Jackelopette

While the idea of “keep the litterbox in the unused bathtub” was a worthy one insofar as it contains the tracked-out litter and prevents it from joining the greater carpeted wilderness…

it turns out that using the bathtub’s integrated water-powered cleaning tool (read: faucet and/or shower) perhaps was not. For, you see, kitty litter is meant to clump up and turn into glorified mud, the same kind of mud that might be used for a facial, which means that it is goopy and sticky and stubborn.

I’ll be in the bathroom with my scrubby brush for the next little while. As soon as the standing water in the tub does its work and dissolves its clumps.

Oops.

I have a new kitten. I got her for Sophie, and the plan to keep ‘em both occupied is working well. Neither is bored, and both play well with each other.

Excellent.

Kitten came with the name Daffodil, and given her propensity for pouncing and exploring and basically being a ton of personality in a 2-pound body … the name just didn’t quite fit.

Henceforth, she shall be named Onomatopoeia, and her nicknames shall be myriad. Personally, I like Sproioioioing and Kaboom and Squeak, but I’m sure she’ll acquire many more as the mood strikes.

I’ll post pictures as I get them.

I just realized that this will be my first dogless Christmas.

It will be the first time that I’ll come home from an extended period away … and not have my dog waiting for me.

I had this vision of bringing friends over, and thought I’d have to remind them about the ferocious watchdog who’d turn putty as soon as they entered… but I don’t have to do that anymore.

I think I will have to spend a good long time cuddling Sophie. Bad enough to have spent the last two months missing her in brief stabs as I realize I don’t have her. Still worse to realize that I won’t be able to do so with Wiggy.

Yesterday morning I had our family vet euthanize my dog, Wiggy. I say I, because while Mom and I both discussed it, and she was certainly involved in the entire process, I made the calls, I consulted the vet, and I made the final appointment. I say euthanize because I hate frilly and misdirecting euphemisms, and with my love of things Latin and Greek I find it both an elegant and accurate description of what happened. Doesn’t help the fact that it happened, though.

I’ve been wrestling with the concept for the last week or so, and I think it’s still a part of the covenant we’ve made with our pets. As we take them ever further from the wild in which death comes quickly for the old and weak, and we prolong their lives beyond that limit, I believe it is our responsibility to ensure that such lives remain at least comfortable if not as full as before. I believe that the same gift should be available to those humans who, being of sound mind, no longer wish their lives prolonged. It seems to be the appropriate consequence to accompany the advances of modern care. The difference between pet and human is the burden placed on the pet’s caretaker to make that choice.

When I was about 10 or so, our German Shepherd x Rhodesian Ridgeback mutt, Humie, had to be euthanized after his spine, weakened by years of epilepsy, snapped during a headlong race down the stairs after an intruding possum. He’d been my dog since I was 3, and was pretty mellow even as a puppy. I don’t have many very clear memories of Humie, but I remember him always being a really – really – good dog. For him, euthanasia was a relief from a night of pain and immobility. There was no question that it had to be done.

Then, several weeks later, I picked out Wiggy from the litter at the Humane Society. My friend’s mom, a dog trainer, had recommended that we choose a mellow puppy. Wiggy was mellow at the time … I suppose he’d just worn himself out playing and lay down for a nap right about the time we arrived.

From that afternoon on, Wiggy was a good-natured although stubborn and rambunctious member of the family. I’d wrestle him to the floor regularly, which turned out to be a good thing as far as him considering me to be above him in the pack hierarchy. Lest there be any doubt, he was a big dog. Black Lab x Airedale cross, we think. At maturity, he was a good 90 pounds and not inclined to accept limitations, if you catch my drift.

Wiggy also fancied himself the protector and enforcer of the household equilibrium. If the cats were out after dark, he’d bark or whine until we brought them in. He’d get anxious every time I brought the rabbits out of their cages. I remember one instance when he was about 2 years old and I had a dwarf hamster who escaped while I was cleaning her cage. Wiggy managed to catch her between his paws and licked her until I retrieved her. Not one scratch or broken bone, just a bedraggled and bewildered little rodent.

He was also a most intimidating guard dog. If you came to our door, the first thing you’d see is a mobile mound of black and tan hair, jumping and barking its head off … until we opened the door and welcomed you inside. Pretty good, actually.

I also remember the antics my cousin Megan and I would get up to with the dogs. Casey, her tricolor Aussie mix, was a joyful bouncing puppy at every age. Wiggy and Casey got along quite well, so naturally Megan and I assumed that they should get married. I had a few Cayuga ducks, which are large greenish-black quackers. We made Emerald, the best-behaved of the drakes, wear a little Roman collar and got the dogs well groomed. Emerald quacked, the dogs barked, he quacked some more, and we celebrated with biscuits and bones. Later on, Megan filed for divorce on Casey’s behalf (I don’t remember the reasons), Wiggy settled with her out of court for something like 27 biscuits and 3 tennis balls, then while Mom and I were living at Grammy’s the two dogs got back together for a couple of years. Much like in Megan’s and my relationship, Casey was usually the instigator, with Wiggy happy to follow along and provide momentum to her mischief.

The last year or so has been hard, as far as pets go. Grammy’s dog Bonnie came to live with us after they moved, and her health deteriorated pretty steeply last spring and summer. Her death was less dignified but perhaps easier for us. She had never really been our dog. Wiggy, however, stayed alert and attached to us even when he grew unable to follow us around the house as was his wont. It got to the point this weekend where Wiggy, a conscientious and house-trained beast, couldn’t stand up or go outside. Exacerbated by the facts that his lungs weren’t operating at anywhere near full capacity, his bladder control had been shutting down, and his systems had been weakened by an infection over the last month, this latest development had left very little rambunctiousness or independence in my dog. I spent two nights on the couch downstairs next to him, and neither of us slept well.

I don’t feel that I made a bad decision. Wiggy’s last morning with us had him lying outside near our table as we fed him bits of our breakfast, with both Mom and me reaching down from time to time to scratch behind his ears. When our vet arrived, Wiggy had a fairly peaceful end. If it had happened in the office, his last minutes would have been frightening and stressful. If we had waited another week or two, wrestled him into the car for more tests and procedures, he might have lived longer but not well.

I’m not sorry I did it. I’ve just been arranging myself around the fact that it happened, and the fact that I made such a weighty decision. I don’t believe animals think the way we do, I don’t think they have the same sense of the future and past that we do, but I do believe they have the same dignity. When I consider the possibility of some kind of heaven, I believe animals would have the same right and access to it. I would rather release a pet to whatever exists next than prolong its life with disorienting, painful, or unsettling actions. There’s an act of faith involved – ours that we are doing the right thing, and theirs that we will do it. I hope I didn’t betray Wiggy’s trust, and I hope his death was as peaceful for him as it seemed to me.

…but really, there’s nothing so soul-devouring and confidence-crushing as the hunt for the first job. Am I right?

In other news, lots and lots of fascinating and frustrating things have happened, but only a few are bloggable. I went to Las Vegas with Mom this past weekend, my roommate brought home a dog while I was there, aaand last night I saw not one but TWO baby equids just minutes after they were born. The first was Sammie, a bay Quarter colt out of a chestnut mare, and the second was Suzie Q, a chestnut mule out of a bay Quarter mare. Sandy and I are both rather disappointed with the uninspiring names.

Really, not much is happening with my life other than job hunting and developing a deep relationship with my computer and my cat. Blah.

The text from last night’s toast:

To the dearly departed hamster, Flying F-Badger. When I bought you, you were supposed to be male so I could name you Poncy Tosser. Instead, you got your name after launching yourself from everyone’s hands at the pet shop, then reinforced its meaning after leaping from our balcony. We thought you were dead then, but you weren’t.
(Tommy: So she was trying to commit suicide from the moment you met her? Shane: Here’s to your successes)
You survived living with Steven this summer, when all he wanted to do was put you in a dry kiddie pool with the birds and the kitty for afternoon playtime. You survived living in a house with cats for an admirable period of time. I’ll miss your gnawing of everything, the squeaky wheel at 4 AM, and the fact that you never bit me.

Goodbye, Badger.

1. Every Tuesday night a bunch of my old high school teachers compete (as the team “Hot and Crispy”) in a community trivia game held at an awesome restaurant in Ojai. When I’m home, I show up and reconnect with them all. Mom and Sheila go regularly, even when I’m not there. Well, there are a couple other Villanova alumni who compete with the HC team, and I was told that if we lost this week it would be all my fault. So I started up a new team, calling it The Young Turks, and recruited Amy and Ian (the alumnus who said he’d blame me), Mom, Aunt Kate, and my dad. We kicked arse. I mean, we really kicked arse. We won the first two rounds (and the first one came down to an instant-death tie), tied for second on the third round, lost the fourth round, and won the overall. I am pleased.

2. After the great Harry Potter fiasco on Sunday I was a little bit frightened of seeing it again, but it turned out all right. My dad, Ian, Amy and I met for a matinee show yesterday. Amy and I danced along with the penguins in the Happy Feet preview and basically embarrassed the hell out of the guys. Mwahahahahaha! Got dinner and ice cream afterwards.

3. This morning Sandy called me – the first words out of her mouth were “I think I just broke your cat. No, seriously. I think I just broke your cat.” She was bounding down the stairs and little Sophie (with her usual genius for irritation) was racing her… then cut across Sandy’s path and got squished underfoot. Sandy then spent two hours at the VMTH while Sophie got checked out. Long to short, Sophie’s pretty much unbroken (bones anyway), the panting appears to be a pain response to having her lungs a bit bruised, and they’re keeping her overnight for observation. Oh well, I wasn’t really looking forward to Las Vegas anyway. First one to suggest going anyway and winning enough to cover the vet bill, my airfare, and/or the hotel cost gets thwacked. If you decide to be creative in your suggestion, you get thwacked twice. I love my roommate. I love the kitten too, but I wish she’d develop a bit more intelligence.

4. It was a Very Sperry Thanksgiving. Uncle Harry was absent, Grandma turned 91 yesterday and is planning to continue partying through Tuesday, my dad and Aunt Jean still manage to squabble (although there was very little bloodshed this year), and I have more fodder for my memoirs. Sorry, you’ll have to wait till they’re both written and published.

5. Actually, the only bloodshed today (in my immediate vicinity anyway) was while I was trimming bunny claws. Bucky (the bricklike Dutch – and I’m talking brains as well as brawn) decided that today wasn’t a good day to die and tried to pass along the favor to me instead. He broke a toenail on my sweater, bled all over my pants, and struggled all through the rest of his pedicure. Stupid rabbit. If he’d waited till after the ordeal to start clawing me, neither of us would have been hurt and I wouldn’t have had to change.

6. Did I mention I’m thankful for my roommate? I am. We put up with each other’s quirks and foibles and we even join forces for fun on occasion. See, evil is fun and fun is good. Joining forces for fun is good. Amy and Ian have made this year’s turkey trip quite enjoyable, even with the Great Ditching by the usual suspects. Steveo, always there for target practice and other good times. Jill – coffee and crosswords, yo. The Collegiate 4-H’ers – giving me my regular dosage of drama. What’s not to love? Family, although there are way too many of us, I’m glad I have us. Davis, without you I wouldn’t have met so many of my friends, discovered the wonderful world of webcomics, or learned so many ways to make people squirm with discomfort. It’s much appreciated. I’d spend all my available bandwidth and then some on expanding this list further, so if you’re not explicitly mentioned, consider yourself an object of thanks. Yes, I’m objectifying you. Deal with it.

Sandy and I returned to the Napa Valley today. We hit exactly one vineyard; Rust Ridge. It was buried in a little nook somewhere between Lake Berryessa and the actual Napa Valley, and it reminded me reeeeally strongly of Casitas Pass. They breed racehorses there. Sandy and I were the only ones there, so we drove along the dirt driveway till we got to what seemed like a parking lot. There were horses everywhere. Weanlings! Yay!

Then we spent about an hour or more chilling in the tasting room with Mark the wine dude talking about… everything. The wine was good. We both fell in love with their Sauvignon Blanc — so light and fruity and yummy. Mmmm.

Once we finally tore ourselves away, we grabbed food in St. Helena. Observe the lovely eclair we found in the Model Bakery. That was the yummilicious dessert to our grilled sandwiches and italian sodas.

A day well whittled away. I am content.

Perhaps separated by a few weeks, but I’ve said goodbye to one pet and gained another.

My kitten Sophie has a built-in pacifier. When she starts getting bite-happy, I just scoop her up, curl her on her back, and give her the tip of her tail or one of her hind feet to chew on, and she’s happy. Go figure. It’s funny when she’s still chewing as I set her back down on the carpet, and she falls over.

Levi went to a horse adoption agency today – the lady running it is very sweet and capable, so I feel pretty confident that he’s in good hands. It’s just… saying another in a long string of goodbyes. It’s long past time, though. Now he’ll be with someone who can both make time to play with him and afford to keep him.

This weekend was also my last official meeting with the Computer Corps. I didn’t reapply this fall, so when they meet again in January I won’t be there to indoctrinate the new members. Then again, I know that I’ll see a number of them again through Collegiate 4-H, and others as I join the SLC planning committee for the 2006 conference.

Ventura-Ojai people — I’ll be home for Thanksgiving. I’m hoping to catch a flight home on that Tuesday afternoon, so that I’ll be home in time for Trivia. Any volunteers for picking me up? I could even hop on Amtrak and meet someone in Camarillo or Oxnard…

Someday I’ll figure out all these greetings and goodbyes.

I have a large bruise on my right thigh and another smaller one on my left knee from chasing Chuck’s guinea fowl yesterday afternoon. Never chase loud poultry while waving your arms and screaming “oogaboogaoogaboogawoohoo!” It can only lead to pain.

See, we’d just been riding Sandy’s ex-racehorse Rainman. He was well-behaved, so I wasn’t quite exhausted. I saw the remaining pair of fowl and found it hard to resist the urge to frolic with them. Sandy beat me to it and got the first spring in… then I followed.

Don’t chase fowl in riding boots. Clumps of dirt will trip you and fling you against the edge of the driveway, where the concrete will dig unforgivingly into your leg. Your helmet, which you have been carrying in your hand, will make a loud THWACK against the surface, making your roommate believe that you have broken your leg.

You will have no dignity, for you will come quickly to the realization that you are no longer running after the guinea fowl. Your legs have stopped moving. For some strange reason your hands will be resting against concrete. It is only then that you will come to the conclusion that you have tripped and fallen.

Perhaps someday I’ll learn to curb my enthusiasm. Then again, I haven’t gained such self-control yet; on our way back to the apartment we found ourselves alongside one of the Unitrans busses. Naturally, I rolled my window down and shouted “OOGABOOGAWOOOOOOO!” at the poor bus driver. His window was open, he turned with an unmistakable expression of confused fear toward our car, and tried to catch up.

Ah, what merriment will the morning bring?