Posts Tagged ‘dogs’

dogkisses for Roscoe

I’ve been trying to publish a post in this blog for several months or more, but after such a long time away from writing, the endeavor is challenging. 

An honorable mention of Ruthie Mae, a wonderful dog, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in 2014 and now lives in my memories, feels like a good place to start.

Ruthie named this blog, “dogkisses,” with slight little kisses on my arm each time I reached for her bag of food.  She was forever a tender heart.  So sensitive.  So sweet.  Ruthie’s kisses felt like snowflakes melting on my skin.

Not long after Ruthie passed, my late friend, Laurie, a former fellow blogger who lived with chronic illness, also passed away. 

I was sad.  I also had to move.  Again.  Life has been hard. 

My writer’s voice seemed to have vanished for a while, but after settling into a new apartment, which meant that I could finally sleep, I gradually found myself making notes on random sheets of paper.

Also during my online absence, the bond I’ve always had with my blog and the blogging community as well, never abandoned my mind or heart, which I think is pretty cool. 

Aside from the logistics of moving and an extreme backlash of severe pain from fibromyalgia, during and after my son and I moved two apartments, twice, I became exhausted. Utterly exhausted.  

There is a lot I could say about the past two years and what led to my long absence, but that would take a while and more energy than I have today.

For now, I’d like to introduce you to my new and most special friend, Roscoe!  He’s a beautiful dog.  I don’t have many photos uploaded to this computer yet, but soon I’ll show you his beautiful hound-dog spots and multi-color coat. 

img_8452

No Words for this Face!

I’m pretty sure Roscoe is a mix of German Shorthaired Pointer and Bluetick Coonhound.  His face reminds me of a Husky.  His eyes are an unusual green.  He has wonderful long legs, enabling him to run fast and climb high too!  He’s a thin guy, but some of us just can’t catch a pound or two for long. 

As I write, Roscoe reminds me only of a hound dog.  Whining all the time 😉

Roscoe and I have had a truly amazing journey together since we met at a rural shelter in April, 2016.  I hope to soon tell you about our adventures and for various reasons, a few several misadventures as well.

With luck and determination, I shall return soon.  Fingers crossed.  Thanks for visiting dogkisses!

Cheers!

In Memory of the Sweetest Dog in the World

In Loving Memory of Ruthie Mae

I knew every day for almost ten years that I was lucky to have Ruthie Mae as my friend, and to be loved dearly and tenderly by the sweetest dog in the world.  We were the very best of friends.

Ruthie Mae passed on the first day of Spring 2015.

A Dog Smile

I’m Ruthie! A Beautiful Dog! I’m Nine Years Old!

Farewell my beautiful friend!  I shall forever be the incredibly lucky person who was loved by you!

Ruthie’s Human Mom,

Michelle.

 

Post Script:

Ruthie had a type of vascular cancer that commonly doesn’t present symptoms until the disease has progressed.  She became severely weak and shortly afterward, at the veterinary hospital, she passed peacefully.

Thank you for visiting this blog, dogkisses, named after Ms. Ruthie Mae.

 

Dogs Make Good Neighbors

Four-legged Neighbors

Ruthie and Happy sure know how to be good neighbors.  They’re polite and respectful to one another.  They always greet each other with a bark or if there is time, several dogkisses!  They are good friends.

Happy has a busy schedule of walks, playing and sleeping, but she enthusiastically remembers Ruthie on her way home from her morning walks.  Ruthie is always happy to see her friend and neighbor, the dog, Happy!

A Dog Smile

Thanks for the hike Mom! by Rosa Blue
Thanks for the hike Mom!, a photo by Rosa Blue on Flickr.

Dear Human Mom,

Thanks for the hike!  I had a great time.

Love,

Your friend,

Sweet Ruthie.

Thank You, Tiny.

Returning to Nature

Taking Comfort in our Great Mother

Before you go, I want to tell you how grateful I am to have known you.  I want to say thank you, my four-legged friend.

Thank you for being such a dear loyal friend to my son.  Thank you for communicating with me during times when he, and you, needed me.  Thank you for loving him.

Thank you for your tremendous patience.  You’ve lived a life of many stories, my dear friend, and I will never forget them.  I will never forget you.

I will however remember the fun times, because my girl Free, who lives where you are going, taught me this is the best way to let a beloved Dog go to, “The place that’s the best,” with, “The Spirits in the Sky.”

Thank you for loving my son, especially when he wasn’t well.  Thank you for always thinking of him, letting him know you loved him, no matter how far away you were from each other.  Thank you so much!

Thank you for making people laugh with your playful antics.  Thank you for sticking by us through thick and thin.  Truly, you have, and I am in tremendous gratitude.

Thank you for never biting anyone.  You scared me a few times, but it is best that you didn’t act on your instincts, even though they were correct and the people may have indeed deserved a nip, or two.

Tiny, thank you for loving me.  I wasn’t sure if you would like living with me, but you did,  I could always tell. 

I know you feel closest to my son and I love you for that, but when he wasn’t here, I always felt proud that you followed me around, watched out for me and slept at the end of my feet.  You were such a great little, “Foot-Feller.”

Tiny, I will always love you.  Always.  You will live in my heart because there is a place in it shaped exactly like you.

I’d also like to say thank you for loving my girl.  She was afraid of so much when she first left that stinky shelter and came to live with me.  She sure wasn’t scared of you! 

I’ll never forget what it looked like to see two dogs fall crazy in-love with each other.  I did and it was beautiful.  My new girl’s eyes widened big and her mouth literally dropped open when you walked in our door.  She was stunned!  It was so funny.  I could see the love she felt for you!  It was amazing.

Thank you for always treating her like a Princess.  She thinks she is one now, I guess.

She sure has been a good nurse hasn’t she?  Boy, I’ll have to do something really special for her, like take her for a walk where she can pretend she’s hunting squirrels.

She will miss you Tiny.  We all will.  I will give her lots of hugs and extra love.

I promise, per your only request of me during the past few months, to be here for your true Master.  He is my son and you know I love him with all my heart and soul.  I’m honored that you asked and very grateful that I heard.

I will do the best I can to keep my head up.  I know I got pretty sad when the Vet told me you had cancer.  I did and I have cried a lot, but I promise I’ll be okay.  I may cry for a while, but you know me Tiny.  I do cry.

I will help your best friend get another four-legged companion when the time is right.  I promise.

Thank you, Tiny.  You are the most amazing boy dog I have ever known and loved.  You are my grand-dog!  Thank you for being my friend and sweet foot-feller.

I could say a lot more.  I could.  I could thank you for all the times you’ve been there for us, but I must stop writing.  I want to come lie down beside you.  I guess, it is our last night together.

We will go to the Vet tomorrow.  We will go.

Thank You, Tiny.

We Love You Forever!

Photos of Tiny in this post.

The Dogs I’ve Loved ~ Poochie

Poochie

one cute dog

Poochie was my first four-legged friend.  He was a small dog with sandy blonde hair.  I was three years-old when I knew and loved Poochie.

Memories of my third year are short snippets of time sketched in my mind.  Poochie curled up in a little ball, basking under the sun in our front yard is an image that never faded.  My love for him is a feeling I’ve never forgotten.

I was temporarily in a wheelchair from a childhood bone disease when Poochie was my dog.  I’ve always wondered if I was confined to the little chair when Poochie met his last day on earth.

I’ve always thought it rather odd that I remember anything at all about my third year, but it makes sense now that I’m an adult, considering all that happened and the way things were.

We had plenty of love in my family, but from what I understand, my third year was much like the rest of my childhood.  Our lives were chronically hardened with strife.   On occasion and unpredictably, fear from violent emotional explosions that led to all sorts of trouble visited our family, yet we were familiar with unfortunate circumstances and that each time could have ended much worse than it did.

I had a boyfriend when Poochie was my dog.  He was also three years-old.  We spent a fair amount of time sitting on my front porch steps together.  I remember the way I felt being around him.  I know I loved him.

According to my mother, the little boy and I had deep conversations about life.  “Lord, I couldn’t believe the things the two of you talked about.  I used to stand there at the door listening and just shake my head,” she says.

A child in our neighborhood had thrown a rock that hit my head and knocked me unconscious.  Afterward, even as my mother had made it clear to everyone that nobody would ever hit me with a rock again, my boyfriend and I didn’t play on the days when the child who had thrown the rock was outside.  

Upon reflection, the accident may explain memory problems I had for the best of my childhood and maybe to this day, but I was hit in the head again during fifth grade.  I had decided to play baseball, but the boys didn’t want girls on the team. 

“Easy Out!  Easy Out!,” the boys shouted enthusiastically.  The pitcher tried hitting my head with the ball every time I approached the batter’s box.   Finally, he succeeded, and I quit playing baseball.

The brain is amazing and so is the human spirit.  I later found ways to cope with what I thought was normal, like my less than good memory and, “the bad things,” my grandmother said I had seen.  “You were too young to see what you saw,” she would later tell me.

My third year was in the late sixties.  The place was in the heart of the North Carolina Blue Ridge mountains.  We were not poor by the standards of the day and perhaps we were Middle class.  The stories I’ve heard about medical treatments I endured during those years sound like we came from a time I thought was in history books before I entered this world, which reminds me of the way I met my first boyfriend.

He and I were born minutes apart, in the same hospital room, delivered by the same doctor, separated only by a thin hospital curtain, which the doctor had left open for the laboring hours preceding our births. 

“We talked the whole time we were in labor,” my mother tells me.  “The beds were side-by-side.  Nurses came in to prep us and that’s when the doctor pulled the curtain closed, but we still went on talking.”

The boy’s mother and mine were best friends.   I was due several weeks before her child was, but as it happened, we were born on the same night.  The boy came first.  His mother, lying in her hospital bed, told them to open the curtain again, which they did. 

“What’s wrong over there?”  she asked my mother.  “Why haven’t you had that baby yet?” 

Looking over at my mother, still in labor, the woman noticed that Mother was still wearing her teeth.  “Lord God!,” the woman shouted to the doctor.  “She can’t have that baby ’til she takes out her teeth!”

The doctor ordered my mother to take her teeth out.  “You were born just as soon as I took them out,” she tells me. 

“Why did you have your teeth in?” I asked my mother, many years later as she told me the story.

“Well, I can’t remember, but I guess I didn’t want that doctor seeing me without my teeth,” she said.  “He was a good-looking doctor.”

I realized I was born in pure vanity, but I come from a long line of women who expect good-looking doctors when they get to a certain age in life.  I recently noticed that my doctor is pretty cute.  I’ve seen him for years and have never once thought about his physical appearance.  I wonder if this means I’m getting to that certain age.  Alas.   I’ve truly regressed, if that’s possible in this piece of writing.

My sweet boyfriend wasn’t there the day when I was sitting on the porch steps and saw our neighbor back her car out of the driveway, running over Poochie in the process.  I wanted to help Poochie, but I couldn’t.  I don’t know if it was because I couldn’t walk or if the accident simply happened too fast. 

Later, my mother said the woman wanted to apologize and that she had made me cookies.  I wanted nothing to do with her cookies and doubt if I understood what an apology meant.  My dog was gone.  In my three year-old mind, I fully believed it was the woman’s fault for backing out of her driveway at a speed that I was sure had been too fast.  By the time she heard me screaming, it was too late to save Poochie.

Mother said my boyfriend and I sat on the steps and talked about what happened for days afterward.  “The two of y’all came up with the idea that you would go to her house and poke her eyeballs out like she had done to Poochie’s.”  Mother says I pointed two fingers to show her what I had in mind.

My family and I did go to the woman’s house.  Apparently, I behaved well, but I didn’t like her house any more than I liked her car.  From my point of view, both were way too big for one person.

I did not eat her cookies.  I was sad for a long time. 

For years, it hurt to remember what I had seen and I did remember.  I also missed Poochie in a terrible way.  I’m glad the images of the accident finally faded and that today, my memories only include him basking in the sunshine, and how it felt to love a dog.

The next dog that came into my life was a long funny looking Wiener dog.  I’ll tell you about him, and my life when he lived with us, in an upcoming post about, “The Dogs I’ve Loved.”

 

12/30/12 Post updated to allow ‘Likes’ 🙂

 

In all the fog, I write…

Thunder beings and Brain Fog

The Thunder Beings have roared and a hard rain is falling.  I sure am glad to be home.  I like being home with my dogs during a storm.  I also like knowing that as I write, my family are in safe places.   Shortly, I’ll be snuggling up with my furry family to watch a movie.  I can’t tell you which movie because I forgot the name of it, which brings me to the heart of this blog post.

I basically wanted to say hello to my blogging friends and readers.

I miss my blog.  I especially miss being able to think clearly enough to express myself through writing.

Normally, I can sit down and write ten pages about something and even though it might need editing, I’m able to communicate what is on my mind.  Lately, this is not the case.  I have a lot on my mind, much of which I’d like to write about in this blog, but I am simply too tired.   I’m also in a lot of pain.

I began this post last night and wanted to publish it while the Thunder Beings were here.  I finished it, which amazed me, but I couldn’t keep enough mental energy to tag it or put it in a category.

The Thunder Beings came back tonight just as I sat down in another attempt to write something that makes sense.  Another hard rain fell.

I don’t know who came up with the term, “brain fog,” but the condition is well understood by those of us who have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and/or fibromyalgia.

Brain fog attempts to describe a medical mental fatigue that robs us of our normal cognitive skills and abilities.  For the past six months I’ve battled this fog consistently.  Normally, the condition isn’t this persistent and instead comes and goes, giving me times when I can still think.

Writing is hard when this is happening and I usually don’t even try.  I forget my words and have to use the dictionary constantly.  I can’t spell words I’ve spelled since elementary school.  My sentences are choppy and things aren’t flowing.

Brain fog can make a person nearly incapable of verbal responses.  It can have an effect on a person’s speech.  Words might get disordered in a sentence or we use a word that sounds like the one we are intending to say.

I know the words I’m looking for when I lose them.  I can describe the meaning, sometimes the sound or the first letter.  Written words I’ve known since I was a child look unfamiliar.

Mostly I’m tired and sleepy, but I can’t stay asleep long enough for my body to restore itself.  I’m half awake and half asleep.  It isn’t a good place to act from.

My body is as tired as my brain is.  Moving around is hard.  Bending over takes tremendous energy.  I can’t keep up with my chores and that stresses me out.

I’ve missed deadlines.  Many of my obligations in life are compromised.  I don’t get to go visit my family.  I’m also getting a bit confused and my short-term memory is shot.

The fatigue alone is completely overwhelming.  Add to that widespread ongoing pain in the nerves, muscles and deep in the bones and it is one mighty difficult condition!

Life goes on though.  It doesn’t stop for me to be sick or it seems, for me to get proper rest, but then maybe I don’t know how to rest.  Maybe I forgot.

Much of the time, I feel stressed.

I have an adult son, whom I love with all my heart.  He has challenges that I haven’t learned how to accept in a way that doesn’t cause me grief and anxiety.  I believe that accepting things the way they are is the best place to start when you want to change something, but honestly, I don’t feel like I’m doing a good job at this with mine or my son’s circumstances.

Being unwell causes me to feel like I’m failing my son, the other members in my family, including my dogs and a community.  I can’t say that I have the latter, but if I did belong to a community, where would I fit in I wonder.

When I have brain fog, I don’t feel like I have anything to offer.  I do love my family and friends, so I guess love is the one thing I still have to give, no matter what.

I worry about what is happening in this country.  The cuts in our system are scary to me on a personal level.

Being a disabled American makes me feel like a misfit.  The taxpayer’s enemy.  I represent to some Americans the reason our country is in such bad shape.  Somebody, “living for free.”  A flaw in an otherwise well-functioning system.

The doctor wonders what is depressing me!

Chronic illness impacts my view of myself and the world.  It’s a view that’s been filtered through pain, mental fog and bewildering fatigue, along with a very long decade of chronic stress.

I have the dogs to keep things real.  Plus, of course, I love them and think they’re the greatest little creatures to have ever lived on the planet!

One of my dogs had to go out a little while ago.  I was lying on the sofa.  He came over and sat there beside me, patiently waiting.

I felt like a million pounds of sand was lying on top of my body and it hurt.  After about eight minutes, which seemed like forever, I got up.

Putting his collar on him, I just happened to look at the sofa where I had tried to rest.  I saw the pain.  I saw the fatigue.

I didn’t want to ever lie on that sofa again.  I hurt when I lie down.  For a moment, the difference between the way I felt standing and the way I had felt lying down was somewhat mentally shocking.

I feel some better when I get up, but it isn’t long before I’m completely exhausted and must lie down again.

My dogs continue to be good for my health.  They keep me from never getting off that sofa.  They need me and I need them.

They took me outside after the rain stopped tonight.  I needed a short little walk and some fresh air.  They always know this.

Thanks for visiting Dogkisses’s blog.

Image via drburtoni’s photostream, Flickr.