Window cleaners coming today. Angelique. New house cleaner. Kep. Tears. Again. Sweet Corn. Cool morning. Cooling nights.

Getting this out before the meeting of the clan. Rigel has endocarditis, an infection of a heart valve. She’s being treated with IV antibiotics and fluids, still at VRCC. The cardiologist there says guarded prognosis. Hard to treat and it can slough off detritus that leads to a stroke. Wait and see as SeoAh says.

Meanwhile the birthday girl, Kate, discovered yesterday that she’s going to lose four teeth on the bottom of her jaw, the ones between the bicuspids. Sjogren’s. Old age. Impressive bill. This happens next Thursday. Happy birthday, Kate!

My beloved females. Please hold them in your hearts.

Yesterday’s Gone

Lughnasa and the crescent Lughnasa Moon

Monday gratefuls: Rigel. Kep. Kate. Tom. Mark. Paul. Bill. VRCC. Thermometers. AC in Ruby. Defurmination. Vets. Vet techs. Blood tests. Kindness at VRCC.

Got up yesterday at 8 a.m. Very late for me. Breakfast, then zoom with the ancient friends. No time to write. After the zoom call ended, I took off for Petsmart, where Kep got groomed. I drove back home after dropping him off even though it’s an hour round trip. Nowhere I could imagine hanging out for the three hours.

Nap. Then. Rigel’s not looking right. She wasn’t. She looked like she was sick. We worried about bloat. I felt her stomach. Not tense. Her expression made me sad. I felt her head. Hot. Got out the thermometer and, in the undignified way we do it, took her temperature. 105. A Dog’s normal temp is around 102.5.

Kate called the emergency vet where we’ve taken Rigel before, VRCC. They’re sort of a cross between emergency vet and the U.’s vet hospital. Yes, that temperature meant she needed to be seen.

Rigel loves to go for rides, but this time I had to place her front paws on the floor of Ruby’s back, then put my hands under her rear and boost her in. At one hundred pounds she’s still in my range to help. One reason we know longer have Irish Wolfhounds. When they’re sick, I can no longer move them. IW’s weight between one hundred and fifty and two hundred pounds.

Left home around four fifteen, got into Englewood at five p.m. Due to Covid the VRCC building allows no entry for anyone except employees and patients. Understand. But. It’s a bare parking lot and four p.m. meant the day’s heat had hit maximum. Ninety five.

Rigel disappeared inside the nice air conditioned building. I went back out to Ruby to wait. Four hours would pass before I left for home. Life threatening illness and trauma kept showing up ahead of Rigel being seen. Triage.

On the internet I looked up running a car with the air conditioning on while parked. Modern cars, the experts said, could be run with the a.c. on until you ran out of gas or the battery drained. Didn’t do that right away, but sitting in Ruby with the windows down, the sun above and the asphalt below…

I drove to Steak and Shake for a burger. Got back. Had that sort of supper. Realized I could download a book from the Jefferson County Library and listen while I waited. Forgot my books while getting Rigel in the car. Found a book by David Baldacci and the wait became less onerous.

Finally, around eight forty-five p.m. a doctor called on my cell. Rigel’s temperature was at 104.3 and hadn’t changed since she arrived. Not gotten worse, but not better either. She recommended an overnight hospital stay where they would try to get her fever down, give her IV fluids, and start hunting for a cause. The bloodwork and physical exam showed nothing except normal values. Urine, too. Chest x-ray. Nada.

Still true this morning. The tab is going to be high. In the thousands. She is, however, our last big dog and she’s been so healthy, we’re going to try and figure it out. At eleven and a half it could be cancer. If so, we won’t treat that. Just about anything else we’ll probably try to correct. Depending on the estimate.

These are heart-wrenching decisions where weighing the pocketbook against Rigel’s life makes our heart spin.

That was yesterday and yesterday’s gone.

The Good News

Lughnasa and the Lughnasa Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Tara. Taryle. Kelly, the gutter cleaner. Ruth and Gabe, the snail wranglers. Claretin. Jackie, our hair stylist. The fan in our bedroom. Kate’s capacity to adapt to new realities. Her microwave bowls. Kamala Harris. The excitement over the Democratic ticket. The chance to dethrone the naked emperor in November.

And so. The pulmonologist. Dr. Taryle is a gnome, an old gnome, older than either one of us, I’m sure. He works as a pulmonologist for National Jewish Hospital, the premiere respiratory hospital in the U.S. He’s been clear, focused, and attentive to data and detail. He knows his specialty and cares about Kate.

He also said her lung condition is stable. That’s good, right? Well. Yes. Sorta. He looked at her CT, listened to her lungs, heard her story about recent shortness of breath. Among the other things going on, I can say the lungs are stable. Well, can you give me something, anything to help? I don’t think it’s called for. Those meds cause nausea, diarrhea, fatigue. Oh, well.

Which leaves us in a weird place. Her cardiologist, after an echocardiogram, says her heart is not the issue. No pulmonary hypertension. Her pulmonologist says her interstitial lung disease is stable. Yet she’s still out of breath after coming up four stairs or going out to her sewing room to water her plants. Not sure what to do next.

A positive is Kate’s new, more regular use of Zofran, an anti-nausea drug. It seems to help with her eating. She lost weight over the last couple of weeks, down to 90 pounds. If she can add some calories by mouth, we should be able to get her up to her target range between 95 and 105.

Rigel’s foot, now wrapped in a neon pink bandage, has gotten better. Her gate is normal. The bandage comes off this evening. Kep goes in for another grooming session on Sunday. As a double-coated breed, Akita’s shed a lot. And, by a lot, I mean, a lot. The only antidote is regular grooming.

Kelly, the gutter guy, came by yesterday. He put a ladder up on the roof, then climbed up and walked around cleaning the gutters. He did this on the garage, too. A much taller roof. Would have scared me. An ice dam and fire mitigation service. The same company sends us window cleaners next week.

Debating right now whether resurfacing our driveway and extending the asphalt to the garage makes sense. About seven grand. Or, should we stain the house? Probably about the same. Or, should we do neither? Like a new roof these are big ticket maintenance items that have to be done on occasion. Is this the time?

It’s Baaaackk

Lughnasa and the Lughnasa Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Getting Ancientrails back. (It was lost somehow.) The lovely cool morning. Kate’s experiment with zofran. Kate’s appointment with the pulmonologist today. The cow that gave its life for our dinner last night. Potatoes. Our new mailbox. Jon. Ruth. Gabe. For the wonderful Saturday. Edging my way toward a new normal: Covid safe, Kate gaining weight, writing, painting, working out, seeing friends and family on Zoom.

Ancientrails got lost in some cyber realm. When I wanted to access it yesterday, all that happened was little balls going back and forth on my browser tab. To show how seriously I took this, I contacted Ionos, my web server, for technical help. Reminded me why I never do that.

Had to take Rigel to the vet on Monday. She ripped a nail part way off. We had noticed a limp and both sucked in our breath. Rigel’s eleven and a half, the longest lived by far of all our big dogs. Which is great. But it also means something could happen to her at any time. Too often a limp, especially in a big dog, means bone cancer. Relief when we discovered her injury.

I have to go because it took Windows 10 forty minutes to update this morning and we have an 8:45 appointment in Englewood. Breakfast, stuff like that. I solved the Ancientrails issue by completing rebooting everything. That’s how I got stuck in the endless update loop.

Remarkable

Lughnasa and the Lughnasa Moon

Monday gratefuls: Feeling loved. Ruth. Jon. Gabe. Chuck roast in the instapot. Pull apart good. The Maids coming tomorrow. The cool nights. Having the lawn furniture up closer to the house. The Ancient Ones. The duckling rescue. The heart of Bill Schmidt. The openness of Mark Odegard. The sensitivity of Tom Crane. The doggedness of Paul Strickland. My buddies for over thirty years.

Remarkable. Yesterday was remarkable. That is, I will re-mark it again and again as a special day. Let me tell you why.

Ducklings in the sewer. When I meet on zoom with my ancient friends, mentioned above, Tom, Bill, Mark, and Paul, we have a topic chosen by each of us in a rotation. Yesterday was Bill’s day and he gave us this song to investigate, especially it’s lyrics.

This was his prompt: “Bob Dylan is an insightful writer/singer.  Here’s a link to his song, It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) and the lyrics are attached in a pdf file. It was released in early 1965 and every verse is for this time, right now.  Listen, reflect, and share.  Hi light for us any part of this song that says something to you.”

It’s the task of the topic creator to sort of gently guide the discussion, so it was strange when Bill didn’t show up on the call. When we’d all popped up on the screen except Bill, Tom told us Bill had called and said he had discovered a distraught duck mother quacking and looking into a sewer grate. 6 of her ducklings had fallen into the storm sewer.

Bill. I called 911. I said this, This isn’t an emergency, but it’s important. A bit later three trucks and six men show up. A fire and rescue truck among them.

These men didn’t quit. They took the sewer grate off, climbed down. Meanwhile, I talked to the duck mother, tried to calm her down. Eventually I sat down on the curb beside her.

They got five ducklings up and returned them to the mother, who then stopped quacking and waddled off with what she thought was all of her ducklings.

No. I hear another one. One of the rescue guys. One of the ducklings had gone the opposite way from the others, sewer drain pipes lead off in both directions. I hear him. I’ll get him. They flushed out the sixth duckling.

When they got out of the sewer, the mother had disappeared. Four of them took the sixth duckling and began searching for the mother to reunite them all. They found her.

Bill made it back to his apartment before we finished and told us this story. What you do to the least of these, you do unto me. Yes. Bill. Yes.

The mailbox. Jon installed our new mailbox. It took an hour plus, but he worked away at it. I helped a little bit, but not much. My help really consisted of trying to get the old one removed. I told you yesterday how that turned out.

This morning I went out to get the Denver Post, an every morning jaunt. The new mailbox was there and I opened the road facing door. Was it smooth? Yes. It was.

Oh, wait. What’s that? There were two cloth bags inside it, one labeled grandma and the other grandpop. I put Kate’s at her place at the table and brought my bag upstairs with me.

Inside it were several small items. A Donald Duck stuffed animal, a Pokemon card, a picture of a smiling gap toothed man glued to a piece of paper, a small iron coyote baying at the moon, a bracelet, and, a piece of lined note paper.

Ruth. Dear Grandpop, I wanted to do something for you that would help to brighten your day and mood. I collected and made all of these things to make you happy. I made the bracelet of these colors because they reminded me of the sun which I think of as a very bright and happy thing in our solar system, so I hope that when you see it you will feel happy.

Her note goes on this spirit. She found the coyote in a box of her special things, Donald Duck was her favorite Disney Character. “I figured he could be your buddy in the loft.”

“I hope this brightens your day, and mood! Love, Ruthie.” How about my life? She’s brightened it from the beginning.

As I said, a remarkable day.

We live here

Lughnasa and the Lughnasa Moon

Saturday gratefuls: Beef stroganoff and egg noodles from Easy Entrees. Waking early. Rigel sleeping, wouldn’t get up. Safeway open at 6 a.m. Nobody there. The Mountains at dawn. Muted behind the tree cover, with the sun coming up as glory, rays leading the way over the peaks to the east. We live here. I kept thinking as I drove. We live here. Then, I realized, we live here.

A word for the dawn. I don’t drive much in the early a.m., but I did this morning. Off to Safeway. Which was clear of unmasked people and almost all shoppers. I felt safe, able to wander a bit. Like B.C. Mostly though I luxuriated in the drive there and back. The Sun sent its emissaries, angels of Light appearing as a crown, streaming high and proud over the eastern foothills. The few Angus Cattle being fed out on the grassy Meadow about a mile down the hill from us. Shadows and darkness still in the Lodgepole and Aspen Forest on the slopes of Black Mountain and Conifer Mountain. Few cars.

We live here, I kept saying to myself. Which changed. We live our life here, we are alive here. Even with Covid. Even with illness and infirmity. Even with Trump in the Whitehouse. Even with the climate changing, moving swiftly toward tragedy. We are alive here.

Forgot to post this

Hard Stuff

Lughnasa and the Lughnasa Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Amber. Lisa and the humming bird feeder. Dr. Pullikottli. Kate’s fingers healing. Ruby and her a.c. Mule Deer Buck. The intimacy of difficulty. All those carboniferous trees and plants that gave their lives so I can drive my car. Electric Cars. Go, Tesla. Echocardiograms. Chicken breasts. Read to eat meals.

Two weeks of no workouts. Marking a slow down or at least different focus for daily life. Dug down into my psyche. Like a retreat. Still surfacing. Yesterday I found myself up against it. I can’t keep cleaning the house, I said. I can’t manage the cooking in the way I have been. More tears.

I felt like I was letting Kate down. No, she said. You have been my pillar, my strength. I don’t say it often enough. Oh.

This, she said, is why people downsize. Yes. There’s a moment when you realize, no, I can’t take care of all this anymore.

Is this that time for us? No. We can afford a house cleaner. Kate will find one. I can buy meal kits, ready to eat food. Cook much less. Occasional take-out. Relief.

Derek has done a fabulous job in clearing up our downed trees. The pallets are gone. The front stumps have been ground. The place looks so much better. Will James will take down the remaining fire mitigation marked trees. Next week the gutters get cleaned and the week after the windows.

Ordered beef stroganoff with egg noodles from a chef run ready to eat meal business with an unlikely location. It’s at the base of Conifer Mountain, about 5 minutes away. Ezentrees.com. Looks pretty good.

We both love mountain living, even with its obvious drawbacks for our mutual lung issues. This house suits us. Large enough to house family on occasion, small enough to feel homey for us. The loft for me. These decisions are so fraught, so wrapped up in the past, in our expectations, in cultural values around home. And, independence.

We’ll keep jiggering with paid work, family help, and our own efforts. Hard stuff though.

Not One Thing

Lughnasa and the Lughnasa Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Amber. Stat locks. Kate’s healing stoma site. Rigel, whose love buoys me up. Kep and his steadfastness. Kate’s reading. Invisible Man right now. Ellison’s classic. The almost full Lughnasa Moon, red over Black Mountain this morning. Our more organized upstairs. Needing more blankets. The kindness of CBE.

Cancel culture. from Merriam-Webster: “To cancel someone (usually a celebrity or other well-known figure) means to stop giving support to that person.” I’m giving the definition because I’ve been reading this term for a while now and didn’t know what it meant. Once I found the definition I immediately thought of a recent change I’d made in my e-mail signature:

“There is a love of wild Nature in everybody, an ancient mother-love ever showing itself whether recognized or no, and however covered by cares and duties.” ― John Muir btw: Yes. I know about his racism. And, I deplore it. But, I also know about his love of the natural world and I love it. None of us are all one thing.

Other items I read pointed to the #metoo movement as a starting point as well as the more recent protests around George Floyd. It goes deeper and further back than that, though. Sinners don’t get into heaven. How much sin denies you entrance through the Pearly Gates? Never real clear. I’m speaking as a theologian here. Martin Luther famously said, “Hate the sin and love the sinner.” I’ve always found that an important idea.

Taboo. Kapu. Karma. Sin. Religious ideas that get social traction. In the Christian tradition the idea of sin, hamartia, missing the mark, plays an outsized role. IMHO. So outsized that it can cancel your heavenly bliss.

But who decides if your sins are too much? Or, just this side of the line?

In Christianity, God decides. But who knows how God views a particular person? Especially yourself? This question has dogged Christian apologetics for centuries. How can we know whether or not we stand in God’s favor? Clearly an important question if the afterlife is in play. Eternity.

The Protestant Ethic* is a good example of how this question can lead to corruption and blasphemy. Calvinists especially felt a need to know where they stood since predeterminism, in some cases double predestination, was a cornerstone of Reform theology. Double predestination says that God not only predetermines all actions in the universe, but also (the double part) determines who goes to hell and who gets salvation.

Since the race was all over at the starting line, the finishing places of everyone already known, it became critical to see if there were signs in this life that could identify which direction you were headed after death.

The Protestant Ethic came to identify hard work and success, financial success in particular, as evidence of God’s favor. A golden ticket.

What was not to be known was God’s judgment. Among believers in the Protestant Ethic who bought pews and clergy, a surety of salvation arrogated to themselves the power of God. That is blasphemy. You could even call it a form of witchcraft, using spells and incantations to bind divinity. For that was surely the expectation. I lived right, I did well. Reward me.

Cancel culture uses similar logic to discover who is damned. Commit a sex crime. Cancel them! Woody Allen. Harvey Weinstein. Bill Cosby. Commit an act of racist hatred. Cancel them. Lindsey Graham. DJT. Derek Chauvin. George Wallace. Bull Connor. And so many unnamed yet. The perpetrators of police murder. Cancel them! The reinforcers of systemic racism. The apologists for wealth and power. Their insurers.

Let me be clear. These are heinous crimes, sins against humanity, and deserve punishment. Prison. Public diminishment. The ignominy of seeing yourself in history books as bad examples.

But. All of these people, like John Muir, are not one thing. Not only sexual predator, not only racist cops or politicians or creepy entertainers. I don’t know any of them well, but there might be a good father there. A devoted son.

Cancel culture condemns the whole person for one aspect of their personality. I understand the impulse. That wrong is, in my eyes, so awful, so often neglected, that those who get caught must be pilloried in the square forever.

But we can’t do that. If so, we’ll need to get someone to make each of us stocks and lock ourselves in them. These bad impulses, the yetzer hara as Judaism names it, are attempts to gratify the ego. And that’s all they are.

Each person also contains a yetzer hatov, an impulse to bear the burden of the other, to love the neighbor as the self. We all let our yetzer hara out to play. Perhaps not as egregiously as the canceled, the left behind of our culture, but perhaps so, too.

We need, no, must, see each human, including ourselves, as working our way through this life, this one wild and precious life, as well as we can. Some choose a slack hold on their impulses, hoping gratification will lift them up. Some choose to struggle, to work with the selfish impulse as a means for motivating change, achievement.

We all, always, have this choice. Even Cosby. Even Chauvin. Even Wallace.

Let’s not have any more left behinds in this damaged and broken nation. We’ll need all our resources to come back from Covid and Trump.

*”Protestant ethic, in sociological theory, the value attached to hard work, thrift, and efficiency in one’s worldly calling, which, especially in the Calvinist view, were deemed signs of an individual’s election, or eternal salvation.” Encyclopedia Britannica

Greenman

Lughnasa and the Lughnasa Moon

Tuesday grateful: The Lughnasa moon just setting below Black Mountain. That one violet volunteering near our front steps. The daisies. The faint whoosh of folks going to work. Ruth. Her eagerness to see us. Their garden and her joy in it. Seeing Patty yesterday. Banking. Socrates, the teller.

Gardening. At the end of my time on the Ancient Ones zoom, I surprised myself by summing up my life as having one regret. Gardening. That we hadn’t pursued it here on Shadow Mountain. I miss, I said, growing our own food. Working with soil and plants. I do. Miss it.

Once Kate and I moved to Andover a transition began for me from city boy to horticulturalist. I wouldn’t have predicted that necessarily. We’d done some perennials at our home on Edgcumbe road. Starting with the small bed I planted in the front yard, finishing during the great Halloween blizzard of October 31st, 1991. Daffodils and Iris, if I recall correctly.

It’s true I had a big garden back in 1974 on the Peaceable Kingdom, my failed attempt, with Judy, to develop a spot for the movement to have respite care. My only Psilocybin journey happened there. I watched our Potato plants growing. But the Peaceable Kingdom did not last and neither did gardening.

A bit of gardening at the first house, the one on 41st Avenue, but Slugs took over. There was no gardening at home in Alexandria. A few Flowers maybe, but nothing to remember.

Andover, though. When we got there, the front yard was bare, as was a sloped area behind the house in the back. About an acre of Woods were doing fine, as undisturbed Woods will do. In between was a large patch of weedy, scrubby Grass with a large grove of Black Locust. They didn’t look good, some of them were dead. BTW: many of the Weeds were actually Hemp plants seeded during a World War II field planted in it.

We hired a landscape architect who helped us with the bare Land. I wanted to sow a Prairie on all of it. Kate said no, we could never sell it. We settled on two large areas of Prairie with sod and some new Trees in between them, directly in front of the house. On the sloping area behind the house we decided to do a terraced garden. Irrigation went in with all of it.

In the beginning I wanted to do only perennials. I imagined our house overflowing with fresh cut flowers throughout the growing season. I had a lot to learn. Having flowers blooming from spring into fall requires so many skills.

I did not want to do annuals. And, I didn’t. Along the way I learned about soil amendments, spading forks and gardening spades, trowels, and hori-hori. Killed a lot of plants. Cussed at Rose Chafers, Japanese Beetles, Colorado Beetles. Along the way I fell in love with the families Lily and Iris and crocus. Learned the amazing recovery powers of Hosta.

The Black Locust and their small swords taught me caution and how to use a chain saw, a commercial grade chipper, a Peavey, a Swede saw. Hired stump grinders. I cleared, with Jon’s help, enough area that we could imagine a vegetable garden. Jon built us raised beds from the start, anticipating the day when bending over would not be easy. He made some in whimsical shapes, others square, some rectangular. I filled them with top soil and compost.

We had various compost piles, none of which worked very well. We built one that used split rail fencing and a large metal gate to keep the dogs out. Tully, one of our Wolfhounds, kept finding her way in. But she couldn’t get back out. Strange.

Speaking of Wolfhounds. Jon built a fence around the raised beds to keep them out. They loved to dig in soft garden soil.

More on this later. This has gotten long.

A Blue, Sun Shiny Day

Lughnasa and the Lughnasa Moon

Monday gratefuls: Radiation. Dr. Gilroy. The sabbatical. Too short. Gardening. Bill. Tom. Paul. Yesterday. Exposing their self-understandings. Tender. Still cool. Kate’s sisters and their bi-Sunday zooms. Sarah. Anne. B.J. Oil checks. Weird. The land in Texas. Mary and Mark, as Mary said, my nomadic family. Rigel and Kep on the bed last night. For a while. The working of Claritine.

Got in Ruby. Turned on the a.c. Pegged 55 on the cruise control and wound my down the hill, then south 470 to Lonetree. It will have been a year on August 9th that I had my last radiation treatment. Today I saw Patty, the kind head radiology tech who oversaw my treatments. She remembered me. Is that you, Charlie?\

Yes, it was. I had on my red Los Alamos split the atom t-shirt. We went through the formalities. Co-pay. Urinary and bowel function and symptoms checklist. A nurse took my vitals. 96 O2, 100/65 B.P. Dr. Gilroy came in.

He hadn’t changed. Still slightly tubby, expensive tattersall shirt. Close cropped gray hair. Jovial. Anything bothering you?

An existential question to start with. Thought about mentioning Kierkegaard, but I didn’t. Nope. Not really. Given my Gleason score, staging, my prostatectomy and the recurrence, the radiation and the Lupron, what are my odds of a cure. About 2/3rds, 1/3rd, he said. 1/3rd have a recurrence. We don’t know why. The odds are good, but 1/3rd is a lot of people.

I see. It didn’t rock me this time like it did when Eigner said 60/40 in July. Getting used to the fact that cancer is always going to be a part of my life. Every 3 month psa’s. On and on and on.

Like walking along on a plank bridge over a deep ravine. Every fourth step might break and you’ll fall through. But most don’t. Just keep walking. Oh. Well. O.K.

We got up, didn’t shake hands. Covid. Masks on. I left. In the lobby I hit the hand sanitizer, opened the door, and walked into a bright blue Colorado day.