Dog People

Some days I can’t help wondering what it is about dogs that entrances us so…why do some of us weave the strands of our lives inextricably with theirs? Why are some so obsessively in love with our four-legged pals as to virtually eat-sleep-breathe dogs? And, perhaps more illuminating, there’s the completely incomprehensible (to dog lovers) question of why some folks do not.

Dog lovers and non-dog folk come in every stripe; you’re not going to differentiate dog-centric versus non-dog people through easily categorized distinctions like athletes versus sedentary types, country versus city dwellers, extroverts versus hermits. Sub-categories further complicate the picture - dog owners who profess to love their dogs may provide well for their physical needs but have no meaningful relationship with them (which opens up parallel inquiries into similar human conundrums); vet clinics are full of doting dog owners who literally kill their dogs with kindness; people on street corners gush over every dog they meet but don’t own one, believing they couldn’t do right by them (maybe correctly, maybe not); and the list goes on. Since my curiosity is directed towards those of us whose lives are modified dramatically by dogs versus the opposite leg of the bell curve, I’d really love to get a discussion going as to what drives some of us “to the dogs.” Is this obsession a sign that we dog-folk are a tad off-kilter, or can we claim to be the enlightened ones?

I’ve wondered if it has to do with whether or not we’re raised with dogs, conjecturing that lack of exposure early in life might atrophy some crucial psychological process, some developmental milestone when mirror neurons need stimulation to allow toddlers to develop healthy empathy for other beings. If parents or caregivers weren’t particularly good at providing those opportunities, or even if they were, those of us with canine pack-mates learned early-on, likely when pre- or barely-verbal, to read the real-time emotional reactions that dogs give. Humans say one thing but mean another; dogs give it to you straight. Children who don’t have the opportunity to see the cause and effect of pulling a dog’s whisker might never develop quite the same capacity for simpatico as those of us who grew up with dog hair pasted to our sticky fingers.

Taking it further back in the dog/human symbiotic evolutionary process, perhaps proto-dogs originally gravitated to human encampments because children snuck a few mammoth bones away from the hearth to lure in a puppy to play with. If proto-dogs had to choose between (A) accepting the sure thing (the bone) versus (B) snatching the more succulent but riskier (because of adult retribution) toddler, I’m betting that both child and proto-dog learned to read each other’s every gesture and expression quite accurately. Only those dogs that made choice (A) survived to produce pups to come back for a mammoth bone another day. Fast-forward a few million years and today’s dogs still provide children with non-verbal but very communicative pack-mates which may help prepare them to navigate the complex, broader human network. I’m thinking there is far more to this human-dog symbiotic exchange than we usually wonder about.

But ok, what about the adults…what about those of us who openly admit we prefer the company of dogs to that of people. What gives? Surely that’s not a “normal” or healthy position? Is it? (please tell me it is). While it may be true that we can trust our dogs whereas our fellow hominids are suspect, is our preference for dogs symptomatic of something gone awry in our psychological development? Yes, our dogs love us unconditionally while our kids/spouses/bosses expect us to minister to their needs in one form or another. But still, have we failed to navigate some essential transition from our childhood canine connections to evolutionarily essential human ones? Or should we just be grateful that we’re among the ones who have the benefit of the rich, funny, infuriating, blissful pleasure of being loved by dogs and loving them back?

I do know that there seems to be a longing for understanding that dogs satisfy, maybe one stemming from those long-ago fireside exchanges when eyes at the fringe of darkness reflected the firelight back and two intelligent, social beings really saw one another. Dogs meet a need for direct, raw, unfiltered connection that doesn’t happen often or easily with other humans. I suspect that the modern world alienates us from the immediacy of living, and our domestic wolves let us tap into what is still real and wild and alive in ourselves.

Character(s)

One of my favorite TV channels has the slogan "characters welcome." I guess it resonates with me because I would like to believe it...as one who has always heard a different drummer, I have wasted a lot of imaginative energy wishing our society and culture truly welcomed characters. For the most part that just isn't so. Characters, or persons of character, stand out from the crowd. They turn heads, create a stir. But in this country, for the most part, conformity garners likability, convictions generate division. Originality is unrecognized or ridiculed. Pretense is tolerated; honesty is reviled and sometimes downright dangerous.

One thing dogs are, it's honest. They're pissed, you know it. They're sad, their entire being radiates dejection. They adore you, you bask in an aura of love. And if they don't like you, well, pretending is not in a dog's repertoire. I've probably spent more time in the company of dogs than among my fellow humans. Some of their attributes have informed the way I interact with the world; sometimes that's good, sometimes not so much. I tend to call it like I see it, as they do. That's not generally well-received.

Our expectations for our dogs far outstrip equivalent human capacity to measure up. We expect our dogs to never be irritable, or if they are, to not show that in any obvious way. We expect a dog to tolerate whatever comes their way, whatever is dished out. Inappropriate discipline, inadequate socialization, minimal mental stimulation, social isolation, lack of exercise, poor nutrition, all of these and more are heaped on our dogs and we expect them to keep on wagging their tails, keep on licking our hands, keep on wearing stupid costumes and tolerating the baby's fingers in their ears and our tread on their tails. A dog that growls is seen as bad, even dangerous. A dog that snaps is "disloyal" or has "turned." A dog that actually does bite is condemned, sometimes to a life in a cage and muzzle, sometimes to death.

How many times have we lost our temper, said or done something we'd like to take back, something hurtful, something vile, something bruising to relationships or even bodies? I know I don't measure up. I've snapped at my daughter, ducked a call from an old friend, been snide to another friend, forgotten my brother's anniversary, my sister-in-law's birthday, ripped a few folks a new asshole. And that's just in the past week...I couldn't begin to document the faults and failings of this particular character over my half-century in this world. I'm just glad I'm not a dog, I'd have been given the long sleep a long time ago. The world prefers its characters in a format controllable with a remote.

More trauma

"So how's she doing?" I'd fielded the question many times in the past two weeks, but now I needed an antecedent for the pronoun.

"Which one?" I figured I knew, given that the person asking was my (almost) ex who had performed both Caesarians but who was fairly transparently fishing for compliments.

His expression told me he'd forgotten there was another; no surprise there, he can't keep my dogs straight. He covered with "The one that nearly died" hoping, I'm sure, that distinguished the one he was thinking of, and also confirming my suspicion that he wanted a little ego-stroking. He had, afterall, saved her life.

"Her" being Rio. I blogged about Cymri two weeks ago when she had to have a Caesarian to deliver her three pups. In the meantime Rio blossomed to a size that was painful just to look at. I knew she was carrying a huge litter, and the potential complications of overly large litters are scarier than unusually small ones. So I'd been on pins'n'needles for the last couple of weeks, especially when Rio stopped eating. That in itself is not terribly unusual; a female carrying so many puppies has trouble finding room for food. But she just didn't seem....right.

She went into labor a day early, again not surprising with her body under such stress. Two pups were born readily then nothing more happened for five hours. A little calcium coaxed two more, but once again she shut down for several hours. More calcium brought forth another three, but she was exhausted and depleted...more ominously, she was pasty, wan, and frightened. I pressed her gums...they stayed white. Minimal capillary refill...she was going into shock. Given the size of her uterus and the struggle, I worried the uterus had ruptured and she might be bleeding internally. I pulled out my little Doppler and couldn't find any fetal heartbeats; there was no more time for midwifery no matter how skilled-- she needed immediate veterinary intervention. I called the clinic, gathered up the five living puppies into a box with a hot water bottle, grabbed Brianne in case a blood donor was needed, helped Rio into the backseat and wished I could teleport to town.

An X-ray revealed three more puppies. Surgery was commenced quickly, and once again I found myself receiving three soggy, limp bodies warm from their mother's belly. Unfortunately one was long dead and though we got gasps from the other two, only one of those progressed to steady breathing in spite of our best efforts.

Puppy resuscitation attempts took place in a treatment room so I wasn't present to watch the struggle going on in the surgery ward. But the techs' comings and goings back and forth past the doorway had a hushed urgency and finally I had to go check, carrying the puppy whose heart I was still massaging. The heart monitor was beeping, the O2 stats looked fine, but several saturated towels on the floor attested to the amount of blood that had overflowed the surgery table, and the intensity with which the two techs were struggling to get a blood pressure reading dropped my heart into my gut.

"No pulse?" My question was sharper than I'd intended. "Oh, she has a pulse, we just can't find it." I couldn't tell if Keith's answer was meant to be reassuring, glib, or if if I should take it at face value. I opted for the latter and retreated for the puppy room, but snagged the next tech as she raced back by. PCV (packed cell volume) was through the floor. My hope went right with it.

But I knew Brianne was there, I knew we had blood available, we just lacked a trauma team to be able to work several procedures at once, and this was a situation that required a multi-pronged effort. The office manager had run to another clinic to get a blood-collection bottle, but everyone else already had a role to play in the process. And our surgeon was also our clinician so we couldn't collect the blood that Rio so desperately needed while he was still in the middle of surgery. He had her on a hyper-tonic (?) IV to help stabilize her blood vessels but that was only a stop-gap.

Finally he got her closed, I abandoned my fruitless efforts with the second pup, put the surviving one with the five from home, and brought Brianne into an exam room. Her face revealed her thoughts, thoughts which astounded me...the wrinkles on her forehead might have been concern, might have been fear, might have been foreknowledge. All I know is that she walked onto the exam table, looked me in the eye, licked my chin, and held completely still with her nose pointed skyward for ten minutes while a needle in her jugular pulled deep rich, platelet- and red cell-laden blood into a bottle.

Then the wait began while Rio lay inert on a blanket, babies tucked in beside her to nurse, an IV pumping fluids into one foreleg while the other, the beautiful crimson one, dripped life back into her other foreleg one pulse at a time.

Today as I watched her race towards me through the snow, grinning and beautiful, I marvel. I marvel that she doesn't waste a moment of today thinking about how she almost died last Tuesday. She doesn't regret, she doesn't bemoan, she doesn't fear. She lives.

Meditation for 2010

Nothing need be said:

http://blog.beliefnet.com/onecity/2010/01/another-cycle-begins.html?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=13&ppc=&utm_campaign=Buddhist&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

A Breeder's Christmas

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I’ve attended and assisted in a whelping, each time one of my girls is expecting I become just as anxious as I ever was. In truth I am more so; the more I have learned and seen over the years regarding what can go wrong (and very badly wrong) the more nervous I am for each impending birth.

The day before Christmas Eve my most recent litter arrived. It was textbook…at first. Her temperature dropped 36 hours ahead, giving me fair warning to stay close at hand. She began nesting and fretting, clinging and whining on cue. I spent the night on the floor with her when I knew it was probably too early and I should get my rest in a real bed. So far, so good, everything seemed normal. But on the morning of her due date, though she was sleeping and seemed peaceful and alert, my own inner barometer was dropping. Something seemed amiss, though nothing overt that I could point to. Cymri’s expression had shifted from that “something really strange is happening and I’m terrified” to “ahhhh, I get it. I am capable, I am Mama Dog” and she appeared confident and strong, waiting for the progression of events she somehow knew would come next. Still, I stewed. My turn to pace and fret.

I called the clinic, put them on notice that I had a girl in first stage labor and anticipated I may need assistance at some point. Then, I grabbed Christmas cards, my address book, and tried to settle in to wait. Obligingly, Cymri’s contractions started almost immediately. Strong but intermittent at first, then increasing in frequency and intensity. Each time she bore down I was sure this was it, but as the hours stretched into the afternoon and there appeared to be no progress, my concern escalated. I could palpate the puppy, face first as it should be, yet she didn’t seem able to bring it over the pelvic rim in spite of vigorous contractions. I administered sub-Q calcium, which bolstered her efforts tremendously and still no change in the pup’s position. Since I couldn’t quite hook a finger around the pup, I wrangled with external manipulations to aid her contractions. No go. By now it was mid-afternoon and the clinic would be closing earlier than usual for the holiday. I pulled out the mini-sonogram that I had received the previous Christmas and was relieved to find a normal heartbeat…at least one pup wasn’t stressed yet. Couldn’t find any other heartbeats.

I called the clinic again, helped Cymri into the back of my Pilot, and tore out for town. As is usual in a vet clinic the day before (or after) a holiday, it was packed. Cymri and I hung out; she hunkering to the ground to push and strain every few minutes, me cranky and pushy with the employees who were only trying to show concern. Get my dog on the surgery table! Tell those other people this is a flippin’ emergency and get the doc in here with Cymri where he’s really needed! I wanted to shout at them.

Finally he came to check her, did another ultrasound, and miraculously enough located two heartbeats. Around the same time I noticed movement, so I knew at least some pups were still alive. With “the pups aren’t stressed, I’ll be back” he left to go back to the other patients. My pacing and fretting began again in earnest. I’d seen this scenario before, and immediately had myself convinced we were headed for a repeat performance…in years past I’ve had both a cat (I used to breed Abyssinians) and a dog at a crucial point in labor when I knew veterinary intervention was needed; in two cases I was told all was well, only to end up back at the clinic again a few hours later with a mother in distress and the babies already dead….the poor mother still has to go through a Caesarian but has no babies to show for all that pain and effort. I wasn’t about to let that happen a third time.

Eventually, hours later (ok, maybe it was thirty minutes or so) he began prepping Cymri for the Caesarian and the staff stood around like cheerleaders. With a towel drapped from arm-to-arm I waited for the first newborn. One of the technicians is a breeder and normally the two of us make a great tag-team in resuscitating limp babies (anesthesia depresses the central nervous system). But she wasn’t working that day and I had two new receptionists to help me – the sole technician was assisting the surgery itself. The first pup came out limp and blue; before I’d even dried her the next pup was extracted and passed on to a receptionist. I traded the one I’d gotten partially cleaned for the new one. Neither looked viable to me.

I am not a calm or accepting midwife. I grabbed Dopram, placed drops under the tongues of each of them. I demonstrated how to hold them head down along the thigh and thump their ribs to stimulate drainage of any amniotic fluid they may have inhaled. I shook the one I held. I did mouth to muzzle. A third pup was handed off with the announcement that was the last of t hem, so my “team” and I concentrated on passing the three limp, soggy, blue babies back and forth while I tried every trick in my thirty years of experience. The first gasp brought smiles to my helpers. I was just incredulous; I had given them up for goners. Gradually, periodically, each would gasp and I began to hold some hope. The girls, sure that this meant all was well, began discussing names.

That was last week, and this week I have three fat, squirmy babies and a wonderful, attentive, devoted mama. Life is good.

Fall is dog season; in my experience it's the only time of the year the dogs and I agree completely on the utter joy of being outdoors. Spring, for all its rejuvenating energy, is mud season in these parts and though I welcome its warmth and renewal, I dread the muck and mess the dogs drag in. Summer, my time of year, is when my darling canine partners seek out the nearest shade tree and look at me like the reptilian throw-back I may well be. And winter...the bitterness of these past few days, the killing, bone-cracking cold...every instinct my hardy ancestors passed along to me says "get thee inside near a fire!"

And indeed I would, for I respect my ancestors, those tough opportunists. But, the dogs have other ideas. My dogs have grown coats that render them impervious. Not only impervious, they are audaciously, recklessly celebratory of this season. There is no question they are happiest in winter. They grin. They frolic. They bound and roll and plow and spin and make noises I do not hear at any other time of the year. They are in their full glory in the snow.

Because of the dogs, I pry myself away from the radiant heater that keeps life in my bones this time of year. I put layers over layers, a vest over those layers, struggle to zipper a shell over the vest, cram my fists into my pockets and curse as I leave the relative comfort of my fifty degree house. The curses cease when the wind rips the very breath from my lungs. Fingers stiffen in the short distance from house to kennel so that putting a collar on a dog becomes a battle, particularly when I’m hampered by the cumbersome layers and the dog is jazzed for the walk it anticipates. Said dog then launches itself with rapturous abandon, yanking my frozen limbs nearly out of my boots. I beg, I plead, I implore them not to make me move so fast when my muscles are still in a state of shock; I whine, I whimper, my eyes actually tear (it’s that cold!). I act altogether unlike any kind of dog trainer should act…

But then, a mile or so down the cold dark road, a transition occurs. At first that’s because I become so numb all over that I no longer perceive discomfort. But another mile or so further and I am entranced by the sky. This time of year there is a lingering light that creates colors in the dusk and early evening that is unequaled at other times. The depth and range of blue just after sunset lifts the eyes and thus the mind; no longer is this an exercise in physical endurance, being out in this cold inspires awe, awakens wonder. As Parrish blue bleeds into azure and cobalt, and finally indigo becomes obsidian, the miles click by and the dog and I become extensions of one another. His body movements reveal the presence of creatures I would otherwise have no means of recognizing. The excitement with which he responds to a vole differs enormously from the out-of-his-mind scrambling that scent of a deer evokes. Coyotes bring the hackles up, bear bring him right alongside me, a deep rumble of fear in his chest. We plunge on in the darkness, senses zinging.

By the time we get home a couple of hours later, I am so invigorated that I want to take a couple more dogs out. Cold? Pshawww! I am Woman, descendant of cave woman…tamer of wolves, walker of dogs…a little cold is a tonic for my strong body!

Now, where’s my hot tea and radiant heater….???

Blue Moon

Full moon this week enabled me to get the garbage hauled to the curb at 2:30 so I didn't have to rise at dawn to make the pickup. I heard, or think I heard, that this month we'll have a blue moon. Or maybe it's next month. I never hear more than bits and snatches of news lately. Should I say that only once-in-a-blue-moon do I hear a news story in its entirety.

Does anyone use phrases like that anymore? My family did...colorful folk sayings, full of arcane meanings that my kids can't relate to. Hell, my peers can't relate. Every so often one of grandma's sayings slips into my conversation and invariably elicits a quizzical raised eyebrow from whomever I'm addressing. Sometimes I know where it arose, but often when stopped like that I realize I don't know the origins.

We rarely question origins. We believe that we know what's what. We base our actions, and in fact our entire existence, on the blithe presumption that what we accept as truth in fact is. Mom said so. My best friend's cousin's co-worker saw it himself. The newspaper/radio/internet had an article. But do we know what's real? Do we even want to experience the full weight of living, or might that merely interfere with the existences we eke out in our little spheres of self-reinforcing conceits? Anyone or anything that is perceived as foreign to our contrived internal system will be shunned, ridiculed, or outright attacked in order to preserve the small space within which we feel safe but which in truth binds us. In effect we gouge out our own eyes, plug our ears, cut ourselves off from that which might inform us of the wonder that awaits the curious, and the growth and evolution that rewards the courageous.

Earlier this night, in that moon-lit darkness that casts shadows, I walked with a friend; well, with two friends. One human, one canine. We three are usually utterly alone on the backroads and pathways, other than being passed now and again by hurtling metal shapes bearing semi-torporific human passengers home to their chemically-laced food-substitutes and their digital entertainments. We three inhabit a world that few seem inclined to experience. Even in warmer months when the sun doesn't set by 5:00 we rarely pass walkers, and in the fall and winter when we step outside, we might as well be the only humans left on the planet. No one seems to know the sound of the horned owls but for their recordings on Discover Channel. But we walkers are serenaded by one in the oaks beside us, another in the hemlocks across the swamp. The coyotes voice their opinions on the quality of the cottontails in the rhododendrons beyond the rock ledge. Beavers slap their tails in startlement as we pass.

My point, if I originally had one, was that being outdoors, at night, is essential. Being soaked by rain is essential. Feeling my hair ruffled by cool winds, or welcoming the sun’s radiance on my skin is essential. These sensations are real. Life is lived just that simply. Every moment I am given the opportunity to be alive, if I will but grasp it. Other animals always do. I live with dogs, with horses, with cats and rabbits and roosters so that I may remember how that’s done, how I may escape the bondage created by my own capacity to live in the past or long for the future. I choose now. Again, and again.