So that is pretty much the end of this blog. I've some other projects on the horizon, probably still a few months away, which I'll link to from here when they're up and ready.

Once again, thank you all for reading and especially thank you all for caring and helping find homes for abandoned animals. You are all they have.

Nothing gold can stay

For the first few days after Stella's death, Rocky was confused with her absence. It wasn't until five or six days later that he perhaps realized she wasn't coming back and this manifested itself in some behavioural changes. The most obvious one was that he didn't want to leave my side. He was like a lost child, like when I first brought him home, following me where ever I went, from living room to kitchen to den to backyard, even to the washroom. It was much harder for him this time round, though, with his bad hips and having to heave himself up whenever I got up. I tried to make him stay put. "Don't get up. I'll be right back," I'd say but he did not believe me.

I wouldn't go so far as to say Rocky mourned Stella but he did miss having her around. She was his big sister in a lot of the more thrilling things they did around the house. Rocky's hearing and eyesight were not the greatest anymore so Stella was his ears and eyes. She would initiate and be his signal for barking and chasing all trespassing critters in the backyard or for greeting someone knocking at the door or for anticipating the approach of another dog. Things are more quiet around here now that Rocky has lost his partner in crime.

I'd been feeling a little guilty that I hadn't been spending as much time with Rocky the last few weeks. Rocky's world was becoming smaller. He was going from his inside bed to his outside bed to the patch of artificial grass and there were a few short walks around the neighbourhood thrown in.

At eleven or twelve, he's getting old for a Doberman. He's got multiple lumps and bumps and a few small ulcers and cysts. He's got chronic hepatitis and his hips and hind legs are getting weaker. A couple of times, he exerted himself so hard trying to get up out of bed, he pushed out a hard, round turd. He's stoic, though. He puts his head down and soldiers on.

Here's something strange. Rocky picked up some habits Stella used to have. For example, whenever I came inside from the backyard before Stella felt ready to come in, she'd sit on the patch of artificial grass half way down the yard and bark once or twice at me to go back out and join her. She'd bark and then stare at the sliding patio door, hoping I'd do as she wished. This was her thing, not Rocky's. He never barked at me but now I find him lying on the grassy patch, staring at the sliding patio door, and uttering a bark and waiting - for me or for Stella, I'm not sure.

Rocky's also started staring at flies, like Stella used to stare at bees. Last night, he stared at a fly crawling on the floor in front of his feet and then he got up when the fly took off and he snapped at it. First time he's ever done that, at least that I've seen.

With Stella gone, I've tried to do some rearranging in the house. I moved Rocky's eating station to where Stella's used to be. He didn't like that. The first few meals, he didn't want to eat the food. He had no problems stealing Stella's food when she was around but now that she's gone ... I don't know what it is. I don't know why he won't eat where she used to eat. It's like he's keeping her seat at the table, doesn't want to displace it in case she comes back. Is this respect, guilt, honour? Are these reasons even possible or is it just over anthropomorphizing on my part?

Regardless, I know that in his own way he feels her loss, as do I.

Stella was a big presence around the house. Big personality but big physically as well. At 130 pounds, losing her was like losing a person. The night after her death, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the large tan coloured doggy bed out of the corner of her eye and it made her jump because she thought it was Stella come back.

I started washing Stella's laundry a few days later and with each piece of bedding or clothing I threw in the washer, it felt like I was losing a bit more of her. When I washed out her dog food bowl, it felt like I was losing her. When I put away her toys, it felt like I was losing her. Her leash and collar, I haven't put away yet, nor her favorite hole covered (care of Rocky) blanket which she used to suckle on to soothe herself. And there is a small clear plastic sandwich bag with a tuft of her fur in it. I asked the vet to snip some off that last night.

I'll always regret having her euthanized at the emergency clinic. I wanted to have it done at home but her heart went into a relentless arrhythmic tachychardia on Saturday night and she could not catch her breath with the fluid building up in her lungs. The drugs no longer helped her and I couldn't force her to suffer through the weekend on the slim chance of a traveling vet doing a home euth on Monday.

Stella was so scared at the clinic. They had taken her away to examine her and when they brought her back into the room, after the vet had explained the situation and after we decided to end her suffering, after we knew what we were about to do, they brought her back into the room and as soon as she saw me she wagged her tail and relief and joy lit up her face.

I told myself then as I tell myself now, that what we were about to do was for the best. I didn't want to wait until Stella was choking and gasping and turning blue. Still, I wish I could have given her a better death, one not so full of trauma, being poked and prodded by strangers in a sterile metal room on a cold hard floor. I felt like I was betraying her, as she would never have betrayed me, and I felt I was giving up on her, as she would never have given up on me. She was so happy to see me, hoping that maybe we could go home now, even as the vet pushed in the syringe. And then in her eyes, I could see it, a sudden change, an absolute realization that something was wrong that something terrible was engulfing her, and I know she would have raged against it if she could but she could not and I held her as she died and I knelt over her and wept because I could not save her, because she trusted me and I could not save her.



In the last few weeks of Stella's life, for a few minutes every night just before sleep, we used to stand on the patio looking into the dark of the backyard, Stella beside me on one side and Rocky on the other. Rocky with his old hips would usually leave first to go back inside to fall into the comfort of his bed leaving Stella and I alone to contemplate our respective thoughts.

I recently read a quote by some famous author who wrote that pets bring death into one's home. As I stood beside Stella, I remembered her as she once was, young and vital, and now, so suddenly it seemed, gray muzzled and fragile, her heart tired, and I understood that the author of the quote was right. My pets would bring death into my home. Staring into the darkness of the backyard, I saw the wide open maw of insatiable nothingness and I knew I wasn't going to be able to avoid it this time. Stella, beside me, her breath heavy even though it was a cool night - she would bring death into my home, and as she peered into the same darkness, I wondered if there was there an awareness of that on her own part, of her own life dwindling.

Our pets bring death into our homes and that is their final gift to us. As we spend more and more time in an infinite and ever expanding, disassociated virtual world, our pets bring back an understanding of our corporeal selves. I see my mortality because of the mortality of my pets. They will end. I will end. All life ends. If we are smart about it, at least as smart as our canine companions, death will be an exclamation mark at the end of our lives to say, Look, our lives were precious and amazing and worth every moment. Certainly, Stella's life was precious to me and amazing to me and having her in my life was worth every moment.

Every night, standing on the patio, peering into the darkness, Stella leaned into me and I put my hand on her head and tried to seal the memory of that touch into my palm. We stared into the darkness, then turning away from the darkness, we walked back into the light of our home.

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Stella
July 2002 - June 26, 2010

On Friday morning, at the end of her walk, Stella stopped just outside the entrance to our front yard, not wanting to go in yet, and looked up the street. She just stood there and looked and I thought she smelled something and so I motioned for her to go follow her nose but she did not. She just stood and looked, seeing something I could not.

On Friday night, Elizabeth told me that Stella dreamed of running.

On Saturday morning, I told my mother who was finally fully awake from her surgery the day before that the doctors had found that the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes so she would very likely have to go through chemo.

On Saturday afternoon, I watched on TV as they smashed windows and burned up our Toronto streets.

On Saturday night, Stella's heart beat like a butterfly and could not be restrained any longer but Stella did not understand. I held her when the vet injected her with the first needle and she looked at me and asked me what was happening to her. I could not give her an answer so I kissed her on her furrowed brow. Then she leaned into my arms and I lay her down.

All dogs dream of running even when they can no longer run.

My Stella is gone.

For now I am done here.

Thank you all for reading and being with us these few years. I can't express my gratitude to you enough.

Bahadur

(from Cathrine in Bangladesh)

This is a story without pictures. It is a story about why it is a story without pictures. Who says dogs can't be as postmodern as humans?

Bahadur means "The Strongest". It is the name of the 50 kilo street dog who dominates the canine population at Tongi Market. Imagine a a cross between a doberman, a pit bull and a grizzly, and you've got Bahadur. The colours are all doberman, except for four white socks.

Despite his appearance, Bahadur is gentle, friendly, quiet, and very popular with the villagers. So there was outrage when he turned up with a serious wound at the base of his spine clearly inflicted by a human tool, probably an axe. The outrage reached Ali, and he went to have a look. In tears, he called for backup. the wound was infected and full of maggots. This dog would die without expensive treatment. Could someone fund the treatment?

So Bahadur got cleaned, disinfected, sterilised (by popular request -- the villagers agreed he had enough puppies, thank you!), stitched and vaccinated. Then he came to the Residence for recuperation. Since he was really groggy, I thought I'd leave the portrait until he was more alert.

Bahadur alert is not a dog one can photograph. Bahadur alert is a huge street dog who has a low boredom threshold and wants to go home!

Like all Bangali street dogs, he eats bamboo. He also eats chicken wire, sofas, end tables, and doors. I am not making this up! He can demolish an Elizabeth collar in five minutes, and an adapted metal waste basket replacement in under half an hour. He shows a remarkable grasp of practical physics, including the principles of leverage, friction and inertia.

Bahadur demolished the kennel, the staff room furniture, most of the staff room, and ate three of the locks on our very expensive IATA approved travel crate, which just happened to be stored in the area. He also sprained my wrist and pulled a couple of muscles in local staff who were trying to help me move him when he did not want to be moved.

Clearly, a High Commission designed to resist rampaging mobs and the wiles of potential terrorists is no match for one determined street dog. Today, Bahadur and his medical kit and food supply went to spend the rest of his recuperation at Ali's house, which happens to have 3 meter high solid brick and mortar walls that are a meter thick, and a metal gate that reaches right down to the cement courtyard.

It is enough to contain Rani, two cats, a chicken and two goats: insh'allah, it should be enough to contain Bahadur, because he needs treatment for the next month. If it isn't, we are going to have to distribute Povisep disinfectant and clean rags to everyone in Tongi, and tell them to clean the wound whenever Bahadur turns up for his handouts.

That, at least, will work: nothing but nothing distracts a Bangali street dog from his food!

Toronto Animal Services South closed for G20

Closed June 25 - June 27

Toronto Animal Services dog photos Jun 19

Cocoa - Brown Labrador Retriever

Unnamed Beagle

Unnamed Beagle

Unnamed Labrador Shepherd cross

For adoption information on these and other dogs (and cats and other animals), please visit Toronto Animal Services.

Breathless

It used to be when I woke up in the middle of night, I'd toss and turn a while but then fall back to sleep. Now, in darkness, I lay still in bed and I listen for the sound of Stella breathing.

A soft, rhythmic hush of air, one breath every 3 seconds, no faster, eases my anxieties and as anxieties fade, sleep returns. For a while at least, I know Stella is comfortable, her lungs not filled with fluid. Anything faster, sharper, raspier immediately sets me on edge and I wait and pray for the breathing to slow down, hoping perhaps a dream is the cause of her rapid breath. But if it does not slow down, if it starts to sound like panting, then I get up and go downstairs and I prepare the pills, the furosemide, a diuretic which will dry out her lungs but eventually ruin her kidneys. Dilated cardiomyopathy is an illness of her heart but it is the fluid build up in her lungs which give her the most grief.

I take out a cube of raw beef, about an inch square and I cut a slit through the center. I jam the pills inside the meat. I feed the meat to Stella and she gobbles it down and I feel like I am feeding her poison but within an hour, her breathing is good again and my anxieties are pushed back.

Sometimes listening in the dark, I can't tell if the breathing I hear is coming from Rocky or Stella. Then I have to sit up to better discern from which direction the sound is coming. If Rocky yelps, whines or groans that is fine. He is an active dreamer more conversant in sleep than awake.

Such noises coming from Stella, though, tells me she is in discomfort. She has, until recently, been a mostly silent sleeper. If she groans and rolls about, it's because she's having a hard time finding a position which allows her to breathe properly. She likes to sleep on her side but it's often bad on her side and so she has to force herself into a sphinx position. She has a hard time balancing in that pose, tilting over to one side or the other. I imagine it's the equivalent of a person trying to sleep sitting up in a chair without arms.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw her in her sphinx pose, drifting off. Her head came down, eyes closed and she slowly rolled over onto her side. Her breathing started to increase rapidly and then suddenly she was panicking when she realized she was getting no air. I could see a moment of terror in her eyes as she startled up and coughed and inhaled big lungfuls of air.

Stella grumbles and I go over to her, checking her pulse, counting her breaths. She knows this is how things work now so sometimes she plays it up, grumbling when she wants attention. She'll look straight at me, breathing fine, and she'll grumble. If I don't move, she grumbles louder and longer and with more urgency. Almost always by the third grumble, my will power is gone and I am consoling her just in case there actually is discomfort. I guess she figures she may as well milk it.

Every week it progresses. The noises she makes could fill a melodramatic thespian's reportoire. There are high and low grunts. Extended groans of increasing then diminishing loudness. Sometimes there are sighs, long and so melancholic she is like an old woman remembering the better days of her youth.

There have been some bad days, especially at first when I over exerted her on a walk or when she spit out a couple of the pills without me noticing. Those two times resulted in panting, almost gasping and anxious visits to the cardiologist. Now she is on a more even keel. The dosing is appropriate. She only gets short walks. I try to make sure she doesn't get over excited.

This has unfortunately meant that we aren't able to continue with her tour of Toronto sites but it does mean much more time lounging in the backyard and that is perhaps just as well appreciated by her.

Day to day, the hardest thing to deal with is the amount of peeing Stella does because of the diuretics. She was spayed too young so she is incontinent as well and the incontinence seems to be getting worse. I don't want her lying in her own piss and I'm wary about using diapers because of possible infections so it comes down to getting her to go out every 3 or 4 hours or more. That means coming home from work twice during the day and waking up twice during the night.

She doesn't appreciate me rousing her up at 3 in the morning to go into the backyard. Who would? Then we stand around and I say, "Go pee," and she looks at me like I'm an asshole for making her do this at that ridiculous hour and then finally she goes and pees. She is a good sport.

Coming home from work twice a day has been fine up until now as work was only 5 minutes away but as of next week, work has moved much further away so I'm in the process of finding a dog walker to come by to give her the meds in the afternoon. It's a big stress trying to find the right one. I will be leaving her life literally in some stranger's hands.

So, life around here has changed. I've never had to deal with something like this before and while I would never begrudge Stella anything, it is, admittedly, draining and perhaps more so because I know the outcome will not be a positive one. Well, no, I'm thinking about it wrong. The outcome is her everyday well-being and that is what I am working at but the final outcome ... well, that is intransigent.

I wonder to myself, when the time comes, how it can happen. How can something - this life - be there one moment and then not be there the next especially when the vessel holding it will have hardly changed from that one moment to the next. Life doesn't make sense and death makes even less sense. Why doesn't life just continue?

There are moments when I lie awake listening to Stella breathing, I wish, like most pet owners I know, that when the time comes, she goes to sleep and just never wakes up. Then I'll know she was meant to go, that her life chose to move on of its on volition. Then I won't have to make the phone call for the vet to come over and wait with her while she is in some sort of agony. Then answering the door to let the vet in will be like inviting in the grim reaper and bringing the vet over to Stella and preparing Stella for the injections and saying goodbye and not knowing when to stop saying goodbye and when to finally let go. How will I know the right moment to say to the vet that it is time? I can only imagine that at the end, every second will be gold and how will I know when exactly to let go? How can I choose the last moment which will define her life and every moment after which will define life without her?

This is hard.

Right now, looking at her asleep, she is breathing well with maybe a slight tremor of her back leg from a dream she is having. She is breathing well and that is what I hold onto.