Happy Birthday, Bernie!

***Bernie returning from a walk four days before her 14th birthday. January 27, 2008; St. Paul***

It's Bernie's 15th birthday today, January 31. What a beautiful day it is here in the Twin Cities, 45 degrees and sunny, the first time we've been above freezing in a lonnnng time. Bernie and I would've enjoyed a long, messy-wet birthday walk today, and no doubt she would've spent the rest of the day relaxing in her backyard, enjoying the sunshine, sounds of snowmelt, and the many passers-by who are taking advantage of this January thaw. I saw several Bernie lovers today while working outside, and I passed along the news of her new home. 

Bernie's birthdays were always low-key affairs, that's the way she and I liked it. No party hats or the like for my little black dog. Generally, I'd tell her happy birthday and then put a big bone, like the one in yesterday's photo, in her mouth. She was so funny with bones. When the ground was thawed, she would parade around the yard with it protruding from her mouth for 30 minutes, an hour, looking for the perfect spot to dig a hole to bury it. I loved, loved, loved watching her do this. It would take several holes dug before she found the proper one in which to bury it. She'd dig with her claws, close the hole with her snout, which left her with a dirt-brown nose! Soon after burying it, she'd retrieve it and start the whole process again. It would be several days before she actually gnawed on the bone, and she would never mess with her bones in any way if I wasn't here. If I gave her one before work, for example, she would set it down and it would be in the same spot when I got home! At that point, she'd pick it up, prance around the yard in the spirit of her bone game. She was funny like that.

I miss paw prints in my yard, so I threw some bird seed around it today to draw the squirrels.

So, one year I made Bernie a birthday cake. She loved it, and I froze most of it for treats later on. If you make it, don't try to mix it all in a blender unless you have the "meat blades" in place. The big ol' liver will burn out your motor with the regular blades, trust me. Here's the recipe:

Liver Birthday Cake

Cake:

1 pound liver, well rinsed

1 egg (shell washed)

2 cloves garlic

1 cup parsley

8 carrots

1 cup rice flour

2/3 cup oat flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2-cup low-fat plain yogurt

Frosting:

3 ounces cream cheese

1/4 cup low-fat yogurt

Bon apetit!

Depth

***Bernie in her St. Paul backyard, likely my favorite photo of her. It simply epitomizes so many of the things I saw in her over the years. Take a long look and see how many character descriptors you come up with for her. January, 2006***

The sincerity of my missing Bernie surprises me. I fancy myself as a realist, thus I inherently don't dramatize many situations, including this one. I understand the cycle of life and accept it, so I don't dwell on or wallow in sorrow. So the moments when I miss her are genuine and deep. Naturally, she is missed when I come home, for example. That's a given. It's the times, though, that aren't "givens" that catch my attention. Like when I'm reading or doing anything else within the house, and my mind triggers to get up and go pet her. Or when my mind is muddied by the flux, to put it nicely, that our country and world are in today, and my yin to that yang, if you will, is to kneel by my dog and press my face into hers, and loose my mind and thoughts in her goodness. It's a very real, raw sensation of missing her. We were a very real and raw pack of two.

Housecleaning

***Bernie and one of her many "monkeys." May, 2004***

Just a couple corrections and an addition to other posts tonight.

In my January 22 post, I recollected my "animal" history, theorizing on why "I am a dog"--and you know of what I mean when I say that. I overlooked my Grandma Roper's dog, Tracy, and her influence on my lifelong love of canines. Tracy was a mix, and I was toddler-ish when Grandma had Tracy. I remember spending many hours at Grandma's house playing with Tracy, specifically gleefully having Tracy fetch a tennis ball I would toss down the steps. Down goes Tracy, up comes Tracy. That's about all I remember, though I also recollect the joy I had in watching her while we played, I smiled and laughed a lot. Also, my uncle Tom had a Saint Bernard around that time, and I remember being fascinated by that oh so big, oh so friendly Toby. I used to ride on her back, and I could never figure out why in the world Uncle Tom didn't get another when Toby passed! Anyway, both Tracy and Toby certainly played a role in my affinity for the canine species.

Way early in this blog, I mentioned that Elizabeth had recently, at that time, reminded me of Bernie's love for hot dogs. So, I went out and bought some hot dogs for Bernie and bingo! She ate them up like a champ. Well, it was actually baloney that Elizabeth reminded me Bernie used to dig back in the day. Either way, that reminder was good, even if I messed it up. Bernie loves hot dogs and baloney! I don't know if I mentioned back then that I was stunned that Elizabeth called back when she did, about the time I learned Bernie had a month or so left. Elizabeth and I hadn't talked for a couple years, and it had always been on my mind that I'd have to track her down at some point after Bernie's passing to let her know. Instead, she beat me to the punch, as Bernie enjoyed the sunset of her life. The world works in mysterious ways.

Finally, I recently looked at Bernie's adoption papers, and according to them, she was eight months, not nine, old when I adopted her. Her January 31 birthday I made up since I didn't know her actual birth date. 

So Bernie turns 15 on Saturday. In honor of that, I'm going to try and dig up some prints of her long-ago self over the weekend. I'll post them here as I go along.

"One More Month, They Say"

***Bernie acquired a gray muzzle at a young age, and it always irritated me when someone would say, "Look, an older dog!" when she was, like, five! It made me want to turn her loose on them. Bernie's reply, in her Bernie voice that only I could hear, was always, "The black dog is in prime physical condition." December, 2007.*** 

Today is January 28--Happy Birthday, Dad--one month after I took Bernie to the University of Minnesota's surgery department for an exam, one month since they told me she had "Maybe a month?" before her tumor became too large for her to eat and/or breath adequately. Thus, it was one month ago today that I started this blog, finishing my first post saying, "One more month, they say."

I thought she'd still be here today.

She's not, which I told a dog-walking neighbor passing by today. She was sad at the news of Bernie's passing but vowed to still stop and talk, as we often did as our dogs talked through Bernie's fence. I told her definitely, and I'd give her dog a treat. That's what I'm going to do with Bernie's treats that I still have, give them to her buddies as they walk by once the weather warms up. If it ever warms up.

I've dreamed about Bernie the past two nights. I don't recall what last night's dream was, but tonight's (I'm currently taking a break from sleeping tonight) was interesting. She was simply here when I got home, which was great, but she was in the state of the past six months--fine and functional and happy, but with the illness nonetheless. I had to administer her daily pill. I found that curious: Why would she magically--and I spent no time wondering how she got back--reappear, only to still be sick? You'd think such a miracle would have returned a 100 percent Bernie, huh? I wasn't complaining, she was a perfect dog till the end. I just found that odd. Of course, dreams end.

It's hard to believe that it was only one month ago that the final chapter began. After that vet appointment, I spent most every day and minute with her. That was lovely, the least I could do too. I still get sad, especially when some other facet of life is a bummer. It's been a tumultuous 2009 thus far. Winters are tough here, the world is seemingly in the crapper, and my best bud is gone. 

All in all though, I've done well. At times, I visit regret for taking her to that infamous vet appointment. Not only is this irrational, it's a waste of time to spend more than a second on that day and its results when I have 14 years of smiles to revisit. Those trips of happiness come often, even when I do the mundane--today I inadvertently rolled down my car window when I parked in the garage, and the sound reminded me of rolling up Bernie's back window when we arrived home from an outing. The towel that covers the back seat for her is still there, too. As are her nose and mouth markings on the window. Of course, her fur is everywhere--surprise! I will always have Bernie fur and will cherish the various pieces I trimmed from her while she laid peacefully. Bernie referred to her fur as "long and luxurious," and attributed much of people's friendliness toward her to her soft coat. 

Bernie was loved.

Many Thanks . . .

***This is Bernie at about a year and a half, at an unfinished mansion Elizabeth and I lived, and the site of Bernie's fountain escapade that I mentioned in an earlier post. I can tell you one thing: She's trying to find a way outside with that bone! Note the St. Louis Blues collar, too! Stateline, Nevada; Spring, 1995.***

Long ago, relatively speaking, I mentioned at some point I was going to thank a bunch of people for their help and kindness toward Bernie. People raise dogs different ways for different purposes, and I'm one who is all-in with the relationship. Thus, it isn't always easy and takes other people to make it all work. So while I here sit sipping a spot of tea, here go many heartfelt thanks from Bernie and Chad:

Elizabeth P. (Tahoe). She who didn't talk me out of adopting that wacko dog, Barney. Who was much, much better at handling a neurotic, new pet than I. And who discovered that Bernie could sing, something I enjoyed for 13+ years from Bernie.

Hazilbeat (Elizabeth's cat; Tahoe). Hazil is a cat and I brought a crazy puppy dog into the house. Nuff said.

Russ D. (Tahoe). He took Eliz, Hazil, Chad, Bernie, and Poochie in after we were rudely shot at and had to move. He really enjoyed Bernie. Russ was also part of the infamous Super Bowl XXIX (1995) incident, when Bernie disappeared for almost the entire game, on a foggy day in Tahoe. She came back looking like she'd encountered the Loch Ness Monster and promptly curled herself on the couch with nary a word nor glance for Russ or me.

Lenny O. (Tahoe). Lenny watched Bernie once when I was out of town and called me all freaked out because he'd left Bernie inside for ten minutes while he ran out to get a pack of smokes, and Bernie had chomped up the pillows in his short absence. Hilarious. That's more why I mention him, cause he is hilarious.

Sandy M. (Tahoe). I rented an apartment within Sandy's house, the one at 3469 Norma Ave., and Sandy was awesome about watching Bernie and Poochie. Plus, she had two dogs--and it bothers me I can't recall their names--and Bernie always had run of her yard.

Teodora L-I. (Tahoe). Teddy is from the Philippines, and generally Filipinos don't really understand why we Americans dig dogs so much. She was always nice to Bernie and watched her a couple times in my absence. I'd call and say, "How's Bernie?" Teddy would say, "She's restless." And I'd say, "Restless?" And she'd say, "She keeps on jumping off the bed, on the bed, off the bed at night." Oh yes, restless!

Grandma Roper (St. Louis). Grandma met Bernie at least once, on a visit to Tahoe, but most important was for years every single time I spoke to Grandma on the phone she'd ask how Bernie was doing, all the way up to Bernie's passing. How thoughtful.

Grandma Caruthers (SW Missouri). Bernie visited Grandma's farm a couple times with me. What great fun for a dog. Grandma even let Bernie sleep in the garage at night--while her own dog had to stay outside!

Drs. Bell and Olsen (Animal Medical Clinic, St. Paul). Bernie never really had any problems until her last year. Both doctors, though, genuinelly care, that was easy to see, and they always spent as much time as needed, thinking and talking. Sometimes, that's the best thing versus everything else.

U of M Small Animal Vets (St. Paul). I'm not going to dig up the doctors' names, but Bernie and I visited once each the oncology and surgical departments at the U, and they are an incredible resource should you ever need them.

Alex G. and her dog, Buddy (Mpls.). Bernie and Buddy had a few pleasant doggie dates, didn't they?

Carly (St. Paul). Carly is my three-year-old neighbor who used to give Bernie treats through the fence and would pet her, too. Carly doesn't know about Bernie's new home yet (we often see neighbors only March through September in these parts). She'll be sad.

Tahoe Daily Tribune (Tahoe). Without their Pet of the Week ad, there would've been no Bernie and Chad. I'm still waiting on the copy of that and the new article--I'm not sure what's happening.

South Lake Tahoe Humane Society (Tahoe). For caring for Barney and somehow convincing me to adopt her. The first time I went to check out Barney, I remember a staffer saying, as Barney barked and barked in an outside kennel at all of us, "Hold on. Let me go get the girl that Barney likes." Soon after, the "Bernie" project began.

Karen C. (Mpls.). Karen dug Bernie, Bernie dug Karen. And here, a secret revealed: Karen is the only person on the planet who has ever heard my "Bernie voice," how Bernie sounded when she would "reply" to me when she and I had conversations.

North Oaks Folks. The fine collection of people who helped search for Bernie in October. Once again, hats off.

Darcy & Fred (North Oaks). Darcy and Fred is the couple who found Bernie in October, took the time to retrieve in pitch dark the number I'd posted on a sign, and fed Bernie cheese while they awaited for my arrival. Had Bernie not been found during that episode, I likely would to this day be curled up in the fetal position, in Bernie's doghouse.

Julie D. (St. Paul). Julie is a former roommate. I don't know how much she was into Bernie, but she helped watched her, walk her, and was always nice to her. Plus, she tolerated the dog hair all over the house.

Denise S. and her cat, Oliver (Sacramento). That was a crazy scene--Oliver was a nut, Bernie was a pup, hardwood floors, big attitudes . . . you get the picture. Good times. Denise gave Bernie the leash we used for the last nine years of her life.

Bernie's Mac-Groveland Neighborhood Friends (St. Paul). Bernie was a rockstar. We live on the corner, and perched in her fenced-in yard 300 days out of the year from age 7 till almost 14, Bernie had more canine and human friends than I'll ever have. She was visited, talked to, and sniffed all day every day. She loved it, it made my absence tolerable. And yeah, I got a few dates over the years cause women wanted to meet Bernie!

Nichole N. (St. Paul). Nichole is my current roommate, of three years I think, and her willingness to watch Bernie when I'd go out of town allowed me to live a relatively normal life even as Bernie got older (and Chad felt gultier going out of town). It was nice to be able to leave her at home with someone who cared about her.

Dave, Nichole's Boyfriend (St. Paul). Dave always gave Bernie a treat and hearty hello and pat when he came in. Bernie liked Dave.

My Mother, Father, Sister (Twin Cities). Cara helped out dogsitting at times and always asked how Bernie was doing. She is also one of the few people who know that Bernie used to work for CalTrans. Mom and Dad have a little land at their place and water too. Bernie loved water. My parents quickly warmed to Bernie once I moved here, and many of Bernie's happiest moments were spent romping around their land, chasing wildlife, and swimming their waters. She was a joy to watch play over there. It's one of those places where a dog can just be a dog.

Everyone Else (All Over). I'm sure there are some whom I've forgotten to mention specifically. Regardless, there are a lot of other people who were cool to Bernie, helped out, or simply expressed interest and/or sympathies. It's always nice when people realize and accept that your pet is a huge part of you and your life, and I met lots of those people through the years. So, thanks to everyone!

As always, thanks for reading. More to come.

Woke Up This Morning . . .

***Bernie with some buddies; South Lake Tahoe, California, 1999***

I started watching The Sopranos on DVD about six years ago. Bernie, of course, watched them all with me. She enjoyed it even though she never was a big fan of profanity--I only heard her curse a handful of times in her 15 years. The week before she passed, we started watching the final season, which is actually part two of Season Six. We made it through episode seven out of nine, and I sincerely intended to finish watching the rest with my buddy, before she dashed to Puppy Heaven. Alas, episode seven was the last she saw. Now, though, I am going to pop in episode eight. I hope you're watching, Bernie.

Dog Days of Winter

***Chad & Frosty in the backyard; Webster Groves, Missouri, 1977-ish***

Today was one of those days I'm just beatin' down--not in a bad way, just in the sense that it's the end of the week and it's been a long one, even though it was a short one. It was one of those days I got in my car after work and thought, I just want to go home and hang out with my dog.

I have loved dogs my entire life. I don't know why exactly my affinity for the canine species took hold. I do remember that I loved watching "Lassie," even crying often at the end of the show. I must have been just a toddler then. I know Frosty died the summer after seventh grade, she was eight, which means we must have gotten our dog Lassie when I was three or four. I remember her, I vaguely remember Mom trying to explain why she had to be put to sleep, and I think she was just a year or year and a half old. She was small, if indeed she was full Collie she definitely didn't live long. I don't remember her ever being anywhere near as big as I. 

Frosty came next, she's in the picture here. I remember picking her up from the airport--she was flown in by a relative, I don't know whom, from I think Alaska. She was a hearty dog, a "man's dog" if you will. Built for cold, for sure. I still remember the feel of rubbing her fur. She was a sweet dog, though fiercely protective of her people and property. A garbage man put a trash can over her once, because a friend left the gate open and Frosty got out and, well, didn't like the garbage man much. I was sad when she died, though it was pretty quick, no prolonged illness. I simply remember going outside one morning and she was laying on her side, breathing heavily. Dad took her to the vet, only to return without her. My sister, Cara, and I got the putting a dog to sleep talk again. We were sad. I remember sitting with Mom and Cara, mourning, and ultimately deciding to get another dog. I'm not sure Dad was in on that conversation. He's a farm boy, and animals are purposeful. Frosty was purposeful, an outstanding watch dog. The type we decided to get next, though, was not a watchdog: Poochie, an Old English Sheepdog. Think "Shaggy DA". More on her in a separate entry or entries.

Back to my topic of Chad "Hearts" Dogs, ever since I was a wee lad I loved stuffed animals. I still have all of mine from my childhood. They rest in a corner in my guest room. Bernie loved to chew on such things, stuffed toys or balls, but she never, never took one of my stuffed animals into her mouth. I always called her stuffed toys monkeys with her, so we must have had a stuffed monkey for her back in the day. She absolutely destroyed those things, it was ridiculous but cute. I have her last "monkey" still. It's in good shape, it didn't get much hard use. However, even in the sunset of her life I could occasionally get her to chomp and wrestle with it a tad. I'm glad I have it. 

When Cara was brought home as a baby, I filled her crib with stuffed animals, all on top of her. Mom thought she was going to suffocate. I was just being affectionate toward my baby sister! 

Somewhere within all that above, my love for animals but particularly dogs was born. I thought it might be hard, after Bernie's passing, to see people with their vibrant best friends, walking and what not. It's not, I love it. I love dogs and often see the pride in both canine and owner's eyes as they walk by.

Coyote Ugly

***Bernie in her favorite Tahoe watering hole; Summer, 1999***

Tahoe naturally has a lot of coyotes, none of which are to fear. However, toward the end of my time there, the town was becoming overrun with them. They were approaching people, nibbling hands of joggers, "joining" children playing in their yards--that type of thing. 

As I mentioned, Bernie and I spent almost every non-winter day in the mountains by our apartment/house, at the top of Norma Ave., which is off Pioneer Trail in South Lake Tahoe, California. She'd be loose, I'd be on my mountain bike, she'd do her own thing while I huffed and puffed up the mountain, though she'd stay close by. There was a nice single-track biking trail midway up the mountain, and we'd travel that flat ride for quiet a while, us both generally at full speed. She was so beautiful when she ran at any speed. We'd hit my favorite spot in Tahoe, which was about one thousand feet above Lake and town level (about 7,500 feet altitude), and I'd drop my bike, sit on my rock, catch some rays, and look over the lake while I caught my breath and cleared my mind. Bernie would spend this time hunting lizards, and chasing ground squirrels and chipmunks. Good times for sure. From there we'd barrel down the mountain, and I mean barrel, following a mountain biker made trail that winded through rocks and sent you down the thousand foot drop in no time flat. Yes, I'd crash occasionally, and yes, this was before helmets were common, so neither Bernie nor I wore a helmet. When we got to the bottom, Bernie would head straight to her pool of water, shown in the picture and mentioned in a prior post. Sometimes, she would stay forever in that water, and I'd head back to the house after watching her enjoy herself cooling down. About a half-hour later, she'd show up at the door soaked and glad to be home.

It was after we'd climbed the one thousand feet to the trail across the mountain where, especially at dusk, we'd often run into coyotes--one at a time, never more than one. A pack would've concerned me. Occasionally, one would join us on our run--if we or Bernie stopped, it would stop, so it wasn't hunting Bernie!--and eventually split off on its own. It wasn't uncommon for one to approach us when we were idle, too, coyote stopping five or ten feet away just looking at us. They never bugged us a lick. 

One day, though, Bernie decided to be a coyote. She joined her new friend, them chasing and frolicking like dogs. Bernie decided to run off with the coyote into an area I couldn't navigate, especially at the speed they were running. She was gone. I called and called, somewhat concerned but also certain of the fact Bernie could hold her own if they battled. Besides, she'd been with them lots with no problems, and she knew her way home. After a long while with no sight or sound from her, I went down to her watering hole. Maybe a half-hour later, Bernie arrived, her tongue hanging out and no worse for the wear. She had a huge tongue, and at full pant it was hilarious--all purple spotted and virtually hanging halfway to the ground.

That was the only time she ran off on her own with a coyote, and it's a good thing. Not long after that, I learned that one method of hunting for coyotes is to befriend a dog, any size dog, play with it like a dog, all the while leading it back to the pack. I'm sure you can guess what happens at this point, needless to say doggie would never return home. Bernie was lucky to have a happy coyote tale to tell all her doggie friends and not a coyote ugly demise.

The pic I posted on Monday, of Bernie at one--I put that as my desktop photo on my Mac. I laugh everytime I see it, it's so darned cute and funny!

Finally

Back in the Saddle

***Bernie at one year; Winter 1994-95***

Man, that photo is a gem. I honestly just stumbled upon it today when I was sifting through my bookcase for something different altogether. If not the earliest photo I have of her, it's darned close. I told you she was a scrawny little thing when I adopted her. Click on the photo for an even better look.

Vegas was fabulous, just as the sign says. A little gambling, a couple of cocktails, a lot of sunshine, lots of lovely and not-so-lovely human beings . . . just what the doctor ordered. I didn't run into Sigma Derby, but I did go to O'Shea's. The place hasn't changed a lick, probably even the same carpet. As I mentioned, Bernie and I almost moved there. Bernie would've had a love-hate relationship with Vegas. The heat would have been oppressive for a furry thing like her, but likely I would have had a house with a pool--and Bernie is all about pools.

My first trip to Vegas was in the summer of 1992, to visit my college friend Kristin, who lived there. At this point in time, the Mirage was the crown jewel of the town. While no longer holding that title, it's still one of my favorite spots, and I spent a fair amount of time there this weekend. I love Steve Wynn. So with Vegas in mind, here are some unsolicited thoughts and observations about Sin City:

• Tip the help. Trust me when I say it is a difficult job to put on your happy face 40+ hours a week to hundreds if not thousands of people, many who are drunk and exuding an attitude of entitlement (not you, of course).
• Coins are a thing of the past. Bills go in, vouchers come out. No more black hands, change people, fills, and coin jams--and no more clang, clang, clang, though the slot machines now simulate this sound. This saves casinos millions of dollars in overhead, all of which they funnel back to you, the player. Yeah, right.
• No matter your poison, be it shows, dining, gambling, drinking, be prepared to drop a pretty penny while you're there. The town sucks money out of you one way or another, so accept this going in.
• With that in mind, stay somewhere that you'll enjoy--somewhere you can leisurely kill as much time as possible to limit the money-sucking moments. The extra money you spend staying at a nice, full-service joint will save you dough in the long run.
• Caesars Palace is the best, and I say that with no bias. In fact, I'd be apt to harshly criticize it rather than dote on it. There are nicer places, but Caesars is best at having something for everyone, at a variety of price levels, and simply gushes a positive casino/gaming experience.
• Check out the Wynn Casino and its encore, aptly called Encore. Always check out Wynn's newest endeavor.
• Sorry, parents, but leave your kids at home. There is no more ridiculous place on Earth to take children than Las Vegas. Nevada state law strictly prohibits under 21 from being on the casino floor, so save yourself some frustration and casino workers a lot of breath by leaving junior at home. That roller coaster at New York-New York is for lovers.
• The odds suck more than ever, especially on the strip. No 6/9 poker, on single zero roulette, no low limits, very rarely more than 2x odds on dice. It is what it is.
• If you're a gambler, never pay for a drink. Never. Hint: Go place a $5 bet in the race book and get a free-drink ticket, it's the cheapest way to go.
• Speaking of the race book, don't use your cell phone within a race and sports book. That is the one millionth time I've said that in the past 15 years.
• Never stay more than three nights; I recommend two. Also, get the heck out of town as early as possible on the day you leave.
• Unless you are one of the 1 percent who walks out of that town with a profit, all expenses factored in, you will part with a chunk of change. Deal with it and don't let it ruin a fabulous time in a fabulous town.
• Think you're going to stay with a Vegas-resident friend while you're there? Read this first (read it anyway, it's amusing).
• Did I mention tip the help?

Tomorrow, a special 1-20-09 entry.

Bernie's Home!

I picked her up yesterday evening, as well as a clay paw print that I need to bake. It was sincerely nice to go get her, though walking out of the vet with your dog in a box isn't exactly ideal. So she's upstairs with Poochie now. Weird how it's actually comforting to have Bernie under my roof in that form.

They say when humans pet dogs, the human's blood pressure drops a significant amount. Thus the use of therapy dogs and the like in hospitals. I used to pet Bernie for at least a couple minutes before bed each night. It was definitely soothing for both her and me. Obviously, I can't do that anymore, so I wonder if that's taking a toll on my blood pressure.

No matter, because I have just the cure--I'm headed to Vegas, 65 and sunny. See you in a couple days!

Bernie's Almost Home . . .

The vet clinic called today, informing me that her ashes have arrived. When they first said it was the vet calling, I was like, the vet? Why is the vet calling? Oh yeah, the ashes. I want them, she belongs here. I wasn't able to pick them up tonight, had a previous engagement scheduled. Oddly, or not, I feel slightly bad about leaving her there another night. She belongs here.

I got home tonight and was standing at the back door fishing for my keys, and something just inside the back door caught my eyes--I really thought it was her. Of course, it was just a pair of black boots, though for a flash I sincerely thought it was Bernie. I was all ready to put on my happy and excited face when I popped through the door!

I miss her, acutely tonight. It seems weird to me to not come home at all until nine or ten o'clock, no dog to tend to after work. I'll get used to it, and will enjoy it, but it has really kind of rocked my world. There's this flow of guilt, that you put the dog down--that's not the source of the guilt--and you just move on with your life, doing virtually the same things you did before with the dog. Only now there is no dog. Whether I'm articulating why or not, it creates guilt. 

It's been a long few weeks. I've waded through it well, but bite by bite it has taken it's toll. The arrival of spring will be nice, nicer than the arrival of any other.

Blog Time!

***Bernie's favorite spot east of the Mississippi, watching and listening to the world. April, 2007***

I haven't really put any of Bernie's stuff away. The day I came home from the vet, a week ago today, I did throw away her bag of dog food and some other soft-food creations I'd come up with to make sure she ate. She hadn't eaten straight-up kibble in a few months. The night before, we'd gone to Petco to get some soft food types, so they're still sitting on a pantry cabinet. I'll give them to the humane society or some such place. Everything else, though, is still around. Her food bowl is on the floor in my bedroom, in its nighttime spot, her upstairs water bowl in its spot. The water has almost all evaporated. Her two beds, one upstairs and one downstairs, are in place. I have no plans of putting any of that away, it's fine where it is. Her two water bowls downstairs are in place, though I will move those eventually. I haven't vacuumed yet, which means there's a bunch of dog hair still on the floor. I have no emotional tie to that, I just don't vacuum often. Besides, there will always be Bernie fur in this house no matter what I do! Her treats are still here, in place. I'll gradually hand them out to the many dogs who walk by my house--I live on a corner. Most everything is in its place, except for my big black furry buddy.

Our mailman has left a bone for Bernie every day since we moved here, seven years ago. I have a mail slot in my front door, so he'd drop a bone in with the mail. The first thing Bernie and I would do when I got home in the evening was go get the mail. "Bernie wanna go get the mail?!?" Off we'd run to the porch. She'd rifle through the post, finding the bone and often tossing it around a bit. We loved getting the mail. So last Friday, the day after the day after, I stuck a cute little note from Bernie to the mailman on the door, thanking him and informing him of her new residence. There was no bone that day, so I figured he saw it. But then there was a bone on Saturday, so he must have been off the day I left the note. So anyway, I finally got around to leaving another note, on Tuesday, and came home to no bone and no note. My hunch and hope is he saw and took the note as a keepsake, it was a nice goodbye from a nice dog. 

Then Along Came Bernie

***Bernie loves sticks . . . mmmmm; April, 2004***

While you make pretty speeches
I'm being cut to shreds
You feed me to the lions
A delicate balance

And this just feels like spinning plates
I'm living in cloud cuckoo land
And this just feels like spinning plates
Our bodies floating down the muddy river

From the irrepressible amazingness of Thom Yorke, Radiohead. I'd listen to and sing this song, which is actually about war, full volume while I drove, Bernie in the back seat, me envisioning in her later years Bernie and I "floating down the muddy river" together. The emotions illicited within were a delicate balance of eerie and beautiful, just like the song. Check it out at the end of the post.

I've had a dog basically my entire life, and one (or two) my full adult life. Lassie when I was way young, a Collie that had to be put to sleep at a young age due to a spinal condition; then Frosty, a lovely Norwegian Elk Hound, who passed away at eight from heart disease but not before having a litter of awesome puppies. Then Poochie, an Old English Sheepdog who was a fabulous piece of work, made it to 14, even enjoying (I think) a two-mile hike her last day! What a dog. She moved to California with me. Then along came Bernie.

My childhood dogs were outside dogs, which isn't entirely a bad thing. It's not the same as an indoor pet though, for sure. Poochie became an indoor upon our move, and Bernie was an indoor dog, when I was home, her entire life. It took me fully a year to truly bond with her. I liked her, I guess, but she did her own thing, nature by and large providing her entertainment. She became the dog I always wanted, though. One who followed me everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Up until the very end she would follow me from room to room, including the bathroom. The past year or so I closed the door to upstairs when I went up to brush my teeth or for something quick, to save wear and tear on her legs. She'd meet me up there in a flash, otherwise. I have always warned my roommates to make sure the door latches behind them if they want privacy, because snoop dog would pop that door open in a heartbeat. She went everywhere with me, within reason. If there wasn't a reason to not take her, she went. We'd ride, walk to the store, just walk. Only a month ago during an errand run, she crawled into the front seat and helped herself to a bag of groceries when I'd gone into another shop. It makes you laugh and smile when an older dog does that. She was the dog I always wanted, and I'll never have an equal relationship with a dog like the one I had with Bernie. I'll tell you why in a subsequent post.

I never told her she was old. I'd call her a "veteran dog" from time to time, but not old. She aged well, and it was only in her last couple days that I told her she was sick, very sick. She knew, though, dogs know. They know when the end is near, and I truly believe they are much more accepting of this than humans generally are. I like dogs more than any other creature on Earth (this just might mean more than humans) and in fact told my friend Alex often, "I am a dog." I sort of meant it. She'd say that her dog liked coming over to my house, thinking, Oh, I get to go over to see that dog who owns a house! That would be me, the dog. Bernie was the dog I always wanted, my very own Boy and His Dog story, live and in stereo.

Our bodies floating down the muddy river together, a perfect segue to eternity someday.

Tricky Stuff

***Chad and Bernie chillin'--literally; December 8, 2008***

My mind is playing tricks on me. You know, wondering if I did the right thing. Maybe I jumped the gun. She was fine only ten days before. I'd say that's probably normal when one decides to end another creature's life humanely. Euthanasia is oft described as "mercy killing," and that's exactly what I did. I mean, I didn't put her down because she "had a cough." I did so because she was on the brink of misery, sprinkle in that I couldn't possibly stay home with her day after day, and there you have it. I saved her from the inevitable. But she was perfectly fine only ten days before. Really, she wasn't. She had a large mass in her throat and odds are that I would have come home one day with her heaving, gasping for air, a painful and miserable feeling for her and me both. You did the right thing. Yeah, I did.

The issue of betrayal comes to mind, wherein she is in Puppy Heaven now growling at me because I sent her packing once she wasn't her full-on self. Of course, the only time she'd ever growl at me was when I'd get on my hands and knees and "chase" her, growling at her, trying to stare into her eyes, illiciting a perfect growl from her. She wouldn't look into my eyes, locked eyes in a tense moment is a fighting cue for a dog. She wouldn't look in my eyes when I was growling. She's not growling at me now, either.

Another mind trick is that I hear her. Really, I do. I'll be reading, hear a noise, and I pop up, anticipating her entrance. It only lasts a second. I know now she won't be here when I get home, so I don't even look at the backdoor when I pull in the driveway. It's too empty, it makes Chad sad. Her cute little paw prints are covered with fresh snow now. I can't decide whether that's good or bad, probably a little of both. 

I promised to tell you why at times I had a "green dog." Well, in Tahoe, probably within the first year I had her, I'd jump on my bike and ride the city streets with Bernie, loose, running behind me. As I said, she couldn't stand for me to be out of her sight, so this was a good way to get her a nice run without worrying about losing her. We'd travel sleepy Tahoe streets, travel them fast. One time, there was a cat. Bernie saw the cat from half a block away. I just watched. Bernie ran, ran so fast. Kitty cat, kitty cat, kitty cat. Kitty cat decided to go up a tree when Bernie closed in, up the pine tree. So up the pine tree Bernie went--not very gracefully, not very high, but up she went. I've never seen a cat climb so high so fast. I laughed, Bernie and I moved on, both of our sets of ears peeled, listening for fire trucks to rescue the kitty cat. Either that or there's a skeleton way up in a tree in Tahoe today. So many times, though, I'd lose her on these rides. I'd turn around and she'd vanished. I'd go home. She joined me 15 minutes later--green and wet. What the ?&*? There's no water in Tahoe city limits, save for the big beautiful blue lake (I have a print of her in that lake, I know I do somewhere). So I'd watch her and finally figured it out: She was sneaking off for a swim in an overflow pond. Being that it never rains in Tahoe, the pond basically had no water in the summer, just gooey sludge. So Bernie came home green. Bernie got a bath.

"Bad dog" would quickly turn into laughs and licks and kisses, then the shiny little puppy would curl up for a cat nap.

Party's Over

***Bernie on Ice; December 31, 2004***

Things will never be the same

Still I'm awfully glad I came --Anthony Kedis/Red Hot Chili Peppers

I spent most of my day at my parents' house, cleaning off the pond then skating on it for a while. It's a beautiful day, sunny and 20 degrees or so. That qualifies as beautiful for Minnesota in January.

As I mentioned, Bernie used to come over here with me all the time. She'd have a blast--swimming, running, hunting, observing, sniffing, following me, barking for me, walking the lake trail with me. In the winter she'd frolic in the snow here, head onto the ice for a skate with me, watch me blow snow or do whatever. If I was outside, she'd constantly follow me. I loved it.

When I'd sit in the hot tub outside, she'd roam around, checking in from time to time. She'd put her front paws on the step and peer over into the hot tub, tongue hanging out. She'd lick the water off the ledge, often my face too. She'd then head off into the yard and woods, only to return a couple minutes later to repeat. 

She'd also join me on the ice, I using her as a decoy as I'd skate around, stickhandling around her, sometimes sliding the puck under her. She'd lay on the ice and watch, just watch, for as long as I wanted to stay out there. This was a dog that wanted but one thing, and that was to be with me.

One of the three television shows I watch is Cold Case. The show is based present but flashes back to the time the crime was committed. At the end of each show, there is a montage of flashbacks that shows the deceased victim during happier times--perhaps with a loved one, engaging in a fun activity, etc. I saw Bernie in a similar light today, head out the car window, her laying on the ice, her popping over the side of the hot tub. I talked to her, as though it was business as usual and she was still here.

I'm not lonely or sad. I just miss her.

It's Friday!

***Chad and Bernie in Bernie's St. Paul backyard, September 2004***

And it's still awfully quiet in this here house.

I want to let you know that I am going to continue posting here, maybe every day, maybe not. However, I will make it clear when I'm done posting--like, I'll say, "I'm done posting." So keep checking back if you want to read more.

I started this blog the day I was told Bernie had a month or so left. My assumption was that I'd post each of her remaining days, starting with tales of our life, chronicle her final days, and everything would be wrapped into a neat little package. It didn't work that way, and that's okay. My reasons for starting this were to get a lot of my favorite things and times with her on "paper," so when I'm an old man and don't remember anything a friend or family member can direct me to this text and I'll be all, "Bernie . . . Bernie! Yes! The black dog!" And everyone will clap and smile because the old man actually remembers something. Second, I've lived here, there, and everywhere with Bernie, thus there are a lot of people who know her. I wanted those people to be able to follow Bernie's last steps--many of you played an important part in creating and ensuring her quality of life. What I didn't forsee was what I consider vast interest in this blog, even from people who've never met Bernie. Thank you.

Now, I'm going to report on her last 24 hours, including her passing. If you don't want to read that, stop here.

As you recall, I took Bernie to the vet Tuesday evening, and we decided to let 'er rip a little longer, as her condition was dramtically improved from the morning. So after the vet, Bernie and I ran some errands--Petco, the bank, and a couple other spots. She had her head out the window most of the time. It was a good last day. She slept pretty well, only waking twice, I think, to pant and get some water. I was relatively pleased with this. Wednesday morning, though, she presented a deep cough (I've since concluded that she inhaled water due to her tumor fouling up the flow of things. This would have cleared by the end of the day, but it was a good sign of not-good things to come, i.e. it would've happened again soon, and again . . . ), similar but not exactly like the one she had after her Valium binge. I gave it some time, it continued, and she was panting heavily. Not much later, I decided it was time to let her go. I notified my boss and called the vet. It was about 9am, and her appointment was at 1130.

My mental instinct was to sadly note every "last"--her last drink, last time upstairs, last time on the couch, etc. I steadfastly resisted doing this, though, because it just wasn't what I wanted to do. Instead, we had a good time. I fed her a hot dog, she drank, I laid her on the cool kitchen floor, I took pictures, we took a short stroll up and down the street, but the majority of her last couple hours was spent laying on the couch, me talking with her and stroking her soft, long fur. I loved petting that dog, always.

I think the hardest part was leaving the house, indeed knowing that this was the last time she'd be inside our house, the last time she'd leave out our back door, the last time she would be in her backyard, the last time she would walk to my car, the last time she would ride in my car. Heartbreaking.

She didn't want to get out of the car. Even when I picked her up, she didn't want to get out of the car! Finally, we walked through the vet's door, they directed us to a corner room. It was relatively large, with a soft quilt laid on the floor. I was composed but fragile.

The vet tech came in, and a few tears ran from my eyes. I laid Bernie down, her panting, and pet her while the vet tech and I discussed a few things. Bernie was comfortable, my hand never leaving her. Soon after, the vet came in. It was Dr. Olson, who had always treated Bernie until she went on maternity leave a year or so ago. We didn't discuss Bernie's condition, we both knew that at the very least this wasn't the wrong time. Eventually, they joined Bernie and me on the floor, both the tech and vet petting Bernie and talking to her. They were very nice.

I held Bernie's head while the vet rummaged through her big fur to find a vein. It took a bit of work, and at one point Bernie snapped her jaws at the vet. I said, "Good girl!" and we all laughed. Bernie, though, was calm and comfortable, and eventually the formula entered her bloodstream, and she began to sleep. However, the vet informed me that the vein wasn't holding enough, and she'd have to move to Bernie's hind leg.

This was actually a nice thing. Bernie had enough of the formula in her that she was sleeping soundly, breathing quietly, like she used to. I loved it. I pet her, listened to her, had my head pressed against her, smelled her. This went on for a couple minutes, and it was peaceful and serene. Finally, I saw Bernie's nostrils slow their contractions to a minimum. Shortly after, Bernie stopped breathing.

The vet and tech left the room, telling me they would make a clay paw mold after I'd gone but to stay as long as I wanted. My forehead on hers, I broke down when the door closed, my tears dripping on her muzzle. She was in my favorite pose of hers, laying on her belly, paws flanking her face. She looked relaxed and adorable. I took a picture. I always loved watching her sleep, petting her while she did. I gently removed her collar.

I stayed for ten or fifteen minutes, petting her and telling her what a good dog she was and is. I told her she was going to Puppy Heaven. I was confused as to when I should leave. Did I really have to leave? Could I go with her? I decided to go with her, closing my eyes and envisioning her sprinting to Puppy Heaven, me petting her all the way. When she made it, I grabbed my scissors and gently trimmed some of her beautiful fur for my keeping. That, along with her ashes, will someday be buried with me.

When done, I kneeled beside her again, whispered some sweet nothings, stroked her gently, and told her I love her. "We did good, Bernie." She answered, "We're a good team, Dad. Black dog loves you too." I lifted myself up, her leash, collar, and fur in hand, and walked out, telling her what I've told her every time I've ever left: "I'll be back, buddy. You be good. I'll be back."

The Day After

***Bernie created this painting on canvas in June 2008. It hangs on my living room wall, along with another she created in August 2008***

First, thank you all who have sent me emails and posted comments here to relay your sympathies. They have been very much appreciated.

I held up pretty well last night and today. I of course said "Goodnight, Bernie" aloud as I have every night for the past 14+ years, before closing my eyes last night. I have no plans of stopping, either. The past two or three years, as Bernie got older, I was keenly aware she could go anytime, any day--you never know. So I began the practice of giving her a thorough goodnight of pets and kisses and kind words, every single night. I missed that last night. I'm glad I talked to her constantly when we were just hangin' out, I even have a "Bernie voice" that she'd answer me with. I can still do that, and do and will. It helps.

I was fine today, a little subdued but otherwise okay. When I was walking to my car at the end of my work day, however, my mental reflex was, "I get to go see Bernie now." It felt like someone punched the wind right out of me when I realized she wouldn't be there when I got home. I had to stop by my parents' for a moment after work. That was hard, I never go there without Bernie. In fact, I went solo once a year or so ago, and it felt like I'd left an arm at home. Worse, though, was the night I had to go home from there without my dog.

On Friday, October 24, 2008, I went over to my parents' late evening to help my dad remove their dock for the winter. Bernie was out roaming here and there, as she had done there for the seven years I've lived here. It was dusk, the dock was out after one-half hour, and I went to retrieve Bernie so we could be on our way. She was nowhere to be found--absolutely, positively uncharacteristic of her at this stage of her life.

Darkness was falling, so I searched up and down the lake trail for my buddy, flashlight in hand. Nothing. Bernie hasn't heard real well for a few years, so I knew my voice was of limited benefit. I simply walked, looked, yelled. Nothing. We drove the neighborhood. Nothing. At midnight, the search was over for the day. I went to my parents' guest bedroom and cried, so, so sad that Bernie might go out this way. My worst fear always, always, always, being that she had some separation issues, was that she'd die alone or somehow feel she was alone when she died. Her vanished in the woods was my worst nightmare.

I didn't sleep much, frequently peering out my parents' front door, hoping to see Bernie's furry black head and big brown eyes catch mine. No such luck. Sunrise came, and I was out the door. I searched far and wide, talked to every person I saw. Nothing. I rode my bike the seven miles around the lake, staking signs every so often, talking to everyone. Nothing. My parents circled the neighborhood, as did I. Saturday afternoon, Bernie having been gone 16 hours, her pain medicine wearing off and her throat undoubetdly aching, I stopped at a house. They had seen Bernie, at 830 the night before, approached her, grabbed her collar. She growled, they let her go, and went back into the house.

It was unseasonably warm that day, which meant a lot of people were out in their yards raking leaves and what not. They were awesome, those folks of North Oaks. We kept searching, searching, searching. Nothing. Darkness fell. No Bernie. It was one of the darkest nights ever. She had been gone 24 hours. She was still robust, it was warm, but she was 14 and cancerous, and she needed her meds, if for no other reason to help her maintain her will to find her way back. Around 830 Saturday night, exhausted, I went home. Bernie had been gone 27 hours. Cold was coming in for tomorrow.

I was sad, my friend Alex brought me some chili, and then it happened. At midnight, my phone rang. I jumped and frantically searched for that damned cell phone that was ringing. I looked at the caller I.D.--I didn't recognize the number. Good! I answered. Bernie had been found! Bernie had been found! She was halfway around the lake, about 3 1/2 miles from my parents'. Bernie had approached a couple when they'd come home for the evening, and they were savvy enough to recognize a dog in need. They remembered a lost dog sign they'd seen that day at the lake. The woman ran down to grab the phone number. She is my hero.

Alex and I raced to North Oaks, her dog and I both panting with excitement. We reached the house, pulled into the driveway. I approached Bernie slowly, softly saying, "Hey Buddy!" Exhausted and undoubtedly in pain, but otherwise okay, she rode to my parents' in my arms.

My puppy was coming home.

Sunset

***A kiss for Bernie as she rests on my kitchen floor the morning of January 7, 2009***

Bernie arrived in Puppy Heaven today, passing peacefully at noon. She was 15(ish).

She woke up exhibiting some new, concerning symptoms, and it was clear that the time was as right as it ever could be.

I stroked her hair and talked to her while her spirit ran toward Poochie, my former dog and Bernie's best buddy for a few years. Poochie taught Bernie how to be a good dog, and they were delighted to be reunited today.

I will miss Bernie dearly and more than I can begin to describe. Tonight will be the first night I've ever spent in this house without Bernie resting nearby.

More to come here, including a bunch of thank you's to people and a couple more stories, including why the past few months with Bernie were an absolute miracle. Also, I posted pics throughout the blog, so check them out.

Peace to all, especially you, Bernie.

"The Beat Goes Round annnnd Round"

***One of Bernie's big brown eyes; January 1, 2009***

I'm sure Thom Yorke actually had old dogs in mind when he penned those lyrics. Anyway, Bernie is home alive and well. My brilliant vet figured it out: Bernie is hot, with her big furry coat and somewhat constricted airway, she can't cool like she's used to, because doggies cool by panting. Her leg is fine, too--strained, sprained maybe but no joint or bone damage. She'll get over it. I got all this info for the grand total of zero dollars. My vet was good to talk to, said I know what I'm doing and to trust my gut. She did say that she sees more people regret waiting too long than doing it too soon. Good to know. My gut this evening said bring her home, get her summer fans out, and see if we can sleep. We'll go from there. I was so sure I was going to part with her today that this afternoon I looked into tickets to Vegas in two weeks to cheer me up.

I talked to the Tahoe Daily Tribune editor tonight. I'll post the link when the story is live on their website. Interestingly, he adopted a dog from the Tahoe shelter in 1994--his dog probably knew Bernie!

I appreciate all the comments and emails I've received from everyone. Peace.

Cat Out of the Bag

***Bernie on an easy stroll at my parents'; January 1, 2009***

Well, I wasn't going to post anything till it was all said and done, but I'm not sure what to think. I woke up this morning--and that's a stretch, given neither Bernie or I slept much--99 percent convinced it was time to let her go. It started mildly Sunday night, but the past two nights she sleeps for an hour, gets up panting like mad, gulps a bunch of water, calms back down, repeats cycle. So, combine her prognosis, radical limp, and heavy breathing (I, too, have heavy breathing issues, but that's another story), and I was sincerely convinced that she's simply breaking down. Putting her down now seemed to be slightly proactive yet not premature. I told my mom, set a time with my vet, and contacted my roommate to let her know in case she wanted to come home and say goodbye.

Much of the same behavior from Bernie this morning, yet her mannerisms are so "with it" I'm confused. She eats, she drinks, no cough, no pain in her face/throat--nothing that indicates her tumor has run amok. I took her on a walk, leg is much better. She sniffs, she laid in the sunshine. So now I wonder whether there is something else going on, what I don't know. I'm ready to let her go, but she's welcome to stay. Proactive good, premature bad, though given her age, condition, fullness of life, I don't really think I could be premature. We'll see what the vet says, and I may or may not come home with my Bernie tonight. I've cried tons today, even spontaneously.

The good news I promised yesterday is this: Bernie was the Pet of the Week in the Tahoe Daily Tribune back in '94, and it was a heartbreaking ad. I had a dog, didn't need another, and am not sure how bad I wanted another. I simply was compelled to adopt her. So, Sunday night I emailed an editor at the Trib. Following is that email, with her response:

Dear Ms. Goodman. I am a former resident of South Lake Tahoe (1993-1999) and former reader of the Trib. Long story short, I adopted a dog who was a Pet of the Week in your paper. She is now 15 and and eloquently winding down her life.

My question to you is, is there any mean for the Tahoe Daily Tribune to locate in either electronic archives or print archives her Pet of the Week entry? I believe but am not certain that her piece appeared in more than one edition. I adopted her on September 9, 1994 from the Lake Tahoe Humane Society, thus I'm certain her piece would have been in the paper the last week of August 1994 and/or the first week of September 1994. Her name was Barney (now Bernie), she is a black lab/chow mix, and was nine months old at the time. There was a photo along with the text, and I've attached to this email a photo of her--though she's much more robust now than her photo in the paper!

I am willing to pay, of course, for your efforts and any reproduction you can provide. She has been and is a huge part of my life, and I would like nothing better than to be able to frame and hang her Pet of the Week piece on my wall for forever more.

Thank you so much for your help!

Sincerely,
Chad Caruthers

Hi Chad,
Thanks for contacting us – it’s nice to hear how well everything worked out with Bernie. We should be able to track down the Pet of the Week article you’re looking for. In addition, would you be willing to be interviewed for a short story, basically a Pet of the Week success story? I can have our community editor, Dan Thrift, contact you. (I have cc’d him on this message.)
Thanks again,
Elaine

How cool is that? More later. I'm exhausted.

Monday Blues

***Bernie chillin' like a villian; December 6, 2008***

Mondays just don't work for me. Sunday, though, was wonderful, Bernie was her old self through and through. Unfortunately, she tweaked her left foreleg last night just before bed and was limping like mad. She's had a mild to moderate limp there for a while but nothing like last night . . . and today. It really bummed me out this morning that her leg was whacked. She looked awful as we took our standard stroll up and down the sidewalk--to loosen her up everyday, you know? My neighbor saw us and commented something in the realm of, "Uh, you need to 'let her go' NOW." I catch his drift, but it's not applicable, yet. I'll work on her leg tonight.

This is my second "old dog," though Bernie has weathered the aging process much better than my first. It's tough, the life of an old dog, even under the best of circumstances. I look in Bernie's eyes everyday to discern whether she still wants to be here--so far so good. I've lived the life of an old dog the past few months, lounging and homebound with her more than usual. Loyalty is a two-way street, you know. I've edited and project managed numerous dog books, and thus have read creepy tales about how owners set their old dog alone in a field as a means to the end. How anyone could do that, I don't know. I remember at least one of the books said, your dog needs you more than ever when she gets old, physical assistance as well as encouragement. I try to live that and very rarely am sad with her. She was utterly insecure for several years, so I conjured ways to make sure she was peppy and gay. I bet I've said, "Bernie's a good puppy!" more than a million times, with more to come. I've mentally penned a dozen or so songs for her, I still sing them to her. This little party won't last forever, so you have to enjoy it while that's still possible. We do that, Bernie and I.

And I do enjoy it, taking care of her. I always have. When we moved into the apartment in Sacramento, I promised her I would walk her vigorously and religiously if she played the cooped up inside all day game. I kept my word and continue to do so. She has my heart to the end and beyond. The beyond part is what troubles me, lacking her physical presence. Like every living organism, behaviors and abilities are dependent upon stage of life, capabilities increasing and ultimately decreasing. Both are gradual, the latter can be painful to watch and experience, but it's all beautiful. It's fascinating to have watched, save her first nine months and last days, her entire life cycle. It's wonderful more than sad, I'm so grateful to have been a part of it. My little buddy not by my side anymore will be sad. A bit scary, too.

She's relaxed now, stretched out on the floor, breathing softly. Happy, comfortable. I brushed her last night, so she's extra fluffy and pretty. She's still at the ready, whatever I want to do she's all in. Limp or no limp, she'd follow me to the end of Earth right now if I asked.

I'm going to try and post some pictures within the text later. I learned how to do that today. Plan on tomorrow's post being a little brighter, I have some fun news for you. Till then . . .

Skol Vikings!

***Relaxed and cooling off on the sidewalk at home; January 6, 2009***

It's amazing what energy bright and warm sunshine offer. It may only be 2 degrees here now, but it is the warmest, prettiest 2 degree day you can get. January is one of the, if not the, sunniest months up here (November is the cloudiest).

Just a couple little things today. Bernie read yesterday's entry while enjoying her morning coffee today and was incredulous that I did not include on her "Favorite Things" list beef bones straight from the butcher, sniffing, the Milk Bones that mysteriously appear on the front porch daily, and poking her nose/face/head through doors to see what people are up to (she did that twice today already, as a matter of fact). And getting the mail, she adds.

She's good, real good, 95 percent of pre-Valium self. I'm thrilled. She's had a fat left lip the past several days, a bit better today. Real fat though painless, unrelated, as far as I know, to everything else. My roommate, Nichole, wondered aloud today if Bernie's meds caused some sort of reaction. Well, she's only on the same anti-inflamatory she's been on for over a year and an anti . . . antibiotic. Dr. Vet and I decided to give her one just in case. Well, no more . . . I'm the vet of this domain! Honestly, a swelling reaction from antibiotics would explain a lot, more than just the fat lip.

She ate (wet) dog food today.

She ate scrambled eggs today.

I ate bacon, eggs, grilled ham and cheese, soup, a grapefuit, a banana, a V-8, lots of water and juice, and a bit of chocolate.

I'm going to put her Susan Buthcher Iditarod Snow Booties on now, and together Bernie and I shall walk.

Favorite Things

***Good girl! October 19, 2008***

For those of you officially following this blog and thus receive emails indicating a new Post, please send me an email if you receive a "Post" email every time I edit a typo, i.e. you receive multiple emails for a single post. Thanks.

Some of you don't know what troubles Bernie medically, so I'll give a nutshell version. In June, I took Bernie to the vet because of a behavioral change and moderate, occasional pain when I touched her face. No real course of action was taken that I recall, and I was to keep an eye on her, with the idea of sedating her for a thorough look-see in her mouth a possibility if things didn't improve. They didn't, so I made another appointment with the vet about two weeks after the initial. Between the time I called and our actual appointment, I noticed a half-marble size mass on her tongue while brushing her teeth. So the vet sedated her in order to laser the mass off and biopsy it. While she was in there, she noticed another mass on her tonuge, which she lasered off, and another in her throat, which would require real surgery by a board-certified surgeon to be removed. One of the masses was melanoma, the other two sarcomas. They had not metastasized, meaning the cancer was contained to the masses. Fortunately, I had discovered that the anti-inflammatory she had taken for a year or so controlled her symptoms and discomfort, so we doubled that up, and I made an appointment with the oncology department at the University of Minnesota. I've since learned that dogs with pigmented (purple, or purple-spotted like Bernie's) oral cavities are prone to oral cancers, so if you have a dog with a purple/purple-spotted tongue, mention and discuss this with your vet.

The oncology doctor was very helpful, giving me numerous options that ran the gamut. Given Bernie's age, the fact her symptoms were controlled, and the relatively short additional lifespan with treatments, Bernie and I elected to forgo further intervention at that time, leaving the mass in her throat. Our reasonable hope was that she would last in decent health to her fifteenth birthday (January 31), which would have meant she'd made it a full seven months from diagnosis. This longevity expectation was more or less in line with the oncologist's expectation. Unfortunately, seven months goes by way too fast.

Until Thanksgiving, all was well. She'd skip the odd meal, but that's it. After Thanksgiving, though, I noticed some changes, hence Monday's visit to the surgeon at the U of M. As you know, they sedated her (uuuggghhhh!) and examined her oral cavitiy. The long and the short of that: The masses on the tongue have not returned; the mass in her throat (actually an extension of her tonsil), given it's size, position, and Bernie's age is not a viable surgical candidate, and it obstructs and will further obstruct both her airway and esophagus.

What a catch by Minneapolis' own Larry Fizgerald.

To continue, it will be clear when things have reached a breaking point, and the surgeon's best guess was a month or so before this becomes the case. Unfortunately, I've noticed in the past day or two that Bernie is having some difficulty getting food/water to go down the right tube. However, through all of this she has had other bad days and bounced back nicely, so perhaps this will be the case here, at least in the short-term. Her breathing is fine. Also, the cancer has metastasized, and one of her lymph nodes is the size of a racketball. I knew this before our last vet visit.

Anyway, cheer up! The worst part about this is that otherwise, she is a strong and healthy dog, she has simply met her "fatal flaw," if you will, though. The best part about all of this is that otherwise, she is still a strong and healthy dog. We are going to walk after this post.

Happily, I'll leave you with some of Bernie's favorite things (people will be mentioned in a later post): water, anytime, anyplace, any temperature; getting excited for car rides; car rides; running through the mountains; sunshine; the canine species; Kansas basketball; Cardinals baseball; hockey (especially college hockey); hot dogs (this is new, she's lapping them up!); snow; her yard; being outside; chasing cats, squirrels, and especially rabbits; getting excited for walks; walks; singing (so beautiful, though she can't anymore); naps; bananas; friendly passersby when she's laying in her yard; her new back door; being a good dog; and anything and everything that is Chad.

She just came into the room. Time to walk!

Shots Fired!

***Amazingly, she probably can't yet feel snow collecting on her; January 3, 2009***

On December 14, 1995, Bernie survived a shooting. Elizabeth was Christmas shopping in Reno, and Bernie, Poochie, and I were watching a Toronto Maple Leafs v. San Jose Sharks hockey game in my bedroom, waiting for ER to come on--because dogs love medical dramas.

Poochie's ears perked up, Bernie and I heard nothing, but I opened my ears a bit. Then all three of us heard a faint knock, knock, knock at the door. Figuring it was just Elizabeth and the door was locked, Poochie and I followed a barking-mad Bernie to the front door. Through the door's glass, I could see a young man. Oh, I thought, wrong house or something. I acknowledged the lad with a head lift--you know, how the cool kids greet each other--and he just stood there. The dogs were barking, I was cold, and dude was just standing there looking stupid when a buddy peered around his backside. "Can I help you?" I said. He was gazing over and around me, then quickly and heavily launched his shoulder into the door. Oh my. My eyes went to the lock, and the door was locked but not bolted, but it held. Tough guy was rattling and pushing on the door knob, and I expertly gathered that I was in the midst of a tough situation. What to do? There were two of them, one of me; that was the only door to the house; the windows opened only wide enough to slide a toddler through, at best; and I had lent my .357 magnum to a buddy who was playing in a mean card game that night. Just kidding. I turned, headed toward my room to call the fuzz, thinking that, well, Bernie would tear the hell out of them if they got . . . then I heard glass break, a breeze over my head. I turned around to see the muzzle of a gun and a bullet hole in the door's glass. Poochie and I made it into the bedroom, Bernie barking, jumping on the door, going nuts eagerly begging for super-stud and his bud to break down that door so she could take care of some serious business.

Long story short, they left and nobody got shot, though the breeze I felt over my head was a slug from a semi-automatic .22 pistol. Bernie, as well as I and Poochie, had dodged a bullet.

I stopped in the vet this evening to score a bottle of one-a-day multivitamins for the pooch. Bernie gobbled one right up, which is good. There are 180 tablets in the bottle. I guess you could say I wonder just how empty Bernie and I can get that bottle at one a day, if you know what I'm sayin'.

To close, picture the smile on my face today when I pulled into the driveway from work and saw my little black dog's face peering out at me through her fancy-schmancy full-view door. Priceless.

Rock Chalk Jayhawk!

***One of my top-five favorite photos of Bernie; September, 2004***

KU 42, Minnesota 21, Insight Bowl last night. Undergraduate blood runs thicker than graduate blood, in my case anyway.

I had a crappy 1999 New Year's Eve, of all the NYEs to be crappy, eh? I moved to Sacramento in August 1999, and it happened really fast. So fast, in fact, my parents were en route to Tahoe to help me move to Vegas when I told them there was a change in plans: I was moving to Sacramento.

Such short notice meant I had to find a place to live fast. The best I could do knowing no one in or nothing about Sacramento was a fairly nice apartment in a complex. Bernie was always an outside dog when I wasn't home, though she spent some quality indoor time with Poochie when the going got rough for the Sheepdog. Anyway, living in an apartment complex meant she was an inside dog in my absence. To say she wasn't thrilled with this arrangement is a vast undrestatement. She went nuts, barking like mad every second I was gone. In fact, a week after I moved in, I got an eviction notice due to her barking. If they only knew the bigger problem: Bernie had tried to chew her way through the steel front door. I came home to a destroyed door with blood on it and a frantic dog. I'd talked my way into a reprieve on the eviction, but clearly this wasn't working. Two weeks, new place, new town, crazy dog, eviction notice . . . what to do? Someone suggested I get rid of the dog (I won't mention whom that was to protect the naive), which of course was one of the most ridiculous things I'd ever heard. So I did the only thing I knew to do: Bernie and I sat down and had a talk. She continued being a "bad dog" for a couple days, then it all stopped. Overnight. Nothing. She'd just lay and look out the floor-length window till I got home. Dad and I put in a full-glass backdoor at my current home this past summer. While the old door was old, worn, and needed to be replaced, a secondary motive was so Bernie could look outside while she waited for me to come home. She's always looking out the door when I come home. She remained an outdoor dog in my absence until winter 2008, when she was 13. She'll be 15 on January 31.

Obviously, she's a hearty dog. They say Chows used to drag lions across the desert--why or where they did this, I don't know. They have extremely powerful jaws, as my steel door found out. It's ironic that now I'm having a hard time getting her to put food into her mouth. She's never lived to eat, and in fact has always spit out chicken skin, always eaten the bread and left the turkey behind when I give her a bite of my sandwich. She eats to live, always saving four or five bits of kibble in her bowl for right before bed, just to be safe. I don't like that now she seems interested in food but is uncomfortable when she eats, which isn't often though her weight is fine. She's always eaten to live, and I hope that continues.

Some good news, though, is that I got a message last night from long-lost Elizabeth, who is as much responsible for teaching little insecure Bernie to be comfortable in her own skin as anyone. In her message, she mentioned Bernie used to love raw hot dogs. I don't recall that, but I'll soon have some Oscar Meyer in the fridge and hopefully in Bernie's belly by the end of the day. Also, Bernie is utterly comfortable when she sleeps and still purrs--yes, purrs--when I gently stroker her nuzzle. She's walking steps again, had a bit of a sparkle in her eyes this morning, and her ears have perked up more than once in response to this or that. I'd say she's about 90 percent of her pre-Monday self. Unfortunately, signs of her condition are more prominent than ever though not yet devestating.

Petco, yes. We went yesterday evening. She was a rock star, happy and gay. She loves that place, even took a treat from the cashier and sniffed the bags of treats and bones incessantly. She rested her head on the car window ledge, open window, when I went into Chipotle to get a big-fat burrito, and kept her head on the ledge there as we drove home. Her ears will definitely perk up again soon, as we wind the last few streets with Bernie's head out the window to my Mom and Dad's, where we're going in a bit. It's one of Bernie's favorite spots on Earth!