February 24, 2025

Solstice Sleeping: Dogs Softly Breathing of Home

December 23, 2011 by

I awaken in the night and hear it. Silence. I wait for more. It comes. I smile.

I hear the dogs breathing softly in the night. Now, in the longest, darkest time of the year, I awaken in the still, silent night and hear only my dogs’ relaxed breathing. I smile. It’s comforting. Peaceful.

My dogs snore of home.

I can tell them by their breathing. Murphy, my delicate, mild-mannered oh-so-polite aging girl, snores like the proverbial lumber jack. Only, size for size, decibels louder. First time I heard it, she had just come home to live with me, and I leaped out of bed, sure we were being invaded. Over 13 years later, each time a snort startles me, I know the invasion was successful, and smile.

Sometimes, most times, she breathes with soft, gentle sighs. Other times I rest a hand lightly on her back, to make sure she’s still there. She’ll rouse and snuggle up, and we’ll go back to sleep in the cold dark night, back to back, butt to butt.

I used to wonder, way back when, if I could ever love this puppy who was not my beloved, long-lost English Cocker, if we could ever fit. We were strangers, but it didn’t take long for love to settle in my heart. Her snorts, her relaxed sleep, remind me.

Now, as I hear her soft breathing, I know that love, home, settled deep in hers. In theirs. Because all my animals sleep well, comforted in their safety. Knowing we are family. We are together. They do not have to be on guard. They can let down. They can breathe softly in the night.

Love created space to sleep.

Alki, my raucous ten-year-old boy, is rambunctious by day, soft murmuring dreamer by night. His breath whispers of deep dreams, contentment, secure and relaxed and deeply resting in his secured spot in bed. Storing up for daytime mischief.

I smile in the night.

Sure, I poke Murphy sometimes when her snoring shakes me out of mine. She’ll start to grumble but is asleep at the next twitch. Alki’s soft breathy lullaby ripples mildly.

I never hear Grace the Cat breathing. No snuffles from her cat perch above my desk, no soft snores from her Snuggly Safed bed at night. She’s there. Just can’t hear her. She’ll prowl the night, inspect us, snuggle.

Suspended in darkness, I am awake, happy, content. They are here, content with me. Species mingled, personalities meshed, family.

In the heart of a 21st-century city the only sound in the deep night is a 21st-century family, sleeping the human-animal bond.

Soft breathing, counterpoint. Pause. Rhythmic.

Life resting before dawn.

How did it come to this? How did so many years go by before contentment settled so easily on me?

But it did. We’re family. Here. Now. Content. Woman, cat, dogs.

Murphy snuggles closer. Alki is still, soft swoosh rising. Grace the Cat burrows deep.

I hear the dogs softly breathing.

Yes, they snore of home. Of love.

I smile.

All is well.

I am home. We are home.

We are family.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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Animal Communication: On Being Frankly at Home with Animals

December 14, 2011 by

Living with anyone, especially yourself, can be irritating. You have grand illusions about being saintly, or at least perfect, but reality doesn’t seem to work like that.

So you need a sense of humor, especially if you’re living with me. I’m lucky that my two Cavaliers, Murphy and Alki, and Grace the Cat know how to laugh.

I love my kids, my beautiful multi-species family. They are living reminders of what it takes to live the human-animal bond. They love me, or do a really good job of faking it. I appreciate that. Makes me feel good. Illusions and all that. (I mean, really, can all your foibles be loved all the time?)

Sometimes my kids irritate me. They’re not perfect and that can make me impatient. Or at least exasperated. When their bad habits annoy me, they simply annoy me, even though I stop to think that my bad habits annoy them.

Take my Cavalier boy, Alki. He’s slowed down a bit, but he still has a lot of energy—to chase and eat a stick, track gull poop right off the seawall, eat whatever he can as quickly as he can, roll in muck, bark at anything he feels like … and gulp water just before bedtime.

One night I stomped into the kitchen, yelling at him to quit drinking. He finally stopped.

I was annoyed, since this happens almost every night. They need water, but he can overdo it and barf it (I know, I know, don’t preach about this), and it’s just not thinking. (I know he can think, he proves it all day long. He’s also really good at just doing whatever he wants because he doesn’t think hard enough, one of his bad habits.)

So, I was yelling at him to stop. I grumbled, “You just can’t help yourself, can you? You do everything in excess.”

Alki paused to consider that as he walked away from the water bowl. “Well,” he said deliberately. “I don’t get enough to eat.”

I had to laugh. When you can talk with animals and other beings like I can, you’re privileged to hear exactly what they think, and follow the reasoning process. Alki heard me complain about his tendency to do things in excess, and he went right to the heart of the matter: his favorite thing is to eat, and he doesn’t get to eat in excess. Plus he was being cheerful and logical even while being scolded.

How many of us are like that with the humans in our lives? Or our animals?

I had to stop and marvel at the mind in this dog body. The magnificent dog who chose to be part of my family. Even with my faults. Who is more patient with me than I am with him, and is thus a living example of light and love.

Nope, my multi-species family isn’t perfect. Neither am I. The human-animal bond stretches to accommodate that, if we let it. If we listen, we can hear our family, whatever the species, remind us of that. It makes life worth it. And fun.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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(Not) Meowing for Mizuna: Exploring Greens with Dogs (and a Cat)

November 18, 2011 by

Cooking is a skill I apparently lost with menopause—and only miss when I’m hungry.

I used to be a great cook. When I say this to friends they always pause, clearly deciding between laughing at what they presumed to be a joke or at what I’d cook, which wouldn’t be. It doesn’t stop me from offering to cook for them. I watch their eyes widen in surprise, and I’m thoroughly delighted when they say something like they just want to spend time with me.

And show up with Thai food. This is called ‘everybody scores.’

I do cook. Just ask my dogs, Murphy and Alki. They think I’m a great cook and take food cues from me: as a team we have wide-ranging tastes and low standards. If it comes out of the fridge if must be good, or else why would it be in there? The cookie jar is a given. We’ll eat our veggies, but never stop hoping for brownies. Or anything with peanut butter.

That’s how I know the dogs and I are related.

Grace the Cat, I’m not so sure about. She’s so smug about being right about everything that she takes convincing. Plus she’s fastidious and skeptical. As it turns out, these are all qualities that I need to rely on, since my cooking skills headed south with my boobs.

I learned this accidentally at the weekly Farmers’ Market in West Seattle. Almost every week I load up on great foods, all the vegetables and fruits you could want, and then some. Problem is, I’ve discovered things I didn’t know existed, and most often can’t figure out how to cook. The farmers are kind and patient, but it’s clear they think I’m an idiot and are just too polite to say so.

Take, for example, pea shoots. I love pea shoots. I have no idea what they are, except pea shoots, but we love them at our house, all of us, even the cat. We’re even doing a video starring pea shoots. Now, the dogs always come running when I come through the door with food, but if I say, “Pea shoots!” then Grace the Cat leaps up from her normal out cold snooze and races to hold down the kitchen counter while supervising grocery unloading.

You hold up a pea shoot and she perks up, meowing. No obstacle is too great as she promptly hunts it down: grocery bags, stuff on the counter, nothing stops her. If I offer pea shoots to the dogs (who are politely waiting on the floor only because they can’t reach the counter), Grace the Cat backflips onto the floor and bulldozes right through them. You’d think that for her, a pea shoot is, well, the fashionable cat’s mouse.

So you can imagine my surprise the day I decided to cook that week’s bounty of pea shoots.

I yanked them out of the fridge with a dramatic flourish and waved them at Grace the Cat. “Pea shoots for dinner,” I announced, grinning at her.

She stared right through them at me. Unrelenting disapproval. Stern outright disbelief.

“What’s your problem?” I asked. “You love pea shoots!”

She didn’t move. Just glared. I stuck them under her nose. She continued to glare at me as she strategically moved her head back.

I looked at the pea shoots. “Well, they do look different this week.” Yes, kind of like an entire species different, but I wasn’t going to say that.

Grace the Cat looked at me like I was an idiot. She is no fool. She knows when something is a pea shoot. And when it is not. Still they had to be eaten.

I tried the dogs next. They examined the suspect pea shoots with long, strained faces and then looked at me like I’d done something embarrassing and disappointing to their tummies.

“Lot you know,” I sniffed. “I admit they look a little weird.” I hesitated, but I’m thrifty and I’d bought them so I’d eat them.

Unless I could pawn them off on the cat. I waved them at her again. Nope.

I cooked those suckers for two dinners. Both were miserable: the suspect pea shoots were lank, bitter, limp, and tough, like spinach gone off the deep end. I sighed and ate it. Both nights the dogs and cat completely avoided me. I thought about how they just didn’t like pea shoots anymore, and about how right they were. They’d known something about that batch that I didn’t.

That weekend at the Farmers’ Market I stopped at my favorite greens vendor. Spring, you know, time for good things.

I stared down at duplicates of the pea shoots I’d suffered through. “What is that stuff?” I asked. “I thought it was pea shoots.”

“Mizuna,” she said, patiently. I think she flinches when she see me coming, but she’s always nice, and I always buy. Not sure what, apparently.

“Mi what ah?” I asked.

“Mizuna. It’s a green.”

“Well, I know that,” I said. It was green. Now, how to ‘fess up with the least embarrassment. “Should you cook it?” I asked innocently.

Shocked, she said in a strained voice, “Oh, don’t do that. Cooking makes it limp. And bitter.”

I giggled. For once the bad food wasn’t my cooking. It was mi what ah. I knew I shouldn’t have cooked it, but I’m not much of a predator, and I just didn’t know if it would fight back harder if I tried to eat it raw.

 “I noticed that,” I said. “I sort of accidentally cooked it.”

She was shocked, like nobody could be that dumb. She was also disappointed in me. Like Grace the Cat in her stoic cat way.

 “Oh, you shouldn’t do that,” the farmer said.

Good words to hear before I’d suffered through two miserable dinners.

Thing is, I wouldn’t have had to hear them if I’d just paid attention to my kids. The dogs, that goofy cat, they knew.

So now I’m a reformed shopper at the West Seattle Farmers’ Market. The vendors tend to explain things to me as they’re putting them in my bag: this is pea shoots, this is spinach, whatever. People in line shake their heads and sigh. But at least I get home safely. With food we kind of know how to eat.

Food that gets vetted by Grace the Cat.

Which is why I’m sticking to things the cat likes. Pea sprouts (certified by the farmer). Meat. Blueberry muffins. Cheese doodles. Salad. Corn bread, even though mine is more skanky than home on the range.

Because I guess I hit menopause and I’m not so home on the range. But there’s this cool grass I grow on the deck for the kids. They love it, so it must be good. Don’t have to cook it. Cool.

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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The Not So Crazy Things We Do for Our Animals

November 7, 2011 by

Here I’d been thinking I was just a bit off. And, as usual, not regretting it a bit.

When I think about being a bit off, I understand that I’m more off than normal. At least that’s what some people tell me, because I’m making a living in partnership with a crystal ball (literally). I did, however, think that I might just be the only person out there who bought a home, and a car, for my animal family.

Thanks to Yvonne DiVita over at BlogPaws I discovered a funky website called Daily Infographic. Where I discovered, in “20 Facts about Pet Ownership,” that I am in the minority but not all alone out there, doing whatever makes sense for my multi-species family.

See Item 7: “16% of dog owners and 14% of cat owners say they bought a home or a car with a pet in mind.” That includes me.

Even back when I didn’t have an animal family.

Back in 1998 I decided I wanted a dog again in my life, after grieving for my beloved English Cocker, Maggie, for 12 years. My landlord wouldn’t allow pets, so I bought a condo. A few months later an irrepressible, goofy Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Murphy Brown, came home to live with me.

Thirteen years later we’re both still here, aging together. We’ve been joined by another Cavalier, my goofy boy, Alki, and Grace the Cat.

The  condo wasn’t the only thing I bought. By the time Grace the Cat came along 8 years ago it was clear we had car issues. The fancy Audi I’d bought to drive long distances to visit my nephews was impractical. I needed a family car: something easy to get into and out of with two dogs and a cat in tow.

The Audi went and a Toyota Matrix came. It’s a whole lot easier to get around in. Especially with the animals in tow.

And the condo? I love our condo. My multi-species family loves it. I planned for it to be a place where kids and dogs could come and go while enjoying the beach in our salty, sandy Seattle beach neighborhood. It worked really well for that. What I didn’t count on was the most obvious of all—my animals would age.

The human-animal bond is a strange and wonderful thing. Trying to live a thoughtful life is tough enough alone. Adding animals to the mix can be devastating. I wouldn’t trade it for a life without them, but I can’t sugarcoat it.

That’s where we’ve become our own strange statistic. Not surprising, really, considering the things we’ve shared, from past lives to a cherry addiction.

And a new, tough thing. Murphy and I share a gruesome arthritis: our futures our written in our spines.

It means we need a home where we don’t have stairs. I can do them okay for now, but it’s hard to carry things. Like groceries and handicapped dogs. As I watch Murphy gamely do the stairs, and Alki begin to hurt as well, I see time running out.

It means we’ll have to leave the home I bought for us to live in.

I love our home. My work means that I talk with all life. Our home, Frank, is a real living being, an active presence in our lives and our work. But we’ll have to leave him behind.

People say: “Really? You’d give up your home for a 13-year-old dog?”

To which I say, “Well, wouldn’t you?”

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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The Worst Part About Living with Animals

October 22, 2011 by

I was out with the dogs, scooping poop as we meandered down the street.

The man carefully negotiated the turn on his motorbike and headed up the street toward us. He saw me bagging poop and, with a sympathetic grin, said, “That has to be the worst part of the job.”

 “Not even close,” I laughed.

But he got me thinking.

What is the worst thing about living with animals, about living the human-animal bond, about living life as a multi-species families?

Having a migraine and dealing with upset dog tummies in the middle of the night—in a driving rainstorm?

Preparing food when you’re tired?

Baths and grooming?

The medical bills? Or the worry that caused them in the first place?

What it feels like to see the want and need for attention on their faces, and you’re too busy to give it?

Nope, none of those things.

The worst part of living with animals is aging.

Sure, the dying part won’t be a picnic. It will be sad, even if it’s a relief because it’s time (if it is), and I’ll cry a lot and want do-overs. I’ll cry because I’m sentimental and I love them and will miss them. I’ll cry when I think of all the times when I could have been a better friend, even though I know those times start when you’re about 2 and just multiply over the years. And zip by in light-years when you’re living the human-animal bond.

But really, aging is the worst part.

A lot of people give up when frailty strikes an animal companion. Old animals get abandoned. They’re too much work, or people can’t face their own mortality while helping a loved one with theirs. Or the bills are too big. Or they simply can’t accommodate their needs. Sometimes aging isn’t an option because death sneaks up on us.

Most of us stick with our aging animals because we won’t imagine anything else. Because they’re family, a special family: a multi-species one. Because it’s a choice, and not just ours: because our animals choose to grow old, just as we do, and we honor that choice. We watch aging as it happens, and every day our hearts break a little bit more, because we’re enjoying their old age with them, but the days keep slipping by.

I remember when Murphy was a puppy, a goofy high-spirited romper who dug holes bigger than she is and barked all the way down them to China. Now she’s 13, her head twitches a bit at night, the hind end is a bit stiff, the arthritis ripples down her back, and a good long nap, yummy treats, and a few short trips with sniffs are about her speed. Mine, too, really. Oh, yeah, she romps quite a bit, because truth is, she’s 13 going on, oh, about 10.

Now Alki is 10, gray-eared and missing a few teeth, a bit sore in the back at times. But show him a stick or a treat and he’s game for the adventure. Deaf. And sometimes creaky on the stairs.

And Grace the Cat? At 8 she appears to be ageless, but that’s just my way of not thinking about it. Hers, too.

So here’s the thing.

Aging animals are harder. Murphy isn’t up to the kind of exercise that Alki is, so we go out in shifts here. Murphy doesn’t like being left behind, but sometimes it’s necessary. We don’t like leaving her behind, but  sometimes we have to.

Murphy had a lot of health problems early on. It astonishes me that people say this is because she’s purebred, as if being purebred is a dishonor instead of a choice. Truth is, while Murphy did inherit a few conditions, a bad vet made them chronic. That’s when I learned to fight back. That’s why Murphy got to be 13—and old.

Aging animals have aches and pains. We manage ours. I won’t tolerate pain, so old age here is as comfortable and easy as it can be.

But aging doesn’t stop.

Things slow down with an aging animal. I look back at the last 13 years with Murphy and I laugh and say to her, “Wow, we grew old together.” We did, but her old age will be shorter than mine. Someday, Murphy will be gone. And Alki. And Grace. But I’ll probably still be here.

Every day I look at my aging animals and I flinch. What will old age hold for us?

I know it’s a road I don’t want to walk. If I could, I’d stop time in its tracks, get the do-overs, spend more time snoozing in the grass with my kids, make everything perfect and painless.

Well, okay, maybe I would.  Truth is, I’m not sure that anything would have been better than the life I’ve shared with my multi-species family. They’ve lived long happy lives. I’m tougher and smarter than I ever was without them. Kinder. More loving. Happier than I ever thought possible.

Because of my animal family I’ve found a life I never knew existed. I’m making a contribution to the world I never knew was possible. And I laugh a lot. So do my kids. We value our lives together.

Still, aging is the worst part of living with animals.

It’s also the best.

Aging animals are magnificent. As mine have aged with me I’ve seen the wonder of discovery, the zest for life, maturity and determination, curiosity and excitement and, yes, depression and grief. In my aging animal family I see everything we think we see in the best lives lived by humans.

I see grace. Belief. Possibility. Lives well lived.

Walking this last long road with my family I’m simply grateful that I can. It’s not time I ever thought I’d have, because, when problems cropped up with Murphy, it didn’t look like we had time, and Alki and Grace seemed, well, eternal.

I was naïve.

But I’m not stupid.

Aging is the worst and the best part of living with animals. It means we are lucky enough to experience a complete, full life with them. It’s a gift. An honor. A privilege.

It’s mine. I wouldn’t give it back for anything.

I cherish each and every day. It’s more than I ever expected. Harder than I ever wanted. The best thing that ever was.

Aging is a gift. One I accept with humility, compassion, gratitude, and some worry. One I hope to give back to the world as a lesson learned in love. In acceptance. In getting the last laugh, and making it a good one.

Here’s hoping you get that gift, too.

© 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

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If You Die Before They Do: Protecting Your Animal Family

September 23, 2011 by

I had the flu in February. Big time. Haven’t been that sick in years. Bad cough. High fever. So sick I needed help.

I’m the only human in my multi-species family, so getting help was hard. Yes, I have friends to call, and no, I didn’t want to. The ‘flu’ (an epidemiologist told me they couldn’t identify this ‘flu,’ but I’m sure it was as close to a plague as we could ever fear to see). So many people were so sick with it that I worried about accidentally contaminating them by even having them deliver groceries or walk the dogs.

Taking care of myself was hard. Stunning, blinding, debilitating hard. I needed help. So did my animal family.

It’s taken me all year to get well. Two months to recover from the flu, four to recover from the side effects, still counting on rebuilding my energy.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about what would have happened to my animal family if I’d died.

That’s when I realized that I hadn’t updated my will in 9 years. My two dogs, Murphy and Alki, were provided for, but Grace the Cat would, technically, end up homeless. Although I’d had the guardianship conversation recently with any number of people, I hadn’t followed up for my own kids. I’d essentially ignored an essential element of the human-animal bond: I hadn’t made sure they would always be cared for.

So here’s what you do for your animal family: before you die.

Financial and Legal Provisions

  • Estimate your animal’s longevity.
  • Estimate your animal’s basic care costs: food, shelter, medical care, entertainment (yep, you’ll be dead, but they’ll still need to play).
  • Estimate your animal’s special care costs: food, medical care, emergency care, supportive care (palliative, mobility aids, etc.).
  • Update your will.
  • Prepare legal documents: have your attorney draw up legal documents providing for transfer of ownership (animals are our families, but legally they are property), care directions, and financial support.
  • Consider appointing multiple guardians:
    • a legal guardian to oversee legal issues
    • a welfare guardian to oversee the estate monies and monitor the animal’s welfare in a new home (financial and physical/emotional care)
    • a physical guardian to adopt your animals

Physical Provisions

  • Find a physical guardian. Someone needs to adopt your animals. It’s better to have someone in mind (and willing) than for your animal family to end up in a shelter—or on the street.
    • Consider each animal’s physical needs: does your cat need a warm bed at night, do the dogs sleep in bed with you or in the hall to keep cool, what do they like to eat, what are their favorite toys? What kind of family would suit them: a single person, an elderly couple, a rabble-rousing kid-filled family? Must multiple animals be rehomed together? Is your animal handicapped? I adore my handicapped dog, but some people may not be able to physically or emotionally care for an animal with special needs.
    • Keep records: write everything up, including medical records. Keep it updated and share it with friends: everything you know about your animal should be right there. Make sure to discuss all of it with your potential guardians.
  • Find a welfare guardian to oversee your animal’s life in a new home. Appoint someone you know and trust who has common sense, a practical mind, compassion, and shares your mindset. That person will have tough choices. Make sure those choices are as close to your own as you would make. Your animals deserve it.
  • Consider separating guardianships. One person could supervise ownership transfer, ongoing physical and emotional welfare, and financial care for the animal’s life; another person becomes the caretaker (new owner). Seriously. Consider separating the money from the physical guardian. Welfare guardians can be objective and ensure that the monies are only going for your animal’s care. Yes, there’s the consideration that your animals are only being adopted for their estate, but there’s also the emotional burden physical guardians must deal with if a catastrophic medical issue arises. If you’ve planned properly, this guardian will fall in love with your family: lessen the burden by leaving the financial decisions to someone else.
  • Regularly update your legal documents to reflect the animal’s physical and emotional condition.
  • Regularly check in with your appointed guardians. We usually don’t plan to die, but we will, anyway. Say every year at tax time you also check in with prospective guardians, to make sure nothing has changed for them and they will still be available to serve their role.

Emotional Provisions

  • Define your animal’s basic emotional needs. Assess each animal’s personality, and verify that with friends who know them: our devotion to our animals can blind us to their faults, so make sure you outline what someone would like, and dislike, about each one. You’ll have a better chance of finding your animals a good home.
  • Physical needs help define emotional ones, but they really are separate issues. What do your animals need to be happy? Yes, they will miss you. Make sure their legal guardian knows what they need to feel safe, happy, comforted—and loved.
  • Find a good animal communicator. Yes, I talk with animals, but I also have trusted communicators talk with mine. Find someone who can help you talk with your animal companions about their concerns in this process and what they would like. They have rights, too. And opinions and feelings. Honor them.

So, have I updated care instructions for my kids? Um, well. Yes, guardians are notified, monies are set aside, preferences and needs are identified.

Here’s what I learned this year.

Being sick reminds us that we’re mortal, which reminds us that things end. I want to make sure that if I can’t be there, someone else will be: someone who will try, as hard as I do, to create a healthy happy multi-species family.

In the meantime, I’m going to remind myself every day that I’m alive, my kids are alive, and we have the world’s best family. I make sure to tell them that every day.

My kids know it, and believe it.

How about yours? Tell them you love them, every day. Before it’s too late. Enjoy your animal family. And don’t forget: if you’re not there, someone almost as good as you should be. Make sure of it.

 

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

 

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What Made My Deaf Dog Hear Again, Part 2

August 31, 2011 by

When my youngest dog, Alki, became deaf, I had to figure out how I could make him comfortable with his handicap. How to make us all comfortable: Alki, my nearly 10-year-old Cavalier; his 12-year-old Cavalier sister, Murphy; Grace the Cat; me; and friends, family, and visiting clients.

We’re familiar with handicaps at our house: of the four of us, only Grace the Cat is not dealing with some kind of disability (although, in the middle of the night, I sometimes think her touchy tummy qualifies).

The trick is to balance empathy and compassion, fairness and firmness, for all family members. Sure, the newly handicapped family member takes center stage. However, everyone is affected, so paying attention to everyone’s needs short-circuits jealousies and misunderstandings and provides space for healthy change for everyone.

My multi-species family did the practical things, as described in Part 1 of this article. It’s what we added to the mix that mattered: the socio-cultural things that define how we survive, and thrive, in adversity.  

Alki becoming deaf was a shock. Yes, like all living beings, he’d had some problems, but as we dealt with Alki’s deafness I was surprised how it pushed my buttons. Somehow I relied on Alki to be the ‘easy’ one, because he was so sunny and sturdy, Murphy had so many health problems, Grace the Cat had a rough start, and I’ve been handicapped for too many years to count.

I knew better, but I still never expected things to change for Alki. Once I got used to his Velcro personality it stuck to me so well that the physical and emotional teamwork that developed feels as natural as breathing. I didn’t want it to change. Or end.

I loved having his constant attendance. He loved always being there. Now we both mourned the loss of his hearing and had to work our way through it to both honor and deepen our human-animal bond. Sure, we did the practical things, but we also did the cultural ones.

Six Socio-cultural Comforts

  • Acceptance. I made it clear to Alki that his handicap didn’t change how I felt about him, only how we managed daily life. Then I proved it all day long.
  • Grace and humor. Meet everything, obstacle or otherwise, with grace and humor. I repeat: grace and humor.
  • Kindness and reassurance. Everybody has to adapt to a handicap. Alki and Murphy and Grace the Cat learned new ways of respecting and living with each other. So did I. Alki knows that I am physically handicapped and always in pain, and he worried about me having to get up and go to him. I simply made it clear that I would rather get up and walk to him than live without him.
  • Compassion. Everyone needs compassion, not just the handicapped animal. Take time to love and accept each other. Make sure everybody gets it.
  • Emotions. Put yourself in the animal’s place. How would you feel if you were suddenly handicapped? What would you need from your family? Act accordingly. Animals are emotional beings just as we are, so pay attention to their needs and concerns. So what could I do for Alki? This isn’t New Age pablum: a frightened, hurt animal can be dangerous, so you absolutely must know your animal’s personality. Is it shy, passive-aggressive, high strung, sensitive? Does the animal act as if it feels threatened or unsafe? Alki’s body language even at rest was clue enough: he was tense, on guard, curled in a scared tight ball. He was not himself. You see that a few times and you act. It’s dangerous and cruel to let unhappiness like that continue.
  • Love love love. Never stop telling every multi-species family member, including the handicapped ones, that you love them, and never stop proving it. Dealing with a handicap is time-consuming, frustrating, and upsetting, but if life were perfect, wouldn’t you be bored? You can choose a throwaway culture and abandon a handicapped animal, or you can help everyone adapt and grow.

We adapted to Alki’s handicap. I sighed away the sadness when it rose. Things happen in life, and this happened to all of us.

What really pained me was that Alki couldn’t fully adjust to his deafness. He adapted, but he was often uneasy, uncertain, and frightened. I knew I was missing something, but what?

The breakthrough was as ordinary as everyday life.

In our daily family rituals I have one-on-one morning and evening times with each animal. One night, I spent a long session with Alki. I hugged and petted him, and made sure he was looking at me as I told him how much I loved and respected him, that he would always be family, that we would deal with his deafness as best we could. That he was my son, we were family, and his deafness didn’t matter.

I assured him, over and over, that the only thing that changed was his ability to hear. Then I intuitively talked with him, showing him that we could still communicate even if he couldn’t hear me speak out loud. I gave him a long massage, something he loves. And I used a form of energy work, which I call dimensional healing, that arrived in our household about five years ago after I specifically asked for a form of energy that would work for my multi-species family.

That night I made my love and acceptance visible to Alki. He gradually relaxed. I felt better. Murphy and Grace the Cat fell asleep. I went for a drink of water and when I came back Alki was in an excited crouch on the bed. As our eyes met his sparkled and he thumped his tail hard, excited. The sad, perplexed dog was gone, and my beloved Alki was back. Breakthrough! Yes, a long time coming, but it did come!

Alki made huge progress after that—sure, he still needed extra care, but his sunny, optimistic, adventurous personality returned. He finally understood that, no matter what, he is my son and an equal family member, and that trumps everything.

Alki was deaf, yes, but he could hear what mattered—that he was loved and accepted. Then came the day when he proved that he could take that understanding back out into community.

We were out alone together, a block from home, when a stray dog ran up to us. Now Alki had been uncertain with dogs since his mauling and the deafness, so I fended the other dog off, while thinking it might be one of the dogs in our neighborhood.

I was surprised that Alki stood quietly beside me, instead of barking or shying away. The dog moved a few feet away and stopped to stare at us. We stared back. Alki and I exchanged a long look, then he visibly braced himself, just like humans do when we suck up uncertainty and move on. Calmly stepping toward the dog, Alki cocked his head at it, clearly inviting it to join us.

The three of us slowly made it down the street. Each time the dog started to wander off, I’d call it or Alki would turn and cock his head, and the dog would follow us. Eventually the dog and its people were reunited.

By the time we got in our own door that day I was bursting with proud mama-ness. I hugged and praised Alki for his kindness and bravery. He had not only faced his fear but put it aside to help another dog get home again. He had learned to live with a disability and go back out into community.

Alki has been fine ever since. Deaf, yes. Reassured by his family’s love, adjusting to changed circumstances, yes, my boy is home. It’s not the same home it was before he became deaf: somehow, it’s better.

Why? Because on the deepest level that counts Alki can hear again. Deafness is a condition, a handicap, yes, but it’s also a choice. Do we withdraw, do we hide, or do we adjust and find a new pattern to life? Like all things in life, we choose fear or we choose love.

We were afraid for awhile, but ultimately we chose love in our multi-species family. Alki chose love.

Love is what made my deaf dog hear again. Love and what comes with love: patience, grumpiness, acceptance, compassion, hard work, common sense, frustration, grief, and an adventurous open spirit that may stagger but never gives up.

The mindset that comes from love is what we use to nurture our families, multi-species or not, in the traumas and triumphs of daily life. It’s what we use to create communities where we learn and grow from our difficulties and celebrate our triumphs. With animals we call it the human-animal bond; in truth, it’s community.

Love helped Alki adapt. It didn’t make it easier, but it did make it bearable. He’s still my little boy who shouldn’t suffer, whose sunny disposition should be rewarded by endless health and youth. Bodies fade, but love doesn’t give up for anything.

Love did it.

Love made my deaf dog hear again.

(c) 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

How Mall Dogs Trump Wolves

August 31, 2011 by

Survival of the fittest isn’t what you think it is. It depends on who you are and what you’re up to.

I personally would not survive if I were a wolf and had to run down an elk or a rat. I wouldn’t even want to (either survive or hunt down anything but a cherry pie). It’s icky and it’s just not me.

Plus, I know there’s an easier way to make a living. I see my dogs do it every day.

The call of the wild wolf doesn’t appeal to my dogs. They’re Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. People make fun of Cavaliers, saying things like they’re too cute to be taken seriously and not smart enough to take care of themselves.

Truth is, my Cavaliers are evolved. They may be descended from wolves, but they take their lifestyle seriously, living well choreographed, strategically planned lives that get straight to what it takes to survive modern times.

They’re mall dogs.

It doesn’t just take breeding to be a mall dog. It takes class and moxie.

You don’t hunt down anything. You act so cool it comes to you.

You don’t actually work at anything. You just assume whatever it is you want will magically appear.

It never occurs to a mall dog that there are obstacles in life. They see everything as an opportunity, some better ones than others.

Mall dogs are extroverts. My dogs, Murphy and Alki, have made that an art form. They work every opportunity, even when it isn’t one. Their philosophy is to go for it boldly, where, possibly, other dogs have rarely gone before.

Like brand new, isolated hotels that really only cater to humans.

I learned that at Christmas last year. We’d driven north from Seattle to meet a good friend from Portland we rarely get to see. The dogs hadn’t exactly been invited, but that didn’t occur to me until all three of us were out of the car, staring at the brand spanking new hotel, with its sweeping driveway, wide plant-lined entrance, and a red carpet leading straight through two large sweeping doors. As Hollywoody as it gets in north Seattle.

I was suddenly intimidated. My mall dogs were not: they were surveying their new kingdom.

I gulped. “Ah, guys,” I said, “I’m not really sure dogs are allowed here.”

They looked at me like I was a Martian, then eyeballed the doors. I may not be sure we’re always welcome in certain places, but that thought never occurs to them, unless I bring it up, which I was then doing, but they didn’t believe me, so it was pointless.

They faced the doors, evaluating the situation. Then they threw their heads up and sashayed forward, tails swishing like capes. They were in charge as only mall dogs can be: they know how to make an entrance, and they flirt their way through obstacles.

I’m easily amused. I followed their lead.

As they pranced into the pristine, high-ceilinged hotel lobby, guests and hotel clerks looked up. Gasped.

The dogs stopped and surveyed the crowd, huge grins on their adorable Cavalier faces. The gasps dissolved into giggles. Just like that, any rules we may have broken didn’t matter. The celebrity mall dogs had arrived.

Unfortunately, our friend wasn’t there. We hung out in the lobby like we belonged, the dogs winking at guests, who continued to giggle when they weren’t playing with them. Murphy and Alki monitored the doors, but ignored everyone who came through. Until our friend finally walked in.

Now, what would a wolf do in that situation, or an elk? My mall dogs barked their heads off as they bounced down the lobby and threw themselves in our friend’s arms.

More human giggling ensued. No one yelled at us, but why would they? The dogs had enthralled them (much easier than hunting). We marched to our friend’s room, had a great visit, and left in the same high-falutin’ style that we’d entered. Except this time people waved cheerily at us and invited us back.

You don’t hear about elk or rats (or people) inviting wolves back to their territory.

That’s why you have to define things like survival of the fittest. Survival depends on who you are and what the circumstances are, a good thing, because my dogs wouldn’t survive on their hunting skills.

They don’t need to. They’ve trumped hunting skills with self-confidence. It’s survival of the fittest for mall dogs.

© 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

 

 

 

 

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What Made My Deaf Dog Hear Again, Part 1

August 29, 2011 by

My son is deaf. My youngest dog, my Velcro boy, my goofy sweet Alki, is stone cold deaf.

It happened when I wasn’t looking. Somehow, the years between puppyhood and senior dog warped and folded in on themselves, and my little boy aged.

It shocks me, really. Just yesterday he was an exuberant, mischievous puppy, glued to me and his dog and cat sisters, and suddenly he’s almost 10. Gray-eared. Occasionally creaky.

Deaf.

Looking back I saw the deafness happening. I just didn’t piece it together—the busy-ness of life is often overwhelmed by the details. Even when you’re vigilant, the subtleties can get lost in the mix. And when you have a multi-species family, there are the obvious things—in our case, meshing a human with two dogs and a cat. Human-animal bond, indeed.

Somewhere late last fall I noticed that Alki was reacting to street noises differently. Despite his training, he’d shy away from others on walks. Like humans are apt to do, I dismissed it as a ‘phase,’ and polished his manners while reassuring him that he was okay, especially important because he’d been mauled by another dog a year and a half ago.

Yes, life’s been complicated lately. Alki accidentally ripped off a toenail and nicked an artery, then his toe got infected and he had to wear a cone for a month, which gave him an ear infection apparently unrelated to the hearing loss. I was down with the flu and complications for two months. It was life. Age. Stuff.

Which is all to say, I had good reasons to stop looking for answers beyond the obvious. Good reasons. Just not good enough.

How Deafness Asserted Itself

One morning I went to make a cup of tea and my Velcro boy, always at my side, suddenly wasn’t. I called him. Nothing. I found him in my office, sound asleep. When I called him, he didn’t move. I gently touched him, and he leaped up, startled.

When the clues build up, you eventually notice. I started testing him. He’d fall asleep and not awaken when I left the room. When he was sound asleep, I’d have to shake him hard to wake him if I needed to. If I didn’t gently touch him when I left the room, so he knew what was going on, he’d sometimes awaken frightened, and come racing to find me. Sometimes he could hear me, sometimes not. Sometimes he’d look at me, confused, uncertain, hurt, cringing as if he’d done something wrong and would fix it if he could. Even in his usual safe spot in my office he couldn’t quite relax; he’d curl up in a defensive ball, drop off to sleep reluctantly, and startle awake easily.

Even though his sunny adventurous personality always won out, I felt bad for him, and for us. I also had to be careful about touching him if he was sleeping or not looking at me: startled dogs can be dangerous. We changed routines, for his safety and the family’s.

Still, I kept my eye on him. While physically healthy, Alki was also anxious and nervous, not surprising.

Since I am also a professional intuitive, I checked him on a gut level, too. His hearing was coming and going in waves, and at extremes, either quite loud or too soft. Easy to see why he was both confused and terrified. In talking with him, I learned he didn’t understand what was happening. He worried about what he’d done wrong, that someone might steal him, or he’d get lost, or we wouldn’t want him anymore.

I’d gently hold and pet him as I explained that deafness was something that happened, he’d done nothing wrong, I wouldn’t let anyone steal him or let him get lost, and we would never stop wanting him. Alki would always be part of the family.

Then he suddenly went completely deaf. No response. Nothing. I had to physically walk over to him and touch him if he wasn’t looking at me, because calling him no longer worked.

I had to be careful, yes, because it’s rude and dangerous to surprise someone, but I also had to give him space: I had to learn how to keep a deaf animal close without being overprotective and making him dependent. Emotionally, I had to find a way to restore his confidence and create a positive new family dynamic while dealing with my own sadness.

It’s a fine line we walk in families, made more difficult by disabilities.

I know. We are familiar with handicaps at our house. I’ve been handicapped for years, and my oldest dog, Murphy, has arthritis and is slowing with age. But familiarity with handicaps only helps anticipate difficulties—it does not make them easier.

Making all of us, especially Alki, comfortable with his handicap took work. Here’s how we did it.

Eight Practical Comforts

  • Training. I reinforced the hand signals we’d learned in obedience class as we drilled on public and private manners, and practiced with friends and strangers. All of us, animals and humans, learned how to be around a deaf animal, and it deepened our bond because we mingled work and fun. Ironically, the one thing about Alki that I could do without did not depart with his hearing. He was deaf but he still barked, and yelling at him didn’t work. (Honestly, it never did. In my less rational moments I wondered if he went deaf so he could bark and not hear me bark back.)
  • Attitude. No coddling. Yes, I made allowances for Alki’s growing deafness: common sense, sympathy, support, and compassion are critical. But we all have to learn our limits in life, handicapped or not, and how to compensate for them with grace and humor. Ultimately, we all have to take care of ourselves: self-reliance is key.
  • Calmness and patience. Running screaming into the night doesn’t solve problems, it just sprains ankles. Be calm. Be patient. Teach that to other family members. Starting with yourself.
  •  Attention. Everybody needs extra attention. Those who aren’t handicapped will feel guilty about it and be jealous they aren’t getting as much attention. Still, the newly handicapped really do need special treatment. Spread the love. Take time with everyone. Focus on them when you do. Play hard.
  • Courtesy. Learn new ways of getting along. It takes time. Think: what would you need and want if you were suddenly handicapped? What does this animal need and want? How do you respectfully meet those needs? For us it included making more eye contact, waving, smiling, petting, hugging, and matter-of-fact living. In short, big open physical demonstrations of love and acceptance.
  • Education. Alki is a cute dog: he’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. People love to pet them and you don’t always see it coming. A woman petted Alki when I wasn’t looking and he whirled around in shocked surprise; we were all lucky he didn’t bite her. Make sure people approaching your handicapped dog know what the situation is, and stay vigilant.
  • Don’t say it. Saying stupid things like “It’s God’s will” or “It could be worse” are pointless and insulting. I caught myself telling Alki that “it could be worse, you could be blind.” The astonished look he gave me said it all. It didn’t make being deaf easier. It demeaned a real agonizing problem. I was an idiot. I’m only admitting it here so you don’t become an idiot, too.
  • Caretaking. Handicapped animals need specialized care. Make sure everyone who interacts with or cares for your animal, from family and friends to vets to groomers to sitters, understands its specific needs and is willing and able to meet them. Don’t leave a handicapped animal in the care of someone who doesn’t understand what the disability means or doesn’t think animals have feelings. You could come home to an injured, depressed animal.

Practical comforts help us get through our daily lives as easily as possible. They make it possible for us to choose to expand our lives even while kicking and screaming about the injustice of a handicap. Deep lasting cultural changes occur because of how we choose to live with change. In Part 2: taking it cultural.

(c) 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Worshipping at the Altar of Rimadyl

August 19, 2011 by

My eldest dog, Murphy, a female Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, is 13. We never expected her to make it to 3, but she’s vibrant and healthy.

 It took a lot to get her that way. Some of her problems were inherited, some medical mistakes, some the normal up’s and down’s of life.

Murphy’s health took choice. Rimadyl is one of those choices.

I had to learn a lot about veterinary care to take care of Murphy. And a lot about human medical care to take care of myself. Our journey together has been enlightening: it was a journey to shared wellness, to a new way of living with animals and of creating community with all life.

In my multi-species family I’m the only human. I live with two Cavaliers, Murphy and her almost 10-year-old brother, Alki, and their 8-year-old sister, Grace the Cat.

They’re my family. I’m not their guardian. Or caretaker. Or mother. They are my kids in that I’ve made myself the boss of the family (so I drive the car and buy and prepare meals and make the final choice on family issues). They are my family. We are living the human-animal bond.

My family has a say in their care, including medical care. Coming to an understanding of what they wanted, of how to explain things to them, of how to accept their choices, of how those choices play out in family dynamics—all of that took patience, thought, education, intuition, and my commitment to participating in a world where creating equal community with all life means all beings have choice, responsibility, and free will.

It included really living what I mean when I say that members of a multi-species family are equals.

Murphy has been through a lot. When degenerative arthritis reared up two years ago, I thought we might be at the end of our journey together. We had a deal: no more of anything that would prolong a life that involved chronic pain and disability.

I’ve been living that personal issue for over 20 years. Murphy’s lived it for 13 now. There’s a time to say enough.

And a time to find the right answers. For that family member. For that time.

When Murphy suddenly contorted in excruciating pain on a Sunday in summer 2009, I pulled out every medical remedy I had. We’ve used a lot over the years: from prescription drugs to Ayurvedic herbs, Chinese herbs, massage, chiropractic, supplements, acupuncture, energy work, acutonics, and animal communication. That Sunday I had leftovers of several things. I made myself calm down, closed my eyes, asked for the right remedy to show up, and picked up a bottle.

It was Rimadyl. I immediately started her on it.

Over the next few days, after extensive criminally bad emergency veterinary care, we ended up right where we were on Sunday: using Rimadyl.

Since then, we’ve added several things to the mix. And we’re still using Rimadyl.

Rimadyl works for Murphy. The other remedies we tried did not. The ‘natural, holistic’ remedies are great, including milk thistle, which Murphy takes to support her liver. But for her, in this time and place, Rimadyl works. I swear by it. I, frankly, worship at the altar of Rimadyl.

Here’s the interesting thing. So many people, interested in Murphy’s care and in our family, have generously offered their opinion on what we should be doing instead. Granted, many of us do not look at alternatives, so we immediately go for the easy fixes, like antibiotics and prescription drugs. But these people have acted as if I am doing something terrible by using a prescription drug.

Yes, Rimadyl can have side effects. Murphy has not had any. She did have side effects from the other things we tried, and some of them plain did not work. The truth? Everything has side effects, even the ‘alternatives.’ What matters is the side effects for that particular animal. What matters is: what are the consequences, and what is the choice?

There are people in the alternative community, from holistic vets to energy workers, who apologize when they use a prescription drug, as if the only choice is something else. They are as short-sighted as the vets who only use prescription drugs. Why can’t these people all get together and support healthy, responsible choice? Eastern and Western medicine can combine to create healthy families. I know. My family is proof.

Ditch your prejudices and use what works. It’s a trial and error process, no question. It requires educated vets, and there really aren’t a lot of them out there these days. It requires educated families, and there aren’t a lot of them, either. It requires weighing the risks and benefits. It requires informed choice.

The politics of care and the realities of care are different. Be proactive. Do the research. Find a good vet. Ask your animal members what they want. Honor their request. Use what works. Monitor it.

Frankly, I appreciate the people who suggest alternatives to Rimadyl. I do not appreciate their insistence that I am doing something wrong by not using something they think is safer or better. I do not appreciate their contempt for my choice, and for Murphy’s.

What did Murphy want? Whatever made her feel good. She deserves no less. Our family deserves no less.

And that’s what she gets. Rimadyl. Every day I am grateful that Rimadyl is out there. That when I asked for help it was there that Sunday, stepping forward to add itself to the mix that creates a healthy family. If Rimadyl, or any remedy, makes Murphy comfortable, we’re happy. If somehow her life is shorter because we chose that drug, then so be it. We have consciously chosen quality over quantity. We chose what works.

The truth is, any remedy can shorten a life, but not every remedy can improve it. And what works for one family member may not work for another. That’s where vigilance and common sense enter the mix.

Every day I live with a dog whose vibrancy at 13 astounds people. Rimadyl helped make that. I am grateful. It is our choice.

Don’t make choices, for or against any treatment, based on prejudice. Choose what works.

We have. Two years on, we’re still worshipping at the altar of Rimadyl. Respecting choice. Living healthy balanced lives.

What is your choice? What does your animal family choose? Have you asked?

Note: I do not receive any compensation from anyone, including the makers of Rimadyl. I just give my opinion. It’s free.
 
(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz
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