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.) 

I. Lessons Born of Loss

A. Forgiveness

     On the Wednesday before Huan died, I felt myself getting sick. I was tired. It was late. I let him out, and he wouldn't come back in. He was just standing there, staring at me. I stormed outside in the cold. Angry. Teeth clenched. I scolded him, though I don't even remember what I said. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled so hard that it slipped right over his head. And he was afraid. Truly afraid, probably all the more so because he wasn't really there--diminished mental capacity, sight, hearing, overall awareness.  Not only was he not staring at me, it's very likely that he didn't even see me. And I, the one person who was supposed to love and protect him, scared him when he was his most vulnerable and weak.  And three days later, he died in my arms.

The thing is, I can't even plead, "Hindsight is 20/20." In my very first post on this blog, I said how sorry I was for being impatient with him when he was healthy. And here he was sick, dying for months--I knew it was only a matter of time--and I did it again.  Granted, I didn't know how bad it really was at that moment. But I should have known he wasn't being defiant because he would never be. More importantly, I had the hindsight of regret and the foresight of his death, and I still managed screw it up. I think this is what my sophomores would refer to as "epic fail."

This scenario has played over and over again in my head since he passed away.  I just keep confessing it, first to friends and now on the worldwide web, waiting for some kind of absolution. And everyone, including my husband, has told me, "You're only human...people make mistakes...what counts is the love you gave him over the years...Huan forgave you." But no one can absolve me of this one, least of all Huan. I need to learn to forgive myself. This one is a work in progress.

B. Empathy

      Since I lost Huan, there are acquaintances who I know have read my blog and/or know of his death from Facebook postings. And they have said nothing, haven't acknowledged his passing in any way. No private messages, texts, emails. Nothing. And then there are people whom I consider friends--some of them good friends. Some of them have offered only superficial, seemingly obligatory and contrived words of comfort. Others have said absolutely nothing, even when in a context where one would think them compelled to say something. I know I asked people to refrain from public consolatory gestures, particularly at work, but there are private forums, arenas, opportunities. I  am, honestly, saddened--even angered--by the seeming indifference. Am I entitled? Yes, I think so. I really do.

     Atticus Finch says, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." I have to think that people are either a) unable to "climb into my skin" (e.g. "He was just a dog") and/or b) unwilling to do so because it is uncomfortable and awkward.

     I swear, swear, that I will not be one of these people because I know how much these people have hurt me. If someone--whether he be a Facebook friend or best friend--loses someone he loves--whether it be a hamster or a husband--I will say something from now on. Even if I risk saying the wrong thing, and even if it makes me uncomfortable to do so, I will do my best to show support, to empathize, to climb in others' skin and walk around in it.

C.  Appreciation

     For as many people who did nothing, there are triple as many who did all sorts of wonderful somethings. One friend sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Another sent me my first Pandora charm, the letter "H." There have been condolence cards in the mail every day, even from the most unexpected places and sources. There have been private messages and public words of comfort, like this one, which I must have read hundreds of times:


"I know that lots of people in the world have pets, but not every pet owner has the kind of bond that you have with Huan.

And I know that Huan is extraordinary. His spirit is clear in your words, in your pictures, and in his face.

But I also know that the bond you have with him is not merely a consequence of his extraordinary spirit. That bond is also a consequence of your spirit, of your extraordinary ability to open your home and life to welcome him. Whatever goodness he possesses is equally present in you, and it does and will endure in you, because it was genuinely part of you all along."


Or this one:

"I have never had a dog, but I still relate completely to the grief that you are feeling. It is real. The love that you and Huan have for each other is unconditional--in many ways, it is probably less complicated than any other love you've ever felt. How could you not miss that with your whole heart and soul?"


I am so grateful for such beautiful gestures, words, and people. I swear I would be a bawling heap on the floor right now if it weren't for them.

And then, of course, there is David. I could have never anticipated how much David would grieve the loss of Huan.  (David has always loved Huan, but Huan always was a true "Mama's boy.") And I never could have anticipated how much I would need to share the experience of grieving with him.  David has cried with me, just about every day since Huan died.  He has spent hours sorting through pictures with me, making 62 trips to Target to purchase the perfect frames with me, watching videos of healthy Huan with me, etc. I am so grateful to not have to go through this alone.

I am also grateful for David's selflessness, always, but especially now. In the midst of his own tears and utter devastation, he has told me how sorry he is for me.  He has held me and loved me and told me every day how proud he is of me. (If you know me and know of my relationship with Huan, you probably count yourself among those who thought I would be committed by now; basic day-today-functioning, then, is something to celebrate.) David works 12-20 hour shifts almost every day, and every day he still manages to show me I am his first priority. And, despite the fact that he is so overextended, he happily does things to make my life easier and my grief more manageable. Our cat, for example, has this rare mouth problem, which has taken a backseat to Huan's issues these past few months. He needs to be seen by the vet who used to treat Huan before Huan began treatment with my cousins. I can't bear the thought of telling the old vet that Huan is gone, so David-- in between work and school, and work and school, and work and school and a little bit of sleep--is going to assume the emotional burden so that I don't have to. David is the best thing that ever happened to me. I always knew that, but losing Bubba afforded me a friendly reminder to not take his goodness for granted. And for that--and always for David--I am grateful.

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One of my friends, in response to my confession referenced in letter A, told me I needed to "live, love, and learn." This is me trying.