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.

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.

UPDATE ON BOW: Finding Hope When Bad News Arrives

(We've been away much of the past month with travels and issues of Bow's health. This update will appear Wednesday on the Basenji Rescue and Transport (BRAT) blog, but we thought we'd give you a preview.)

It might sound like a serious contradiction to say in the same sentence that my basenji girl has a brain tumor and that I am grateful and fortunate. After nearly a month of being on an emotional rollercoaster ride with this issue, I feel that we are incredibly fortunate as we face and address this traumatic issue.

In mid-April, I took Bow to our primary vet for follow up visit on her recent dental work and to have an abnormality in her right eye. The vet was concerned and said that there was a slim chance that it could be related to a tumor but to monitor it for a few days and recommended one of the top canine ophthalmologists in the Bay area. After seeing no progress and her eye lid drooping, I felt it could not wait and took her to the ophthalmologist who was deeply concerned when she saw muscle paralysis on several spots on the right side of her face. She recommended us to a neurologist who then sent us to have an MRI. There was a clear abnormality in her brain between the optic nerve and pituitary gland. There was the chance of it being a tumor, lymphoma or an nerve infection. Since a biopsy would be almost impossible except for permanently removing the eye, she suggested a spinal tap. Over the next few days we had to wait on the results. She shared the potential treatments which included chemo, radiation or letting things take their course and hope for the best and keep her comfortable. The possibility of the renowned UC Davis veterinary school was brought up as a possible resource.

In the meantime our primary vet recommended Dr. Michael Kent, an oncologist at UC Davis who has been doing work on canine cancer with stereotactic radiosurgery, a process that has been very successful with humans but is very new with animals. In fact there are only four or five places in the world that offer it, and UC Davis has only had it since November.

Last Monday we had our first visit with Dr. Kent and his team. To say that UC Davis feels like the Mayo Clinic for small animals is an understatement. After doing extensive research on Dr. Kent, I was convinced that he was brilliant and on the cutting edge of veterinary medicine. What I was not prepared for was that he is so personable and humble. I was hugely impressed that we were greeted in the lobby not by a technician or nurse but Dr. Kent who himself who introduced himself humbly as just “Michael”. He was able to explain the process, risks, side effects and potential benefits of the surgery. While the dogs that have been through it so far have done well, he qualified that they have only a few months of history. I have my qualms about exposing an otherwise happy and healthy dog to radiation and anesesthia, but not addressing it seems negligent. There is also the cost to be considered. At UC Davis, it costs around $6,000, not inexpensive, but most private clinics are charging $12,000 or more and would require flying or several days of driving to get there.

In short, and in my lay version of what happens with this therapy – we had a CT scan last week which will provide a map of where the radiation will hit her brain. Dr. Kent spent 12-15 hours after our visit preparing for the procedure. She will have three treatments this week as opposed to 12 or more treatments with traditional radiation. Because of the detailed map of the brain from the CT scan and the fewer number of treatments but at higher levels of radiation, it is considered to be more effective and less invasive. We will then monitor results, and she will return in three months for an MRI to see what has happened with the effected area.

There is still a great deal of uncertainty and concern in this process. She might suddenly go downhill, have a reaction, not respond to the radiation. She has had significant muscle wasting on the right side of her face that might be permanent, and she could go blind in her right eye or lose it. We are closely monitoring it and putting in artificial tears 3-4 times a day. On the other hand, there is reasonable hope that the radiation will cause the tumor to go into complete remission and that because optic nerves can be resilient, they might go back to their original capacity.

As I write this, we are just back from UC Davis where Bow had her first radiation treatment without any complication. She is enjoying her regular 4 – 6 p.m. sunbath in the front sitting room, albeit with an IV catheter.

There has been great support from the BRAT community, friends, family, coworkers and others. We appreciate the many kind and supportive words as we remain optimistic but realistic about the uncertainty of the days ahead.

Below is a video of Dr. Kent talking about his work and the Morris Animal Foundation.

Never Underestimate a Basenji Princess

Those of you who follow us on Facebook may have heard that my little princess is facing a challenge. Bow may have a brain tumor. Yesterday, I took her to a specialist where she had an MRI and spinal tap. She whimpered, shook and snuggled next to me as a specialist gave her opinion about her brain scan.

It might be an infection...it could be lymphoma...it could be a tumor. The latter is most likely and could be treated with radiation and/or alternative treatment. Right now she is no different than any other day besides having the back of her neck shaved for two anesthesias. She still has energy to chase pigeons, to give grief to the nasty Bichon Frises down the street and glad to take an afternoon sunbath.

In 1994, my cat Bunter developed a horrid urinary tract infection, and his bladder grew the size of a baseball. My vet tried to convince me that the only "humane" option was to have him put down. I stared him in the eyes and said, "Do everything to make sure this cat will survive, no matter the cost." A month later, Bunter was back one and lived another 14 healthy years. I am taking the same strategy with Bow, knowing that our days are limited even if we have another decade together. In the meantime, please light a candle for Bow and send out a good vibe.

Dada Dog Walk in Dogtown

Bow and I went to our class with Emma last night in Dogtown and saw this reminder. We're very true to dada and always clean up after ourselves.

Yellow...and Pink...and Lavender...and Red...and Green...

The long monsoons are finally lifting, and this is a bit of what is emerging in the back garden (and front beds). Bow is enjoying a chance to sniff some new scents emerging with the arrival of April. There is much work to be done, but it's encouraging to see the calla lilies emerging as well as the California wildflowers in their pots in the tiny greenhouse.

Trees and Jack

Yesterday, Bow and I went down to Monterey to do a home assessment visit for a nice family wanting to adopt this basenji-boy named Jack from Michigan. They have been approved, and he should soon be making his trip out west. He sounds like a very nice boy, and I hope I might get to meet him someday. Bow was on her best behavior for the trip, and she especially enjoyed exploring the Monterey beaches and marina.

One of my favorite parts of the journey down is driving through The Avenue of Tall Trees, a quarter mile stretch of towering eucalyptuses that appear just before the climax of Vertigo. There has always been something mysterious about this stretch of the 101, and I'm not sure why. I've always wanted to walk through it and learn its history. There doesn't seem to be much on the web about it.

Aficionados of Vertigo and California geography know that there is a continuity goof in the film which implies that one drives through this grove when heading south from San Francisco to San Juan Bautistsa when, in fact, it's a few miles south of the town. It's featured in the book and website Footsteps in the Fog about Hitchcock's northern California films, but not many details are provided.
Trees figure prominently in Vertigo, first Muir Woods and then in the Avenue of Tall Trees. I've wondered if there is an Internet movie tree database. How many movies are there were trees play a leading role? A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, of course, Gorillas in the Mist to a degree and in the climax of The Fox. I remember dozing off on a flight during one of those dreadful Harry Pottery Barn movies where a possessed tree was a character, but a CGI tree, I suspect, so that doesn't count. I don't think tree movie stars are as big as they were in the golden age. Perhaps that's why Barbara Walters asked that notorious "What kind of tree are you" question to Katherine Hepburn. What an insult to all those oaks and firs out there. They would never use all the quirks and melodrama of Hepburn.

Yes, But What About Bow?

Those who are new may not know of her, and those who are regulars may what have become of her, but Miss Bow, the queen bee and resident basenji of my house is doing well. Well, that is except for last night when we had a bit of a health scare around 3 a.m. The good news is that after a quick visit to the vet in the wee hours of the morning we discovered that it was a false call and (so far) all is well.

We've not exactly stopped blogging about Bow. It's just that we've been doing it over on the main basenji blog where we have written about Bow and a little girl name Gracie whom we helped to transport to Sacramento last month.

Just in case you've ever considered having a member of African royalty and the oldest domestic breed of canines into your home, a brood of neglected but gorgeous basenjis have just come into the system from Florida. Read it and weep, or better yet consider bring one into your home.
Dogs Running Wild Fend Frigid Temperatures

From Our House to Your House

Bow and I would like to wish everyone the best for "the holidays" in whatever way you choose to celebrate or ignore them.

P.S. Bow said that it is not gauche to send Dingos, Greenies, Kongs filled with cream cheese or other treats after Christmas if you are so inclined.