Shaka and Audrey Are Sad to See Their Dad Head Out on a Plane

Audrey's Daddy Shamelessly Lures Her with Greenies

We Find the Oddest Things

Indeed, we call this place Junk Thief, and that is a spirit we take. But is it junk thievery if it's discarded junk, just waiting to be rescued? And is it junk? Having two rescue basenjis (who are the opposite of junk), I think about all the treasures out there waiting to be rescued. Some of the most curious items in my home are "pound art" and "shelter furniture". I am forever picking up pieces of paper, discarded baskets and other pieces on the street that often go into collages and assemblages.

Shaka and Audrey often weigh in on my finds, and they realize that just as -- sadly -- there are shelter animals that are not adoptable, the same holds true with junk. The morning after the Fourth of July, we happened upon this oddity. Clearly, Audrey was still stressed from the previous night's fireworks, but she was quite clear that this was one that "will probably have to be put down" and suggested that we just move on.Some days, such as this morning, we happen upon things that are so odd and intriguing, you just wish you knew the whole back story. We came across this triptych on a single sheet that boggles the mind. It starts off a bit morbidly. Is that really a dog or a frog? And was the one on the left scratched out because the one on the right was more realistic?

Okay, now the story gets a lot more upbeat, Though much smaller, I can buy that this really is a dog. Though I hate to quibble, it looks like the dog is not enjoying "a" cookie but four. Or maybe he enjoyed one, and the other three were yucky. We may never know for sure.
And, finally, it gets mystical. I buy that it's a billygoat and that those are rocks. He ponders them? And why? And what happens next?

We may never know the conclusion of this story. We may never know who the artist and author were. (I'm sort of assuming they were the same person.) It's all mysterious, but then it may be next summer's blockbuster movie. But then, I've never been able to stay awake through an entire Star Wars movie and fell asleep during the opening credits of one of the Spidermen movies on a flight to Newark. However, I can sit through five hour documentaries about 12th century Catalan art without blinking an eye.

We do find the darndest things in the Mission.

Red Dogs on the Redwood Chips

After several days of rain and fog (which I am glad to have considering how hot it is in other parts of the country), it turned sunny and warmer but not to hot the past two days. Shaka and Audrey were thrilled, and I was thrilled to see them thrilled.

More Shaka and Audrey Photos

Audrey

Shaka
AudreyShaka

Saga of the Solano County Basenjis, Part One

(I've been out of commission in the blog world the past few days, the this post shows why. This will appear tomorrow on the blog for Basenji Rescue and Transport (BRAT), but I am previewing it here.)

When I lost my beloved basenji Bow in March, I knew I needed to have some time and a break from basenjiland even though I ached to have a basenji next to me again the moment she departed. Barely a month later, on May 2 I got a message from Ray Eckart, BRAT regional coordinator in Chico that there was a basenji whose owner had to move the next day into an apartment that did not allow pets. Then we learned it wasn’t one basenji but two. The owner didn’t want to go through the hassle of filling out a second online intake form. The information we did have was sketchy besides the fact that they were a six-year-old male, Shacka, and three-year-old female, Crybaby (yes, urgh on that name). And we knew that they had not been spayed or neutered. We needed to act fast or we weren’t sure what might happen to these two, and we weren’t even positive they were basenjis.

Arrangements were made for the owner to drop these two at my house the following day at 10 a.m. At 10:30 a.m. the owner called to say they were missing and might have gotten out the night before, or even earlier. Ray spread the word widely to have volunteers, other rescue groups and individuals to be on the look out for them. Having psyched myself up to bring them in, I now had to try to detach from worrying too much about these two dogs I’d never met. But it was impossible not to think about them running lose in Solano County, a highly developed area in the middle of the San Francisco-Sacramento Corridor where I-80 weaves through and is one of the busiest interstates in the nation. The likelihood of them surviving seemed very slim. I went to bed heart sick that my chance to help these two had probably vanished.

All day Wednesday I tried to blot out what might have happened to these two mystery basenjis, and then a message popped up that afternoon. “Shacka and Crybaby have been found!!!!” Multiple postings and messages had led to them being discovered on Petharbor at the Solano County Animal Control in Fairfield after being discovered running lose on a major street. The grainy online photos showed that they were indeed basenjis, Crybaby looking underweight and with a very sad, miscolored coat.

I called animal control, and miraculously the two had been microchipped, but the information on file was all out of date. That meant the owner had a week to claim before BRAT could gain custody of them. We gave animal control his contact, he chose to turn them over to animal control who in turn signed them over to BRAT
.

The next day I nervously made the drive to Fairfield uncertain of what I might find. Would they be aggressive, fearful, rabid? There was an excruciating five minute wait after I signed the paperwork and then they emerged charging out on leash with an animal control staffer. They looked like no basenjis I had ever seen. Their coats were matted and very light. Crybaby was especially underweight.

Shacka came right up to me and gave me a friendly sniff. Crybaby cowered but didn’t not show any aggression as the slip leashes were removed and they were put onto my leashes. After a walk around the grounds to prepare for our long ride back to San Francisco, they jumped quickly in the car and rode well all the way back, Shacka sitting regally in the back seat and Crybaby hunkered below him on the floor

I followed all of the instructions I’ve read of fostering of keeping a good distance and giving them plenty of treats and happy talk along the way. As we crossed the East Bay Bridge’s S-curve and then emerged from the tunnel of Yerba Buena Island, I felt my right shoulder twitching, sure that it was from all the stress of the past few days. I reached it to scratch and realized it was Shacka’s paw. He wasn’t pushing to get in the front seat. He had simply gently put his paw on my shoulder and looked into my eyes with what felt like was an attitude of “I think I can trust you.” Even if he couldn’t understand the words I told him, “The best part of your life has just begun.”

With virtually no medical history besides the round of shots they got at animal control, no background on their socialization or temperament, my fostering of these two began. I will go into more detail in a later post, but I will just say that so far these two have proven to be the miracle basenjis. I admire them for just surviving on the streets of Fairfield for at least a day or two. Shacka immediately acted as if I was his best friend. Crybaby (whom I am just calling Baby for now) was very frightened that first afternoon, but snuggled up next to by the end of the day – clearly desperate to be protected and loved but afraid of almost every sound she heard. She let me brush her coat that was as stiff as a porcupine and felt like silk by the time I was finished. By the second day she was almost begging to brushed. They both love to be brushed.

There has been some marking and chewing in the house but nothing so severe that I have really been ready to throw in the towel. The fact that these two have been so willing to trust a human after what seems like a really horrible start in life gives me reason to want to make every effort to help them begin the next chapter of their lives where they will be showered with love, nurtured to great health and thrive as the best basenjis they can be.

Having such support from the whole BRAT community has made this initially chaotic foster assignment much less daunting.

More than once I have thought I was insane for doing this, that it's more than I can handle, that it's too soon after losing Bow. But another side of me thinks Bow had a hand (or a paw) in this, seeing that my life had become too dull and she decided to send them my way. It really is a miracle that they survived that day or two running virtually feral on the streets of Fairfield. Maybe it was Bow, their guardian angel, watching over them and sending them into a new life where they will now be safe.

(And here is a link to a video of them settling into fun in the back garden.)

Dropping Judgment, the Search for the Perfect Green, and Adrift in the Universe

Do you check your Myers-Briggs or ennegram type regularly? I forget where I am on the latter, but I consistently come out either INTJ or ENTJ. I've always been told that I am over the top on intuitiveness. The highest possible ranking.In the days before I had to say goodbye to Bow, my level of judging (the signature J of INTJ and ENTJ) was over the top. Since she departed, it seems to have dropped almost completely. I find a tolerance for the most tedious of personalities that usually grate on me. I also seem to have a heightened awareness of the color green. In the wake of the winter rains, all plant life is either blooming or emerald green.
I've always been fond of this building at 20th and Valencia, but it seemed to be even closer to the perfect shade of green tonight.
It and many other green things seemed to be calling out to me this morning.
The afternoon I saw the life leave Bow's body, I felt I saw my own life leaving with her. I say that not in some mournful, tragic or even regretful way. My life as defined during my two and half years with her seemed to be departing with her as well as everything that had come up to that point in my life. With Bow gone, I knew that I could not return to who I was before she entered my life.
When the life exited her body, I did not feel a need to linger. I knew that she was walking out of the vet's office with me. Like all basenjis, Bow always wanted to be clean and odorless, and it seemed so appropriate that her remains be cremated.
In a few days her ashes will return. I keep saying that in this interim, I have trusted her to be watched over by the Universe until her sacred remains return. I feel that I am out there in the Universe right now. I have felt grief, but more I have felt that I am in transition, waiting for her sacred ashes to return and to be in their eternal resting place.
When I got in tonight, I got a message from one of Bow's first foster moms who said that she had been verbally and physically abused for years before she came into rescue. I knew she had a difficult life before she came to me, but I never knew this. The fact that she was always such a loving, trusting, obedient girl when she was me was a reminder that we may put too much stock in the impact of the past. She was able to let it go and be a very different creature with me. I am thinking about that tonight as I feel that I am trusting the Universe to watch over her and me until we are reunited. We had a past together, and I feel that she will be there in some way in the future.

One Week

This afternoon, at 4:45, marks the one week point when I said goodbye to Bow in this world. It hurts a tiny bit less each day. I am continuing all of my rituals and plan to walk up to the spot where we parted a week ago this afternoon.

Last night I attended a pet loss support group. Some people have been going for two years or more. Others felt grief so tremendous they could not speak. For once I was able to hear other people's life stories and their pets' without judgment. There was an element of my grief in each of them and an element of the love and joy as well.

Having made it a week, I don't plan to continue my daily posts about this loss nor to close the chapter on life with Bow. She will continue to make an appearance here, but not with such immediate, raw grief. I don't want "closure" but only to honor the grief and move forward with her where she needs to be in my heart, knowing I am forever changed by her. She was one of the greatest teachers ever to enter my life.

Healing Routines

One of the great things about having a dog in your life is that you have a series of familiar routines that shape your life and give it order.

Since the morning after Bow died, I have continued to go on our morning and evening walks, keeping our usual two mile walk each time with her collar in my pocket. The familiar routine, movement and being outside are helpful. How long will I do it? Forever perhaps, and when new dogs enter my life we may keep the same route knowing that she is watching over us.

This week I have started another routine. During our time together, I took hundreds of digital photos but only got around to printing a couple dozen of them. Trying to now print all of them is overwhelming, so I have started by having ten printed at random each day. I pick them up when I go to get coffee, and instead of having a pastry for a couple of dollars I have ten new prints of Bow. Some of them I don't even remember taking, and several of them show a side of her I don't remember seeing.

As the breadth of her life comes into focus in the larger scope, how thrilling that she can continue to bring joy and surprise me.

Memories of Joy Replacing Those of Pain

As I have worked through the pain of losing Bow with still less than a week since her departure, a small sign of progress is that I am starting to see the fuller picture of her life and our time together. I am able to look at older pictures of her and not be devastated by what was lost in her final days but cherish that I had what days of joy she brought me.

A good friend has been dealing with a case of shingles while I have been dealing with my grief, and we have been able to be supportive during our mutual time of pain.

Each day, I keep thinking about the person I was when she came into my life and who I am now. I hope that I have become less selfish, and she taught me that I still have the capacity to love fully and unconditionally. This came after nearly a decade of bad relationships, loss of my parents, other relatives and friends. I am not ready to extend the kind of love I gave her to another creature just yet as I work through the grief and honor her legacy. But I know that time will come, and I will be able to give as much love again. It will not be an attempt to replace her or forget her. But when I feel healed enough to give the way I gave to her, I will know that she is there -- fully alive in my heart to help me rise to most best, most loving potential.

And I Will Know She Is There...

One of the important parts of the healing and acknowledging that I will never hold Bow's wiggling, warm body in this existence again is knowing that while I may not see her dashing down the hall it does not mean that she is not there.

Each day I keep thinking of ways that her life will not be forgotten and will have influence for years to come. In my life and in others.

Over our two and a half years together, we did a number of evaluation visits for families considering adopting a basenji. In most cases, she was the first live, in-the-fur basenji they had met after seeing photos and videos but not the real thing. In every case, she won them over and confirmed that they definitely wanted to bring a basenji into their family. In the years ahead as those families continue to love and nurture their basenji, they will think back to that day when they met Bow and how she touched their hearts then and now. And in that moment as their hearts are warmed by her memory, she will be there.

With each visit I have become more thorough in my questions and knowledge of whether a family is prepared to bring a basenji into their home. I am more confident and diligent in making sure they are the right fit for these precious little creatures. This came not from great research or reading but from living with Bow and all that she taught me. In the weeks, months and years ahead when I assess further families, I will know the right questions to ask because of my great teacher Bow. And when I am bold enough to ask questions about how secure their cabinets are or how they would react to shoes being chewed or if there are holes in their fence, I will know she will be there. Guiding me to make sure this is a basenji safe home.

Thank you, Bow, for helping me make sure that more basenjis are able to find the appropriate safe, loving home.

Life Is Still Out There

I don't know why, but today was one of the hardest days yet for me. Just after things seemed to improve a little bit every day even though I have been feeling the huge cloud of grief, I thought things were off to a great start. I was up early, did the usual two mile walk, came back for breakfast and settled into the routine of the Sunday paper and corresponding with friends on email.It was already in my plans to head out to Golden Gate Park on this glorious, clear spring day. Just as I finished the paper and was getting ready to go, my instincts told me that I should be saying, "Come on, Bow, let's go on an adventure." The silence in the house was one I was anxious to leave behind.Being in the San Francisco Botanical Gardens for the first time since the March rains helped a bit. I don't know if it cheered me as much as reminded me that there is still so much life out there. At times, I had a thought of "If only Bow were here to enjoy this." But then a morbid but realistic part of me thought of what it would be like had we not gone through with the procedure on Wednesday. If Bow had even survived until today, being here would be absolute agony for her. She would not have been able to enjoy the sun, the flower. She would not be able to chase the birds. She would have, at best, limped along, hanging her head in pain as the sun made it blindingly difficult for her to take each step. As I let this sobering thought settle in, I managed to clear my thoughts by just enjoying all the new life blooming around me. It was as if it was all there as a celebration of Bow's eight and a half years giving joy to our world. Even if my sinuses may be paying me back, I came away with more hope.
Over lunch two women sat at an outdoor table across from me with their charming female Boston terrier who sat patiently, sometimes begging intently and reminding me of Bow's familiar behaviors during dinner time. I could enjoy watching the love between the dog and her humans without jealousy or envy, just respecting that it was there. Something I have had and still have in my heart.
Afterward I bought a beautiful frame for one of my favorite photos of Bow that I plan to put up as a small memorial to her. I can actually look at it with comfort not tears. It will be another week or so before her ashes come back to me. There will be certain comfort in that, knowing that she has finally come home for her eternal rest. I can begin focusing on the joyful, funny moments we shared and think less of the last painful days. When the life left Bow's body, I knew that she was no longer there and walking away with me in my heart. But knowing that her remains will return home gives me something to look forward to in this process. It will be a benchmark in the long road of healing.

Live, Beautiful and Fragile

The doorbell rings before 9 a.m. A Fed Ex delivery man is there and says with unexpected grace, "Sir, I have a beautiful, fragile, live plant for you." I sign for it and open it to discover a tall, elegant orchid from my co-workers.

This elegant and cheerful bit of life seems such a fitting tribute to the elegant lady it honors. It lifts my spirits and helps me make it through the day.

This Shroud Shall Be Liftted

The very afternoon I returned from the veterinary specialist saying goodbye to Bow, I came into the kitchen to see that black netting was covering the kitchen window where the painters are doing final prep work for painting of the back of my building. Major renovations of my building started shortly after Bow arrived, and I always said that she was supervising them. She did not live to see this final work, but I keep taking comfort in knowing that this work that will likely last 20 years will be embedded with the memory of Bow being here to watch over it as it progressed.

The rug on the kitchen was a favorite place for Bow to take her morning sun baths, and she always looked so blissful and elegant there. The kitchen seems so dark right now, as if protected during this fragile time. It will be just a few days and the shroud will be lifted. Not long after that, her ashes will be returned. Having those last bits of matter to rest here in her home with me forever will bring me some comfort. I am working at moving through this pain, knowing that grief is the enormous price we pay for such incredible love and a bond that will always exist through it. I know that there is more love on the other side of this, and I can feel it now through the bite of such enormous grief.

The Morning After

I don't know how I made it through the first night without Bow. I just managed to do it. The many messages of support from so many quarters helped. Most were virtual messages not phone calls which helped. I needed to be alone, feel the emptiness. Having lived with illness for over a year, that emptiness was both agonizing and a relief. Bow was gone, but so was her suffering.

My sleep was calm, and I rose before 6:30, amazed by how okay I felt. My instincts told me that I needed to keep to our routines. Twisted as it may sound, I readied like any morning, but her collar in my pocket and began to walk our usual two mile route. Immediately I felt comforted to know that while her physical presence was not there but all the familiar things were. Life does go on. I felt that I was going to be fine, agonizing as it might be.

At the end of the second block, the little girl that greets us every morning must have seen the top of my head from her window and called out "Good morning, Bow. I love you Bow." For the first time since it happened I wept. I am not sure they were tears of grief. Having lived with her cancer for over a year, I feel that much of that time was filled with grief and dread of the eventual passing of my beloved.

As I walked further, I passed many familiar neighbors and their dogs, not able to make eye contact. Many had commented on how concerned they were about Bow and me in the previous weeks, and it had been more than a month since she could make it past the first few blocks. In that moment, as I could feel people sensing my sadness as I walked I felt her with me, felt the way she touched so many lives in this neighborhood. Someday I will walk this same route with another basenji, and as it pulls on the leash and I know what to do, I will feel Bow with me. I will know what to do because of her, and in that moment I will know that she is there living within me.

Goodbye My Lady

The horrible day I have dreaded for more than a year since Bow's brain tumor was first discovered finally arrived today. I had to say goodbye to her after every effort to give her a reasonable life and exhausting her every last medical option.

Her specialist in Davis said in early December that she would probably not make it past Christmas. Her primary vet said a few weeks ago that the time had come. Today we were scheduled to see our neurologist who had treated her most recent seizures and to see if there were any last options.

The entire month of March got increasingly miserable. She came down with Giardia and bounced back a bit, but even after recovering, her days were worse. Most of her waking hours were spent spinning in circles, hanging her head down, standing in corners. She could not find her food. When I asked her to sit, she would spin in a circle and then finally sit, usually facing opposite me trying to find me but not able to. Walking was increasingly difficult. Being in the sun -- one of her favorite places -- was impossible on walks, and she would just drop her head in pain and could barely move forward.

Last night, she was restless in bed but finally found a position with her back against my stomach as was her normal place. She moved around the bed throughout the night. As the first glimpse of sunlight crept through, I realized that her head was facing mine on the pillow, something she had never done. Her good eye, the left, was looking at me intently and with a lucidity it had not done in over a month. (Most times she could not lift her head to look up at me when called.) Then she gently placed her paw on my cheek. It almost felt as if she might say words. In a second she moved, started spinning and was disoriented the rest of the day.

I really can't recall the rest of the day until our 4 p.m. appointment rolled around. She had to be carried most of the way. She wasn't agitated, just a bit disoriented and breathing heavily. The specialist said that she had reached the maximum dose of her medications before they would become increasingly toxic and would quickly compromise her liver, kidneys and other organs. There was one last drug that might reduce the swelling, but clearly the tumor was advancing more aggressively. The chances of a violent series of seizures taking her life in the middle of the night was very likely. He said that at best she might have two weeks left, and two very miserable weeks.

These were the words I needed to hear, and the procedure began. It was quick, she was calm and her body finally rested free of the pain against me. I held her just for a few more minutes, knowing that what I was holding was no longer Bow. She was with me, in my heart but no longer in that room.

There were no tears as I walked down Alabama Street, numb but well aware of every bird chirping, every tree blooming, every step along this familiar route that we had taken. The moment I arrived home I posted her passing on Facebook. Within seconds I heard my smart phone chirping with the arrival of condolences from friends all over the world. It took a while before I could look at them. For the moment I just needed to walk and be out of the house.

The Portable Anubis

It's Bow's 8th Birthday!

Theme Thursday: Wrinkles

While we humans spend billions a year on trying to get rid of wrinkles, we basenji folks regret that with the passage of time our basenjis typically become less wrinkly, at least on their forehead. It's a bit difficult to even see Bow's wrinkles, and while she will wrinkle her brow a bit when looking at food in my hand I had no luck today trying to get a shot of her motionless when her brow was wrinkled.

The shot below is not Bow but gives you an idea of what a young, beautifully wrinkled basenji looks like. Why can't we celebrate wrinkles the way we do in basenjis?

(Check out the other takes on wrinkles here on the Theme Thursday Mr. Linky page.)

Theme Thursday: Pets

Here is our contribution to Theme Thursday. Check the rest here.

This week's theme is so big it's hard to wrap my head around it. I've had pets in my life except for a gap from around age 22 to 33, a time when I thought I was too cool for cats and dogs and was floundering through the least grounded decade of my life.

The past six weeks of dealing with Bow's likely brain tumor have brought a full gamut of emotions, and I greatly appreciate the support from bloggers, Facebookers and plain "non-virtual", in the flesh friends, neighbors, family and coworkers. Bow has been in thoughts and prayers (animist to devout Catholic) from points as distant as Manhattan, Seattle, St. Petersburg (Russia not Florida), Ontario (Canada not California), Orange County and right here in the Mission.

She completed her radiation therapy last week with the wonderful team at UC Davis. The photo above taken yesterday afternoon shows that she's as perky and happy as ever. There have been no obvious complications, and I remain optimistic but take nothing for granted.

When pets become ill or have a health crisis, it's so different than a family member or loved one who can tell you how they feel, their fears, their needs. Like all pets, Bow is a great teacher and reminds me to live in the moment. It's likely she's not stressing out with "Oh, my God, I have a brain tumor!" and is far more concerned with the fact that the bichon frises down the street are barking annoyingly or that a piece of gouda dropped on the kitchen floor. As one of my cousins commented, "Don't think about the destination, think about the journey." I know that intellectually but really have to strive to do it instinctively. It's Bow's instincts, not mine, that will ultimately help me through this journey. We might have to cross the rainbow bridge in a few weeks or in ten years. Trying to guess that will cause stress that will help neither of us.

What Bow, and all my pets, remind me is that the small, routine and tangible routines get us through the day, and I have become more aware of this as she greets each one with such enthusiasm as if nothing has changed. She looks forward to each walk, even if we go the same familiar blocks at 7:02 every morning, as a glorious adventure filled with things to sniff and look at. The same Greenie she gets at 9:35 and the Dingo rawhide at 2:13 are equally glorious, unexpected treats, as if she had never had them. Each day is a blank slate to be embraced with gusto, even if every routine is the same as it has been for the past 18 months. I've always enjoyed her routines and have found her enthusiasm heartening, but with the recent challenges I have come to embrace them with a joy that reflects hers. The immediate moment has never felt more profound and precious.

In my youth I found Walt Whitman to be a bit to "precious" in the worst sense of the word. Lately I have been returning to him, and Bow has taught me to celebrate myself and Whitman. The fact that the sun rose, that the earth and heavens did not shatter and that my basenji is happy and healthy and so filled with gratitude to be offered a walk this morning makes these words of Whitman finally make sense to me:

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end;
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.