Do I See a Bubba?

A friend of mine posted this link on my facebook wall. I have watched it dozens of times. It truly, genuinely makes my heart HAPPY:

Tank, the Mastiff featured, is smaller than Huan was (before he got sick), but the mannerisms and behavior are so strikingly similar! The garbage picking, the guilty eyes, the I-Know-I-Was-a-Bad-Boy walk of shame, even the tactic of "hiding"on the dog bed (riiiiiiiiiight)! I feel like I am seeing Huan every time I watch. I wonder if Tank has consumed articles of clothing and various writing utensils, too. Anyway, here's my boy looking a little culpable and contrite:

Bubba and his bed--after he ate most of it.

When I came home one day, I found him like this, with paper stuck to jowls. (His mouth looks open in this picture because he had a bone in it. Bubba always needed a bone in his mouth when we came home. You just can't see it because his mouth was that big.)

Busted, Bubba! (I really thought it would be worse.)

There are, of course, many other instances of similar infractions, but we don't have them captured on camera. Most of them just weren't "cute" in the moment, like the time we came home to black ink smeared ALL over our hardwood floors after Huan apparently ate some pens.

Yeah, I think there is definitely another Mastiff in my future. It's funny how cute paper-jowls and partially eaten dog beds can look. Even black hardwood floors don't seem so bad in retrospect. So thanks, Tank, for that perspective and for reminding me of the utter joy that is the Mastiff spirit. And, for what it's worth, I think that garbage lid looks great on your head.

It's a Half!

13.1 miles, 9/24/11, 2:09:04, 9:51/mi. (Addendum: I JUST realized, after posting this, that my time and pace are likely better than what is indicated. My Garmin said I ran 13.25 in about the same time as the race people said I finished 13.1. I just now realized the discrepancy in distances may be attributable to the fact that I ran around this castle / fort on the course one too many times. AND, to add insult to injury, if that's the case, I don't even have a real record of my actual time for 13.25 because I bawled like a baby, hugged David, and stretched for about 6 years before I even remembered to STOP the timer on my watch. BOOooooooo.)

The bad news:

I have a whole multitude of issues going on with my legs, hip and back.

I dropped my iPod in the toilet literally seconds before I had to take off and had NO music for the entire race.

I have no real record of my actual time and pace.

The good news:

I am feeling so much better! I have followed every doctor's order about heat, ice, stretching, and anti-inflammatories exactly. And after not really running for nearly three weeks, the most pain I feel right now, in this very moment, is the good kind of sore, the kind that lets you know your muscles have been awakened after a long slumber. And I felt fantastic for the duration of my run, too, which is really great, given that I didn't know how I would respond to the "don't run through pain" mandate if I did, in fact, feel pain. I was, truthfully, scared, not of the prospect of pain, but of my likely unwillingness to submit to it or of the defeat I would feel if I had to. I am glad I wasn't put to the test. 

The course itself was absolutely breathtaking. And there were all sorts of adorable and gracious people throughout clapping and shouting all sorts of wonderful affirmations. One woman yelled, "I just admire you all so much." A precious, elderly gentleman shouted to me personally, "Way to go, 162! Looking good!" Complete strangers. Just awesome. If not for my iPod falling in a toilet, I may have never heard their beautiful voices. 

My iPod did, in fact, survive.

My time and pace are pretty impressive, all things considered, even though I have no idea what they are.

A few pics to document the journey:

Race chips. David ran the 5K (after working until 3AM and having slept for only 3 hours) because he is a good husband. He also ran a 5K on Fathers Day after not having run since he was a kid. I don't recall his time for that race, but he completed this one in 29 minutes. Unreal.

I don't know how many races are in my future, but I will never  wear a different racing shirt.  My whole life as a runner began with Bubba and a 6 mile "grief run." I am as likely to forget that as I am to forget him.   

Pre-race. Happy?

Nope. Scared bleep-less.

2-ish hours later: the finish line!

HAPPY for sure. Can you tell by my stride? I was already crying tears of joy.

Post-race. That's a beer in my right hand.

Beer again.

The couple who runs together...

I thought I would feel unfulfilled having completed a half marathon with no certain prospects for a full, especially given that the full was my objective all along. The very word half does rub me the wrong way, but not for the reason I thought it would--not because I feel like there is more to be done, but because I feel like there is nothing more for me to do. I don't mean that in a complacent way. I mean merely that I have done all that I can do, and I don't think it's possible for me to feel any more "full" of pride, satisfaction, and accomplishment. This must be what everyone refers to as "runners' high." Euphoria beyond words...

Dear Running:

As I was driving to work in the early hours of the morning, Lady Gaga's "You and I" came on the radio, and I thought of you.

The song, for one, is such a good running song. In fact, I put it on my iPod right before my failed 8, our last date together, the abrupt ending of which left me in tears. And, this morning, it happened to come on when the sun was rising, when you and I would have been on our mile 5-ish--if we were still together, of course.

Before I knew it, I was wiping a tear from my eye and simultaneously chuckling aloud and shaking my head in nostalgic amusement. And that's when I knew it for certain:

We're not over.

You haven't always treated me well.  I'd even say you've hurt me pretty badly. I got caught up in the "chase," pursued you too earnestly, and you dumped me. Hard.


I don't know that I'd give "anything again to be your baby doll," but I know there is still "something" between us, something "about" us, and I think it's worth investigating. I really do.


I'll be seeing you soon. Count on it. 


Love,
Danielle

Somewhere between "Big" and "Home"

I don't really know where that is yet; but, more than likely, I will have to find that medium. (Whoever said mediums were "happy"???)

Doctor's report and prognosis:

I still have no idea what is happening with my hip (there was reference to two joints and possible eventual stress fractures), but I start physical therapy Tuesday for that issue--whatever it is.

Regarding my shins, the doctor explained a radiologist "may very well read stress fractures," but she didn't order an MRI because she doesn't "need an MRI to tell [her] what to do"--and that's to insist that I rest. And rest means do nothing. If I weren't training for a marathon, she would have told me to rest indefinitely, and that may be the eventual mandate anyway. Right now, it could be "the difference of one run." Because I am crazy (that's my word; she was nicer), she told me "technically," I could count from Friday, the day of the failed 8 (or .5), and not from yesterday--if I "wanted to justify that way" and rest for fewer days.   So...this weekend I can start with the recumbent bike. If that doesn't hurt, I can progress to the elliptical. If that doesn't hurt, I can do "light jogging." And NO pain allowed. Translation: Sayonara, Marathon. I just don't see how I could start jogging and progress to 26.2 by the end of October. In addition to the long runs, there are multiple "short" runs (e.g. 5-10 miles) weekly.

I just realized I left off with 16. I had only TWO long runs left before the marathon: an 18 and a 20. Damn.


I do get it. I did way too much, way too fast. As the doctor explained it to me, there are lifelong runners who train for 6 months-1 year to run a marathon. I have never been a runner and woke up one day and decided to run a marathon. I committed to an 18 week training program, and I refused to forego bootcamp and gym days to boot. As I said to her yesterday, "This is my fault. I own it."

I have had my tantrums and tears and meltdowns, and today I got choked up when a song that I listen to repeatedly on my runs came on the car radio. (It reminded me of being a teenager, and feeling all nostalgic and sappy, listening to Dave Matthews or Sarah McLachlan.) But now I have to stop feeling sorry for myself. Again, it's my fault, and self-pity is unattractive. So, the potential pluses:

1.  If I am being honest, as I said to one of my favorite friends and true champions of athleticism, I don't like running like this. The kind of running I have been doing for quite some time is the bad kind of everything: pain, fatigue, challenge, chore, etc. I am actually looking forward to healing, to being pain-free, and to loving exercise again.

2.  There is the half at the end of this month. It is probably out of my reach at this point. But there is always a possibility. Even if I lose some conditioning by then, if I miraculously feel pain-free, I really believe I have the mental fortitude and drive to pull it off. (Of course mental fortitude wouldn't carry me through 13 miles if I hadn't already completed months of long distance training.) And there is still October if miracles really do happen, and there is always the spring season, too.

3.  I am pretty confident now that I am one tough cookie. I am proud that I set out to achieve this goal of gargantuan proportions, and I fought tooth and nail to make it happen. I can look myself in the mirror and say that I never once slacked or cheated, that I never once failed to do my very best. That's all anyone can really do. And, in the end, I made it pretty far. 16 miles for a single run and an average of 20-30 miles of running per week are nothing to sneeze at.

4.  My bootcamp class just ended. I wasn't planning to register for the next session because my body could just no longer take that kind of hit while running that kind of distance. But if I am no longer running that kind of distance, maybe--maybe--I can resume bootcamp in three weeks when the next session starts. I love bootcamp, more than I have ever loved any fitness-related activity, including running.

5.  Now that I am a mom, I often think about how my daughter will one day judge my actions; in fact, the thought of her as a teenager thinking it was cool that her mom ran a marathon a year after she was born is what sustained me on many painful runs. Now, I hope that she will respect my effort more than she will judge my ultimate performance; that she will see this experience as a lesson about sometimes needing to appreciate life's journeys more than the destinations; and that she will admire my genuine desire to be a healthy, strong, fit woman and role model to her. At a recent bootcamp class when we were doing Spidermans, my instructor jokingly said to the class, comprised of all women, "Remember when you were a little girl and you used to dream of Spidermans..." A bunch of women joked, "Barbie didn't do this!" or "This was not what I dreamed about Spiderman." And my first thought was, "I hope my daughter dreams of doing exactly this one day."

So, in the end, maybe a medium can be happy. I may need a GPS to find it, but I am willing to try.

Of Mastiff and Marathon

I am having kind of a hard time lately. I miss Huan so much, more than I have in a long time. I don't know what else to say about that. He was extraordinary. I will never have another dog like him. I will never know another soul as gentle and gracious and humble and sweet and good and decent as he. Repeat.

I have been training for a marathon, for months actually. There. I said it. Only a few people, until now, have known that. I haven't even registered for it, but the registration screen has been minimized on my laptop for what feels like forever. I have been afraid of jinxing it, I guess, but it's too late for that.

Current status: my longest run to date is 16 miles. I have been running 3-4 times a week, all according to the guidelines of a free online training program. There is always one really long run (e.g. 15 miles), 1-2 shorter runs (e.g. 3-5 miles), and one long-ish run (e.g. 8-10 miles). My times have been pretty impressive for a rookie (9:30-40ish on long runs), though that may be because I am a total idiot and haven't stopped to rest or hydrate ever. (No, I am not kidding.) I have also maintained my bootcamp days, but had to drop my leg day at the gym. I have, until now, maintained my upper body weight training regimen. And now I am injured.

Injured?

For weeks, my shins have been very painful to the touch, and it has gotten increasingly more painful to run on them. I have also been suffering through hip pain that is now pretty unbearable. There have been a couple of times when my leg has gone numb, and I haven't been able to support my weight while running. This past Friday, I set out to do an 8 miler, and I didn't make it 1/2 mile before I had to stop, tears streaming down my face, and limp home. I remember thinking, "I don't even know how to distinguish anymore. What will I tell the doctor? Does the pain radiate up my legs or down them?"

I have an appointment with a sports medicine doctor tomorrow. I have an appointment with a podiatrist on Friday. I am icing and stretching and taking anti-inflammatories. And resting. For the first time EVER, I missed a run, a 12 miler yesterday. I have no idea how much more I will have to miss. I am scheduled for a half marathon at the end of the month, which is just part of my training for the full in October. I don't know that I will be able to do either now. And I can't even stomach the thought of that. I have given this everything I have to give. I have set my alarm at 4AM on long run days so I can be home in time to get the baby when she wakes and so Hubby can leave for work. I have run in South Carolina, while on vacation, down cobblestone streets in the midst of Hurricane Irene storms. I even set my alarm at God knows what time to fit in a 10 miler before our flight took off for South Carolina. And, to reiterate, it has really, really hurt most days, even to run one mile.

I began running a week after Huan died, and I haven't stopped since. I always wanted to run, to be a runner,  but never really had the kind of motivation that the loss of Huan inspired. (I often call it "grief running.") And I did  toy with the idea of training for just a half, but I tend to operate in extremes. I go big, or I go home. I go Mastiff. I go marathon. And I have to believe that, even if I can't physically cross the finish line, everything that has carried me to this moment in my training--the struggle, the love, the grief, the tenacity, even the dedication to get out of bed at 4AM for months on end--that's all big stuff--bigger, perhaps, than even 26.2 miles.

I really hope I can believe that.

Jenni

It has been awhile since I’ve posted. That’s partly because it’s summer, and life has been pretty busy; and it’s partly because I have been procrastinating. This post has been on my radar for months. I have drafts of it. I have walked away from it and come back to it so, so many times. I am a perfectionist, and I know there is no way to perfectly articulate my feelings about Jenni. But it’s time to say something, however inadequate my words will undoubtedly prove to be.

Jenni is Jim’s wife. She is a vet, too. She is an amazing vet. And she is my friend. She is my dear friend. I don’t have any idea what I would have done without her all of those months that Huan was sick. Jenni was with Jim just about every time he examined Huan, both at my house and at their clinic. She also independently examined him, ran cytology, came to my home by herself. One day, she spent at least an hour of her time calling specialists all over the state to consult on Huan's case and research prices for MRI scans—from my kitchen.

Those are the objective, quantifiable tangibles. The implicit, qualitative intangibles of Jenni’s goodness—well, that’s the stuff that is impossible to convey adequately with words.

I remember very distinctly, months and months ago, perhaps even before Huan got sick, Jenni told me in a casual conversation that: 1. She never cried in front of a client and 2. Whatever happens to an animal after it has been euthanized—I mean beyond carrying it out of the room—she can’t bring herself to do. (I don’t know exactly what that is, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask.) I was touched so deeply by that. I have had vets before Jenni, as I have had animals my whole life. I have always been a little unimpressed, even saddened, by the seeming lack of emotion and personal engagement. I mean, I understand that there is—even has to be—a degree of desensitization, but I often left the vet’s office thinking, “Didn’t you go into this profession because you loved animals?”  Every experience just felt sterile, overly scientific, clinical, routine, even rushed. What I love about Jenni, what I find so impressive and unique, is that she is as competent as she is compassionate. I mean, the girl knows her stuff. But she is never, ever showy or imposing or redundant. She doesn’t railroad people or rush them or raise her voice—or love the sound of it. And she is always professional. But she is always a person, too, a good person.

Case in point: Before Huan passed away, weeks before, when I knew death was imminent, I called her. I needed to brace myself. I didn’t want to go in cold. Through quiet sobs, I asked her a multitude of pretty graphic and specific questions about what would happen to Huan when he died. And she answered every single one--patiently, kindly, gently, truthfully. In fact, before Jim injected Huan with the anesthesia on the day he died, he went to explain the process to me, and I stopped him. I already knew. I am so grateful to Jenni for that. I don’t think there is any other person or professional with whom I would have felt more comfortable having that conversation.  She was the absolute best.

Another case in point: On the day that Huan died, Jenni was with Jim. She was so gentle with me and with Huan. And when it was all over, when she and Jim left the room to give David and me a chance to say our final goodbyes, I could hear her crying in the other room. As I write that, I, myself, am crying. I don’t think she knows I know she cried. It turns out she was true to her word: She didn’t cry in front of a client. But she did, in fact, cry. And that’s how I know there is such a thing as becoming too desensitized in this profession. Because Jenni is not. After countless euthanasias and years of experience, this vet, one who surely “got into this profession because she loves animals,” was moved to tears by the death of a Mastiff and the heartache of his owners--because she is a person still, one who understands a dog is more than its breed and scientific makeup and the owners more than mere clients. And I know she was uniquely connected to and involved in this case, but I also know she is remarkably compassionate and selfless with other clients. Once, for example, she took a dog to her own home, with its owners’ permission, because she was confident it would not survive the night alone in the clinic. She tended to that dog throughout the night--again, in her own home--forgoing sleep in order to ensure its survival.  One would be hard pressed to find a better vet--or a better person.

And, incidentally, Jenni is as creative as she is competent and compassionate.

In October, five months before Huan died, I told Jenni about a page in Grace’s baby book devoted to baby’s first animal and about how much it meant to me to make that page special with a meaningful picture so that Grace would, in some capacity, know Bubba. I told her, probably in another conversation, that Grace was going to be a giraffe for her first Halloween. And Jenni went to the store, bought fabric, and spent hours of her life making a lion’s mane for Huan so that he and Grace could have a properly themed Halloween, so that Grace could have a special page in her baby book. So that her mother's pain could be mitigated by the creation of a beautiful memory that would comfort her always.

Likewise, after Huan passed away, I asked her if she knew of anything I could do with Huan’s collar and tag as a way to memorialize him. She suggested a memory box. Within days, she texted me and told me she was at the arts and crafts store and told me she could pick up the box. “What color would you like?” turned into, “Danielle, would you mind if I did this for you as a surprise?” And, before I knew it, she was at my house sorting through pictures and storing them on a flash drive. She worked for days from her own home, and this beautiful creation is the final product. When I first saw it, I bawled. It hangs in my kitchen, above the spot where Huan’s food dishes used to be.

(In case it’s not totally clear, in addition to pictures, Huan's collar and tag, and some text and graphics, in the bottom left corner is Huan’s paw print, which Jenni and Jim took and preserved in clay after he passed away. This is something their clinic does for clients after every euthanasia, and I think it is just so, so special. And I know Jenni worked really hard to get the perfect imprint.) 

It has been almost a year to the day that Huan got sick, almost five months since he died. I have sent cards and notes of thanks and written a post about my cousin on this blog to express my gratitude for people's kindnesses to Huan, David, and me. Jenni is last on my list of people to thank, but certainly not least. In fact, the truth is I am most grateful to her, which is, again, why it has taken me so long to actually find the words to express my gratitude for all the things that are just so hard to quantify or qualify in a card, note, or blog post...for being an amazing vet to Huan and an even better person and friend to me. For comforting words and costumes and pictures and memory boxes. For all of the gestures and moments and conversations whose significance just can't be conveyed with words but which are felt and treasured so deeply in my heart.

So I say--however simply, inarticulately, and belatedly--thank you, Jenni, from the bottom of my heart. For everything. xx

Jim

I am, technically, an only child. But I rarely felt that way as a kid. My cousins, Jim and Jeff, who are the sons of my aunt and uncle referenced in my "Bitter Sweet" post, are brothers to me. My childhood is defined by summers of vacationing, camping, playing, swimming and catching toads, snakes, and crawfish with them. We fished and roasted marshmallows and sailed and suffered horrific sunburns and many bumps, bruises, even stitches and food poisoning. These are my most precious, fondest childhood memories. No, they are my childhood.

At one point, we all even lived together. We had chores, or "designated sponsibilities." We had movie nights with the kind of buttered popcorn that could clog your arteries before the first bite even made its way down. We were even punished together, like after a collective rebellious impulse that involved a closed closet door and whole lot of profanity shouted--loudly, proudly, defiantly--in a sudden fit of what can only be described as spontaneous Tourettes. We rode bikes and played games every day.  We had block parties and common friends. And we had animals, lots and lots of animals. There were Gizmo, Sadie, Max, Fritz...to name a few, and those were just the dogs. There were cats, too, and reptiles of all types and sizes.

I always knew one of us would be a vet. Jim, in fact, wanted to be a vet before he could ever even pronounce the word veterinarian. Fortunately for him, he had the math and science aptitude. I always was much more English-y.

Jim, DVM, got a phone call from me the first week of August, 2010. David, my husband, came home from work at 7AM and found the house covered in blood. (I still cannot imagine how frightening that must have been for him.) He ran to our bedroom and found me asleep, threw off the covers, and found my feet and PJ bottoms also covered in blood. (I still cannot imagine how frightening that must have been for him.) Apparently, delirious from having a new baby and not sleeping much at all, I didn't notice that, when I got up in the middle of the night to feed Grace and let Huan out, my house and I were covered in blood. We checked Grace. We checked the cats. We checked Huan, who was sleeping soundly beside our bed. And there was dried blood on his snout. And so it began...

Jim ran tests, X rays, cytology, so many, many times. He sedated Huan and flushed his nose more than once. He was thorough. Nothing showed cancer, and we could have done an MRI to know for sure. But we knew, after the seizures and weight loss and head muscle atrophy, that whatever this was was degenerative, that Huan was dying. And so Jim, DVM, was again, first and foremost, cousin, brother, friend. He was gentle. He called Huan "handsome" and patted his head and rubbed his ears every time he saw him. He knew--I know he knew--what an amazing dog Huan was and how very much I loved him. I saw and felt his pain every time he saw and felt mine.

One day in the fall, for example, I came home from work, and Huan was bleeding so, so, so badly, worse than any other time. It was, by far, one of the scariest things I have ever seen, second only to the eventual seizures. I called Jim, who was working--crying, frantic, desperate. He told me what to do to get the blood to stop. It didn't stop. He told us to bring him in, so David did. Huan bled all over, and I mean ALL over, the clinic. David apologized, and Jim said, "Better for it to happen here where Danielle doesn't have to see it." And that night, he brought him home to me, having somehow managed to get the blood to stop after he called me to tell me he didn't know if he could--and, incidentally, having assumed the inconvenience of chauffeuring a 200 lb bloody, drooly Mastiff on his own personal time, in his own personal car. He hugged me, kissed my swollen face, and offered to bring me dinner.

Flash forward to February. The seizures started. They happened daily, most often when I was home alone. David and I took Huan into the clinic for a routine exam. When Huan didn't react to another dog in the waiting room, which was very uncharacteristic of him, I lost it. By the time I made it back to the exam room, I was hysterical. I don't know why, but seeing Huan indifferent to another dog was my moment of clarity and resignation. I told Jim that Huan's dignity was my first priority, and when dog owners start talking dignity, death is imminent. The truth is, I even thought that night may have been the night, and if Jim would have told me it was time, I would have deferred to his judgment. Instead, Jim prescribed anti-seizure meds, gave Bubba valium to ensure he didn't seize on the way home, and said we would reassess in a month. He helped David carry Huan to the car while I dealt with the receptionists and paid the bill. Jim and I hugged in the parking lot, and as I was getting in the car to leave, I could see him walk back into the clinic past the receptionists, who were very clearly looking for some kind of exchange, some opportunity to offer words of comfort or sympathy, or maybe to inquire about Huan's status, especially given that they had just dealt with me, and there was no hiding my hysterics, despite my best efforts. But Jim ran his hand over his head, kind of the way you see doctors do in movies when they lose a patient or have to deliver really bad news; never looked up; and kept walking, right past them, out of my sight. I don't know why that single moment resonated with me so much. I think it's because I didn't realize how much the experience resonated with him at the time. In dealing with me that night, he was professional. He was composed. But in that moment, when he didn't know I could see, he was upset. And that touched me deeply. In that moment, I could see my loving cousin. In every moment prior to that one that night, I couldn't see my loving cousin, because he loved me enough to not show me. He loved me enough to be what I needed then: my vet.

That night, I wrote my first post on this blog.

March. Over half a year of running tests, taking frantic phone calls, hugging crying cousins, driving back and forth to my house and Jim's clinic, and the seizures had, in fact, stopped, at least temporarily. The last time Huan suffered a seizure was the last time Jim came to my house for a Huan related incident: Saturday, March 26th, 2011. He left our Nana's house, where he and his wife were eating dinner, after yet another emotional and unexpected phone call from me; went to his closed clinic to retrieve all necessary supplies; and came to my home to help us say our goodbyes to our sweet boy. As Huan lay in my lap on my kitchen floor, Jim injected the anesthesia into his leg and sat with us as he took his last breaths. In that single moment, the tender culmination of so many trying moments, Jim's presence was never more necessary or appreciated. My childhood companion, friend, brother, the source of so much joy in my life, was a source of such comfort when I needed it most, in what was, I think, the saddest moment of my life. How many people can say that about their cousins? Probably about as many as who could say it about their veterinarians.

I am grateful for you, Jim, DVM. And I love you very much.

Bitter Sweet

This is my daughter, Grace. And with her is Doe, my aunt and uncle's lab and Grace's new biggest fan.

On Memorial Day, after my run and a fun time at the zoo, we went to my aunt and uncle's for dinner. My aunt and uncle have about 46 dogs. OK, that's a gross exaggeration, obviously. But they never have fewer than 3. (I come from a long line of "animal people.") The other dogs were pretty indifferent to Grace. Doe, though, clearly, truly, genuinely had an obvious affinity for her. Doe followed Grace all over the house. At one point, they were even swapping and sharing their toys. 

Watching Grace and Doe together was poignant, in the truest sense of the word.  Sweet, for certain. But also bitter. Two months and three days prior, we lost Huan. And Grace was very much still a baby. But now she crawls, babbles, engages in meaningful ways, imitates, shows a sense of humor. She very much became a kid. I anticipated missing the opportunity to watch her relationship with Huan blossom as she matured. (See very first blog entry.) I just didn't realize I would literally miss it by such a narrow margin. Two months. Ouch. If only...

David and I have been struggling with this one ever since Memorial Day. Grace needs a dog. I just wish it could have been Huan. He would have loved her up but would have always respected her space and the boundaries we imposed--like, for example, not entering her room without invitation, a rule, incidentally, that he did observe since we brought her home from the hospital. He would have never, ever begged for her food, let alone taken it. Of course she would have offered it, and of course he would have barely grazed her fingers with his teeth as he took it. She would have toppled all over his ginormous body and tugged on his ears and stuck her hands in his food bowl and taken his bones, and he would have let her. He would have learned the command "Baby kiss," just as he knew "Mama kiss," and he would have happily obliged. He would have protected her. He would have been her best pal. They would have made some duo, my baby and my Bubba. I can't imagine anything sweeter, and I know that, someday, I won't feel so bitter about that. And maybe that will be the day Grace gets her dog.

Race Day

Well, I didn't formally "race." My relay fell apart last minute, but I ran my leg, nonetheless.

It was a hard run. It was super hot outside, and I traversed quite a few hills. My hamstrings were sore from my workout two days prior, my heart ached from the loss of Huan two months prior, and I didn't make it through without tears. But I finished.7.5 miles, 1:14:11.

Pre-run

Post-run

Hubby made me chocolate chip buckwheat pancakes, my FAV, to celebrate!

I am certain there are more runs in my future, and I am confident I will get stronger, better, faster over time. And as much as I feel inclined to beat myself up over a modest 10 minute mile, especially since I have pulled off much better times in training, I have to remind myself that this run wasn't about pace or performance, or even about running, really. This run was about a girl and her dog.

And nothing about that can be measured or quantified.

Running and Prepositions

The day before I lost Huan, a friend texted me: “I am trying to get a 4 woman team together for a marathon (about 6 miles each). Would you be interested?” “I am interested. Keep me posted,” I replied.

After Huan passed away, days went by before I heard from her again. She was scared to ask about the race for fear of sounding insensitive (which she didn’t), but she needed to register soon. My immediate inclination was to say, “No, I am not interested. Not anymore. I’ll get back to you when I can muster up the strength to crawl out of this fetal position and keep my composure for longer than a five-minute stretch of time. Maybe in about six years.” But, instead, I told her I was still interested. And, by “interested,” I meant “willing,” kind of in the same way someone is willing to get a tetanus shot when she accidentally cuts off a bodily extremity with a rusty knife. She knows that it is as necessary as it is painful, though certainly less painful than the alternative.

I have never been a serious runner, and I certainly have never run a race. But I never had a dog like Huan or felt a loss of this magnitude. So I committed to a training schedule, one which I have observed--religiously, persistently, diligently--for eight weeks now. In addition to weightlifting and boot(y) camp days, which were already part of my fitness regimen, I added three days of running each week, two shorter runs and one longer run. Today was my last long run before race day next week--and my longest run to date. I ran 7 miles, without stopping.

Running has been one hell of a tetanus shot. Necessary. Painful, though certainly less painful than the alternative. And I feel my immunity building every time my foot meets pavement.

It’s funny…when I teach my students mechanics rules--and I always look for any excuse to talk grammar (like now, for example)--I often tell them prepositional phrases are “grammatical garbage.” “Toss the baggage!” I shout, as I point to plural pronouns and their disagreeing singular antecedents on the chalkboard. (If you are a grammar geek like me, see footnote* below for explanation.)  But running, at least for me--personally, right now, in this very moment and time--needs to be qualified, and such qualifiers are essential, not superfluous: I have run through puddles, torrential downpours, and 40 mph winds. I have run in frigid temperatures and snow. I have run with a shoulder / neck injury and with a sore throat and runny nose. I have run in spite of exhaustion. I am running because of my grief, because it is colder, more consuming and crippling than any Buffalo weather, muscle strain, or illness. I will not run away from grief, and I will certainly not be paralyzed by it. I am running through my grief, without stopping. Maybe someday I will just run--no qualifiers needed--but right now I am running for Bubba. And that kind of baggage alone is worth its weight in gold.

*Certain pronouns, namely each, either, neither, and any variation of one or body, are always singular, regardless of the phrase that may follow them. But if the object of the preposition that follows is plural, one may get confused and opt for a plural verb and referring pronoun. For example: Either of the students has his homework is correct. Of the students is “grammatical garbage,” a prep phrase whose object is students.  The subject of the sentence is Either, which is, again, always singular; so the writer should opt for a singular verb, has, and a singular pronoun (technically a possessive adjective), his.

Grief Pangs

Sometimes I am just minding my business, doing nothing in particular, and I will think of Bubba and cry. I don't even know precisely what it is I think of. I guess that's the thing. There is no thinking, really. There is just this massive void, and sometimes, out of nowhere, I feel it.  And, man oh man, does it hurt.

And then there are specific times and moments and occasions that make the grief more pronounced. Every time Grace turns in her high chair to look at Huan's pictures, for example. Every time I find myself asking her questions that I once asked him: "You hungry?" "Want to go for a walk?"  "Wanna go night-night?" And, likewise, every time I issue her a command: "Mama kiss.""Stay." "Sit." "Gentle." "Roll over." No, just kidding. She doesn't roll over, at least not on command. (Neither did Huan, incidentally. And I have never told either of them to roll over. Frankly, I think that's just a stupid waste of everyone's time and energy.) Sometimes, particularly when no one else is home, I expect to see him waiting for me when I walk in the door, and the surprise of his absence stings. Now that it's nice out, I miss walking with him, and I miss the eventuality of watching him pick apples from our trees in the backyard. Just the other day, David felt his own pangs of grief when he mowed the backyard lawn and Huan wasn't there with him, rolling around and scratching his back on the grass and running aimlessly, joyously--jowls flopping--with sticks (ok, logs) in mouth.  Just this past week, I had a bad day, and I cried because I was overwhelmed. And then I cried for Huan, because I thought of how much I would have loved to cuddle him, how he wouldn't have judged or made demands of me, how he would have been my one comfort. Every time I see his box of ashes, I ask myself, "How can a 200 lb. piece of my heart be reduced to THAT?" Every time I am around another dog who begs for food, pulls on its leash, jumps on people and bowls them over, is hyperactive, etc., I think of Huan, of how extraordinary he was, of how blessed I am that he was mine. I say the words, "He was a good dog" to people constantly. And I still tell Huan I love him pretty much every night before I go to bed and every morning when I wake up. I actually say the words aloud.

I miss my boy.

A Baby, a Birthday, and a Bubba

Grace celebrated her first birthday this past week! I cannot believe she is one year old. 

When I first thought about getting pregnant, I thought about how nice it would be for our future baby to have a relationship with Huan well into his or her toddler years. Although our baby didn't even get one full year with Huan, I know his life--however short--touched hers. We have pictures of Huan hanging on our kitchen walls behind Grace's high chair, for example; and when I feed her, she is constantly twisting and turning, trying to see him. She coos and squeals in excitement. Sometimes she cries. We can even ask her, "Where's Bubba?" and she will turn deliberately to look at his pictures. We never, ever taught her that. She did it the first time I asked her that question. I find that so touching--and so revealing. She doesn't have the words to tell me, but I know how much Huan must have meant to her and how much she must miss him.

Every one of my posts thus far has spoken to my relationship with Huan. Today's post is in honor of Grace's.

Maternity pants, specifically the elastic bands on them, give me the eebie jeebies the way snakes and spiders do to some people. But I had to include this picture because I love it so much. I am 37 weeks pregnant and FINALLY breaking the news to Huan that Grace is "in Mommy's belly." I think he took it well. David caught this moment on camera, unbeknownst to me at the time.

I am equally in love with this picture. It marks Huan's first official interaction with Grace. We had just gotten home from her one-week pediatrician appointment. She was in the living room, sleeping in her car seat. David left the house to run an errand, and I was in the kitchen preparing something to eat. When I came in to get her, this is what I saw.  This picture "speaks 1,000 words" about Huan and his heart.

This is the first time, but certainly not the last, that we laid Grace on Huan. For this particular "photo shoot," there  were at least fifteen shots total. We moved. Grace moved. Huan never moved--not once, not even when her foot ended up in his jowls and her hand in his eye.

It is like she is seeing him, really seeing him, for the very first time. : )

One of my friends said it best: "Such 'lil pals."

Hand holding

By this time in Grace's life, we never had to "stage" a picture. Huan and Grace developed their own relationship, independent of us. He often lay next to her when she played.

"He often lay next to her when she played": Exhibit B

"OK, I practiced my 'Roooooooooar,' but I am just not a convincing lion, despite my mane and size. Let's call it a day and smooch."

"So, what do you really think of Mom's jungle themed Halloween idea?"

I like this picture because it gives a good indication of the discrepancy in sizes...

and I like this picture because it shows the discrepancy doesn't matter, least of all to Grace.

This is one of the last pictures of my babies together.  It's technically not a "good" photo. I captured it with my cell phone, and the light is not conducive to a clear, "high quality" picture. But I think it's appropriately symbolic.

I make a living teaching and touting the power of words. Language is, after all, our primary mode of conveying meaning. But neither Grace nor Huan had the capacity to verbally qualify their relationship, and yet their relationship is seemingly all the more meaningful without words. Perhaps more accurately, its meaning and value derive from the type of beauty that exists and endures beyond words.

Sentimental (Boxes)

When my husband asks me what I want for holidays and special occasions, most recently for Mothers Day, I typically say, an "experience." Don't get me wrong. I like "things, " too, and have been spoiled with many of them. But I would rather have a picnic, a day at the zoo, a long drive with good coffee, great music, and stimulating conversation. Because experiences mean so much to me, I feel compelled to preserve them in some way. I kept a journal during my pregnancy, for example, to detail kicks, cravings, and the like, and am very diligent about recording my baby's milestones and taking her pictures. Every year, there is a special Christmas ornament that David and I pick out and purchase together that, ideally, reflects our year together in some way. There is this blog, which recounts my life with and love for Huan. And there are Sentimental Boxes.

Sentimental Boxes in the Diina home are very modest cardboard boxes that reside in the basement. I think the first I started was after David and I got married. I would have to rifle through its contents to recall in specificity everything that's in it. From what I remember, there is sand from our honeymoon, wedding cards, cards and notes David and I have written to each other, and the like. I still put things in it; or, rather, I often hand an item to David with the simple directive,"Sentimental"; and down to the basement he goes to store it. Once Grace was born, I started one for her. It includes cards from family, pictures, hand and foot clay imprints, her parents' first Mothers and Fathers Day cards to each other, her first birthday invite, her newborn hospital hat, etc. And when Bubba passed away, he got his very own box, too.

It stores the following:

• Huan's holiday attire: Halloween lions mane, Easter bandanna, Christmas antlers and bow;
• his leash, prong collar, and old cloth collar (more on his most recent cloth collar in a later post);
• grooming supplies: ear cleaner, toothbrush and paste, nail clippers;
• medicines: remaining heartworm and Glycoflex;
• treat jar (with remaining treats);
• his food and water bowls, as well as the measuring cups we used to scoop his food and a baggy containing 3 cups of food (enough for one meal);
• a note that hung above his food bowls in the kitchen with feeding instructions and important phone numbers for reference when my dad would come over to watch him;
• the last towel we used to wipe his muddy paws and drooly jowls;
• his two favorite Nyla-bones and the last rawhide he chewed on after a spa treatment;
• vaccination and neutering records;
• a baggy of Huan's baby teeth, at least whatever ones I found lying on our apartment floors seven years ago;
• a copy of my very first blog post, "Diina Dog Days: For the Love of Bubba";
• the pajama bottoms I wore the night Huan died in my arms, because they still have his hair and drool on them (maybe I will write about that day someday, but not today);
• a copy of a beautiful (and pretty impressive) Shakespearean sonnet my dad wrote in honor of Bubba after he passed away;
• all of the condolence cards friends and family sent.

I don't know that I will ever open Bubba's box again. What's important is that it's here, that his things reside in my home as much as he, himself, remains in my heart. Would some people say it's weird to save drooly pjs and partially eaten dog bones? Maybe. I don't care. I call it sentimental. 

Mastiff People

In my previous post, I spoke about my specific experiences with Huan in order to testify to universally agreed upon characteristics of the breed. What follows is a more personal account of why I, in particular, am so drawn to the Mastiff in general:

1.  I love all animals. I respect all dogs. But I am not a Poodle or Pomeranian person. At all. Those breeds are just not what I, personally, envision when I think of dog. (Connotations that immediately come to mind include pretty, prissy, pompous, the Paris Hiltons of the canine species.) I am also a person who operates in extremes. What is the complete antithesis of a Poodle and a Pomeranian? A Mastiff. Hands down.

2.  I am a fan of irony. Always have been. I lift some relatively heavy weights wearing bright pink Converse, for example. (And they have purple shoelaces.) It would stand to reason that I would gravitate toward the oxymoronic gentle giant--all the more so because I am 5 ft. nothing and about half its size.

3.  I am a spazz. Not in my interactions with people or beings who are in some way subordinate to or dependent on me, for example dogs, students, baby (because that would violate everything I actually believe about raising and rearing animals and kids), but in just about every other arena and aspect of life. I am constantly in a rush, though I am always early for everything. I drive a bazillion miles an hour and suffer from what could very well be a clinical case of road rage. I have post-it notes everywhere, including, God help me, on my cell phone (yes, there’s an app). I am constantly doing, moving, thinking, exercising. And Mastiffs, as I have already demonstrated, are remarkably and refreshingly mellow, so much so that one may feel inclined to check for a pulse every now and then. I’d like to think a Mastiff needs a little of me in its life as much as I need a little Mastiff in mine. OK, well the latter is definitely true.

4.  I am a go-big-or-go-home type of girl, and I am sure that’s no shocker at this point (see #1). I like a good challenge. And is there a bigger challenge than a relatively small female raising a giant breed of dog and raising him well? Here’s the thing: I loved Huan. He was my baby, my baby. BUT, let’s face it, he needed to know, from the get-go, who was boss. Again, by 7 months of age, he weighed what I weigh currently. Did we go to obedience school? Sure. Play groups for socialization? Yep. But I don’t believe in just conventional “training.” I believe in ways of being. To say I am a Cesar Milan disciple is both understated and partially inaccurate, insofar as I am borderline fanatical, but not exactly a follower. His philosophies and approach to dog rearing are spot-on-consistent with my natural personality and inclinations. In the human / dog relationship, I believe in packs and pack leaders. Consistency and firmness and calm assertiveness. Challenges and accountability. “Exercise, discipline, affection”…in that order. I believe in loving dogs but in treating them also as dogs. I believe we humans owe them that much, not designer handbags and cute sweaters. That’s not what they want or need. And if that’s all we afford them, or even primarily what we provide them, that, I think, is when people have problems with aggression, leash pulling, anxiety, food begging, and the like--problems that ostensibly appear to be the dog’s but really are, in fact, the owner’s. And when such problems manifest themselves in a small dog, well, many people deem them innocuous, even cute…“Awwww! Look at the little Cockapoo act like Cujo! How funny!” Cujo in a Mastiff, by mere virtue of its size, could never be deemed cute. Cujo in a Mastiff is fatal. Even that which would be considered benign behavior in smaller breed, like leash pulling, is dangerous in a giant breed. Granted, I think it unfair and ridiculous that people are more tolerant of inappropriate behavior in smaller breeds than they are in giant breeds—and I can guarantee that if I were ever to own a small dog I would raise him as if he were a Mastiff. But I will never own a small dog. Again, I like a challenge, one as big as a Mastiff itself.

My first Mastiff was Huan. He very well may be my last. I think about this often, actually. Will I ever have another dog? Could I get another Mastiff, or would that be a betrayal to Huan and his memory? How much of Huan was Huan? My influence? His breed, specifically? His species, generally? Yes, I am a Mastiff person. But I may be even more of a Bubba person. And there is and will always be only one of him. And he was peerless. Perfect.

Mastiffs

I always tell my students that it is entirely up to their discretion whether they lead their essays with their best argument or, instead, arrive at their most compelling point and close with the proverbial “bang.” I have to admit that I am traditionally a fan of the former, though I am going to opt for the latter this time and save the best for last.

Cons associated with the breed:

1.  They don’t live long. 8-12 years…or 6.

2.  They are HUGE. I don’t know much about females, but the average male weighs 180 lbs. I remember only three weights of Huan’s: 22 lbs. at 8 weeks old, 121 lbs. at 7 months old (that is what I weigh now as a 30-year-old adult…human), and 210 lbs. at his heaviest adult weight. Incidentally, he was by no means overweight at that size. Huan was structurally big. To demonstrate, his father weighed a solid 240 lbs.

I personally consider their size one of the breed’s greatest endearing attributes (more on that in a later post), but I can see how some might consider their size cumbersome. If I am being honest, a wagging Mastiff tail stings if you’re not braced for it.

3.  Cost. And, no, not just the initial cost of purchasing a Mastiff, though that’s a pretty hefty sum, too. Because they are so big, everything costs more. A LOT more. Food? Before we switched to holistic food, which is nutritiously more dense and also, incidentally, considerably more expensive than processed food, Huan was eating 13 cups a day. Prescription meds? We spent an entire summer seeing a dermatologist for a skin allergy, and I just can’t bear to say anymore about that, except that all of our costly visits culminated in one single and simple conclusion: that Huan needed to be on holistic food.  Standard neutering? Almost $1,000. And that was six years ago. Imagine 1.5 to 2 of you going in for surgery and anesthesia with no medical insurance. Yes, that’s about right.

4.  Slobber. Everywhere, including the ceilings.

5.  Shedding is considerable. I imagine the copious amount of hair correlates closely and positively with the colossal size frame from which it detaches.

6.  Hip problems, like dysplasia. I think Huan always was at least mildly dysplastic, but I had him on joint support supplements since he was five months old. (See con #3.)

7.  They snore, loudly. (To add insult to injury, they are difficult to wake when their snoring is actually interfering with human sleep. It was not uncommon to see a pillow fly across my bedroom in Huan’s direction at 2 A.M.) Oh, and they have a flatulence problem. Enough said.

8.  Temperament??? Apparently, some Mastiffs can be aggressive? Stubborn? Difficult to train? This was the furthest from my experience. In my estimation, these aren’t problems of Mastiffs; or if they are, they are secondary to problems of owners. (More on that in a later post.)

Now, the “best,” the “bang,” the pros associated with the breed:

1.  To say a Mastiff is sedentary is to say it snows in Buffalo sometimes. Mastiffs sleep about 19 hours a day; it snows in Buffalo about 19 months out of the year. A Mastiff will not be a jogging buddy, nor should he be due to his propensity for hip problems. But he will take daily walks and look forward to them. And, best of all, he won’t ever nag you to take them, or to do much of anything, like get up out of bed on any given morning. No lie: Huan would go to sleep with me around 10:00 P.M. and get up with me--which would sometimes entail me dragging him out of bed as if he were a lethargic teenager--around 6:00 A.M. I would feed him and let him out, at around which time David, who used to work from 7 P.M.-7A.M., would be getting home. And Huan would go back to bed with David until around 3:00 P.M., when I got home from work. (Incidentally, Huan slept most of the afternoon, too. He just changed venues.)

If you are looking for a Frisbee catcher, you likely see this as a con, and you should go get yourself a Border Collie. If you are looking for low maintenance, at least in the activity department, a Mastiff is the breed for you.

2.  Related to #1, a Mastiff, despite its size, actually needs very little space. Mastiffs can do quite well in an apartment, though I would argue it unwise, maybe even irresponsible, to force a Mastiff, who is, again, prone to hip problems, to contend with stairs every time he needs to go outside.  When I could no longer carry Huan up and down our apartment steps, we bought a house. A ranch, specifically.

3.  Protection. I don’t know that Huan was a “protector.” Luckily, he was never put to the test. I can tell you my breeder’s dog intuitively knew her son was being physically assaulted near their house, jumped through a closed glass door, tackled the assailants, and ended up with 40+ stitches. And I can tell you Huan looked and sounded quite intimidating when he needed to. If you have a dog, I know you know the alert look and stance I am referring to and the distinct bark reserved for strangers. Coming from a 200 lb. animal, well, let’s just say I once heard the newspaper man scream, “Holy sh**,” and saw him run away--with my paper.

By the same token, as soon as Huan recognized we didn’t deem someone a threat, ears down, gait relaxed, tail wagging.  Literally immediately. (And he would have approached and licked if we let him, but we always insisted on boundaries, and Huan always observed them.)

4.  Love. All dogs are wonderful companions who live as a part of their family’s pack. Mastiffs, though, I think, rank high on the list of breeds that form genuine and enduring attachments to their families. As I have said before, Huan would literally follow me around the house as I vacuumed, a large feat for a large dog. He didn’t like not being in the same room as I. He wasn’t neurotic or anything; he just genuinely enjoyed my company. That may also be why he spent so much time sleeping when David and I worked opposite schedules, not because he was tired, but because he wanted to be wherever we were, doing whatever we did.

And there were other little gestures and tendencies, too. My breeder told us the day we got Huan, for example, that Mastiffs were nose nibblers. It was a sign of affection. I truthfully dismissed it at the time. Sure enough, though, Huan nibbled noses, sooo very gently, although that was more a gesture reserved for David, right up until the end of Huan’s life, in fact.

There was also the famous Bubba Nuzzle, typically reserved for me. (“Bubba Nuzzle”=spontaneous gesture of affection marked by ginormous canine head tucked tightly in human’s chin-to-collarbone crevice at the risk of virtual suffocation.) Interestingly enough, David and I researched the breed after Huan passed (I think we were just longing for any way to remember him and feel close to him), and one site said Mastiffs often “ask for hugs.” Turns out Huan did, in fact, ask for hugs, multiple times a day, in the form of a nuzzle.

5.  Temperament. I think some of Huan’s disposition was attributable to my nurture (more on that in a later post), some to his nature as a dog, and some to his nature as a Mastiff, in particular. Granted, I have had no other experience with Mastiffs--well, except for Mango, the Cane Corso, which is not an English Mastiff, to whom I grew attached when I volunteered at the SPCA--but I know Mastiffs are often referred to as “gentle giants.” And Huan may have been the gentlest of them all. I would take multiple posed pictures of my newborn daughter lying all over his gigantic body—her feet would end up in his jowls, hands in eyes, entire body on windpipe, etc.—and he wouldn’t even flinch. He would lie patiently on the ground twice a month and let little old me clip his nails, clean his ears, and brush his teeth. And he wouldn’t even flinch. Huan was the epitome of gentleness and gentility, BIG time, and I suspect many Mastiffs are.

There are cat people, and there are dog people. I am a Mastiff people, through and through. No ifs, and, or buts about it. (More on that in a later post.)