Every evening as Hamilton and I cross Broad and Beaver Streets a white school bus sits at the curb waiting for its passengers. Its a Blue Bird type school bus designed for adolescents painted a garish institutional white. People enter the bus carrying their belongings, usually in twenty gallon garbage bags but sometimes in reinforced plastic shopping bags with Duane Reade imprinted on them. Those on the bus always sit quietly, staring straight ahead. No one looks out the window, as if fearing what or who they may see.
Last evening a man struggled to get on the bus as he held tightly to two black garbage bags. A woman behind him, with the luxury of a back pack, yelled at him to hurry up or get out of the way. No one wants to miss the bus.
Its occupants looked freshly scrubbed. There is a drop in shelter on Beaver near where the school bus waits. It must not have any beds. It is next door to the world famous Delmonico's Restaurant, where Diamond Jim Brady often ate. They claim to have invented Eggs Benedict, Lobster Newburg and Baked Alaska. The shelter is across the street from Beaver House where multi-million dollar condominiums are sold.
Every time I have seen the bus pull away it is full. I never see anyone take a pet on the bus. I guess having a pet is one more of life's decencies not allowed the homeless.
Looking at the people on the bus I wonder how they got there. Where are their families? No one seems to have a spouse. Walking away with Hamilton I often thank God for the blessings I have received. I have a loving wife and family, loyal friends and the gift of Hamilton and my other wonderful pets. I have the income to often eat in Delmonico's. And I live in a nice apartment building like the Beaver House.
But if I was on that white bus would I be as grateful? Would I have the resilience to get on the bus and carry on?
A block away an old man with teeth like a broken picket fence and clothes held together by grime pushes a shopping cart with some bottles and papers in it. I give him $20 and keep walking.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Rusty-- a Dog of My Own
I always felt my mother's pragmatic approach to animals was the result of her being a farmer's daughter. It would be difficult to be sentimental about animals kept only for work or food. This cold calculation rubbed off on her relationship with other animals as well.
Our first dog Buster was a Fox Terrier-type dog whose purpose was to protect us from rats that would often invade our home. Once he attacked me, because of my own childish ignorance, my mother quickly calculated the benefit of his service was outweighed by the risks.
My father would have given Buster a second chance. He was a romantic, with excessive empathy for the underdog. By definition, all dogs fit that category to him. Through the years he was a one man shelter for neighborhood strays. At any one time he could have as many as six dogs in his personal pack. This was after my mother had died. She would never have stood for his St. Francis of Assisi act. It even took all his charm to convince her to let me keep Rusty, a dog that I felt was truly my own.
I was eight years old, long over the sudden disappearance of Buster after he had bitten me on the lip when I tried to pet him while he was eating. In those more innocent times we played out on the street. One day a rust colored collie-type dog was running after an older boy on a bicycle. It almost looked like he was trying to escape from the dog, but the dog was too fast and passed him and had to wait for him to catch up. The dog crouched down with its belly on the asphalt, then when the boy tried to break away on his bike the dog took off and circled it in gradually tighter spirals.
I blurted out how good looking the dog was. The boy pulled up to me and asked me if I wanted the dog. I said sure. ( My mother always scolded me for leaping before I looked.) He picked up the dog and handed him to me. The dog was light. Besides rust colored fur it had floppy ears and a short snout, with white boots and a fluffy curly tail topped with a white cap.
How old was he, I asked. The boy corrected me that the dog was a female and said she was three months old. You can tell the dogs a girl by looking between its legs he explained. Nothing there that I could see. I would have to confirm this with my parents. This guy didn't look too smart. After all, he was giving away this great dog.
I'm going to call her Rusty, I said, and I pulled the squirming puppy tight to my chest. I confidently bound up the stairs to my home. The older boy took off, standing up on his bicycle pedals to increase his acceleration.
My reception was not what I expected. Bursting into the house I proudly announced that I had a new dog. And his name was Rusty. At first only my father, sitting in the living room reading the paper, saw the object of my loud pronouncement. Then I heard my mother calling me from the bedroom. This was during the early period of her illness. Some days she was up and about like normal. Others she was in bed all day. I thought she had the flu. Even after she died a year later no one told me she had cancer. I found out years later only because I accidentally found her death certificate at the bottom of a drawer.
I walked to the doorway of the bedroom. The look on my mother's face was not kind. My father told me to take the dog out to the backyard, which was fenced in. The dog won't be able to run away out there he explained. I sat on the swing seat watching Rusty move around the yard, familiarizing herself with her new home. Her nose never seemed to leave the ground.
When you are eight time moves slowly anyway. Waiting in the yard seemed interminable. Finally my father came out. I could keep the dog. But she was my responsibility. I must feed her and walk her and keep her out of my mother's way. I never knew how my father convinced her. There was only disgust on my mother's face when she saw me holding the dog, as if she were thinking now I have this to worry about too. She knew me far better than my father. I was impetuous, a day dreamer prone to wandering off into my own world in the midst of a busy intersection. She both loved and worried about me. Having encouraged me to read and draw, to use my imagination, she also drilled into me the need for discipline and practicality to get along in the world. On the latter I was not doing so well.
My father had a simpler calculation. A dog was good for a child because taking care of it taught responsibility. Dogs, being faithful and loyal to a fault, appealed to my father. Loyalty was the trait that my father respected and demanded more than any other.
A month later I received my first Holy Confirmation. I have a picture from that day of me holding Rusty, with my grandmother and sister by my side. My father took the picture. My mother is not in the picture. She was in bed that day.
Throughout the summer Rusty and I had our adventures, most of which I imagined as I walked her around the block. My father spared her relying on me to feed her, learning what my mother already knew, that a life lived in the mind had very limited practical applications.
My mother died about a year after Rusty came into our life. The last four months of her life were spent in bed. It's puzzling to me how I never understood what was happening. I only realized something was wrong when the priest came to our house a few days before she died. I never asked why he was there. I intuited that something bad was going to happen. When nothing did that day, I let it slip from my mind and kept to my walking schedule with Rusty.
It was that following Thursday that my Uncle met me after school. I was in fourth grade and nobody had ever met me after school in all those years. That my mother was dead flashed in my mind like a billboard announcement. He stopped to buy me an ice cream. Then we walked home in silence. When we were home I was taken upstairs to my Aunt's flat. I sat in the kitchen waiting for something to happen. Soon my Uncle told me to follow him downstairs where I lived. My grandmother sat across from my father, her eyes red and swollen. My dad was in his usual chair. He looked at me and said simply mommy was dead.
I got Rusty's leash and took her outside. Several friends came up to me. I was a mini-celebrity. No one had seen a dead body taken from a home before. The goal obviously had been for my Uncle to keep me from accidentally seeing my mother being taken away in a hearse covered by a sheet. I left Rusty at home and went to play with my friends. For once I was the center of attention, the hero of our game. Rusty sat at home, no one paying attention to her.
As the years passed my walks with Rusty became fewer as I spent my time on other things. My dad was never the disciplinarian my mother had been, so my promise to take care of Rusty was easily broken. When I came home from college I gave her a pat and then mostly ignored her. Finally one day I received a call at school from my dad. Rusty had died. She was fourteen.
In the end, my father proved to be Rusty's best friend. Her life taught me the valuable lessons my parents tried to impart to me. A commitment needs discipline and fortitude. And loyalty is the foundation of any relationship.
Our first dog Buster was a Fox Terrier-type dog whose purpose was to protect us from rats that would often invade our home. Once he attacked me, because of my own childish ignorance, my mother quickly calculated the benefit of his service was outweighed by the risks.
My father would have given Buster a second chance. He was a romantic, with excessive empathy for the underdog. By definition, all dogs fit that category to him. Through the years he was a one man shelter for neighborhood strays. At any one time he could have as many as six dogs in his personal pack. This was after my mother had died. She would never have stood for his St. Francis of Assisi act. It even took all his charm to convince her to let me keep Rusty, a dog that I felt was truly my own.
I was eight years old, long over the sudden disappearance of Buster after he had bitten me on the lip when I tried to pet him while he was eating. In those more innocent times we played out on the street. One day a rust colored collie-type dog was running after an older boy on a bicycle. It almost looked like he was trying to escape from the dog, but the dog was too fast and passed him and had to wait for him to catch up. The dog crouched down with its belly on the asphalt, then when the boy tried to break away on his bike the dog took off and circled it in gradually tighter spirals.
I blurted out how good looking the dog was. The boy pulled up to me and asked me if I wanted the dog. I said sure. ( My mother always scolded me for leaping before I looked.) He picked up the dog and handed him to me. The dog was light. Besides rust colored fur it had floppy ears and a short snout, with white boots and a fluffy curly tail topped with a white cap.
How old was he, I asked. The boy corrected me that the dog was a female and said she was three months old. You can tell the dogs a girl by looking between its legs he explained. Nothing there that I could see. I would have to confirm this with my parents. This guy didn't look too smart. After all, he was giving away this great dog.
I'm going to call her Rusty, I said, and I pulled the squirming puppy tight to my chest. I confidently bound up the stairs to my home. The older boy took off, standing up on his bicycle pedals to increase his acceleration.
My reception was not what I expected. Bursting into the house I proudly announced that I had a new dog. And his name was Rusty. At first only my father, sitting in the living room reading the paper, saw the object of my loud pronouncement. Then I heard my mother calling me from the bedroom. This was during the early period of her illness. Some days she was up and about like normal. Others she was in bed all day. I thought she had the flu. Even after she died a year later no one told me she had cancer. I found out years later only because I accidentally found her death certificate at the bottom of a drawer.
I walked to the doorway of the bedroom. The look on my mother's face was not kind. My father told me to take the dog out to the backyard, which was fenced in. The dog won't be able to run away out there he explained. I sat on the swing seat watching Rusty move around the yard, familiarizing herself with her new home. Her nose never seemed to leave the ground.
When you are eight time moves slowly anyway. Waiting in the yard seemed interminable. Finally my father came out. I could keep the dog. But she was my responsibility. I must feed her and walk her and keep her out of my mother's way. I never knew how my father convinced her. There was only disgust on my mother's face when she saw me holding the dog, as if she were thinking now I have this to worry about too. She knew me far better than my father. I was impetuous, a day dreamer prone to wandering off into my own world in the midst of a busy intersection. She both loved and worried about me. Having encouraged me to read and draw, to use my imagination, she also drilled into me the need for discipline and practicality to get along in the world. On the latter I was not doing so well.
My father had a simpler calculation. A dog was good for a child because taking care of it taught responsibility. Dogs, being faithful and loyal to a fault, appealed to my father. Loyalty was the trait that my father respected and demanded more than any other.
A month later I received my first Holy Confirmation. I have a picture from that day of me holding Rusty, with my grandmother and sister by my side. My father took the picture. My mother is not in the picture. She was in bed that day.
Throughout the summer Rusty and I had our adventures, most of which I imagined as I walked her around the block. My father spared her relying on me to feed her, learning what my mother already knew, that a life lived in the mind had very limited practical applications.
My mother died about a year after Rusty came into our life. The last four months of her life were spent in bed. It's puzzling to me how I never understood what was happening. I only realized something was wrong when the priest came to our house a few days before she died. I never asked why he was there. I intuited that something bad was going to happen. When nothing did that day, I let it slip from my mind and kept to my walking schedule with Rusty.
It was that following Thursday that my Uncle met me after school. I was in fourth grade and nobody had ever met me after school in all those years. That my mother was dead flashed in my mind like a billboard announcement. He stopped to buy me an ice cream. Then we walked home in silence. When we were home I was taken upstairs to my Aunt's flat. I sat in the kitchen waiting for something to happen. Soon my Uncle told me to follow him downstairs where I lived. My grandmother sat across from my father, her eyes red and swollen. My dad was in his usual chair. He looked at me and said simply mommy was dead.
I got Rusty's leash and took her outside. Several friends came up to me. I was a mini-celebrity. No one had seen a dead body taken from a home before. The goal obviously had been for my Uncle to keep me from accidentally seeing my mother being taken away in a hearse covered by a sheet. I left Rusty at home and went to play with my friends. For once I was the center of attention, the hero of our game. Rusty sat at home, no one paying attention to her.
As the years passed my walks with Rusty became fewer as I spent my time on other things. My dad was never the disciplinarian my mother had been, so my promise to take care of Rusty was easily broken. When I came home from college I gave her a pat and then mostly ignored her. Finally one day I received a call at school from my dad. Rusty had died. She was fourteen.
In the end, my father proved to be Rusty's best friend. Her life taught me the valuable lessons my parents tried to impart to me. A commitment needs discipline and fortitude. And loyalty is the foundation of any relationship.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Buster -- a Good Dog Gone Bad ?
There's been a run of bad luck in my building. First one of my neighbors lost her Bernese Mountain Dog to cancer at only five years old. Then another neighbor lost her Great Pyrenees, also to cancer. With the dog being thirteen my neighbor thought she was prepared for her dog to go, as that is old for the breed. But of course you never are prepared.
Although she was really a good dog she was not popular in the building because she was large and territorial with a deep basso bark, as you would expect from a dog bred to protect cattle and property from large predators in the mountains. She loved cats, but hated the interloper Hamilton. She was possibly an odd choice for a pet given the apartment living lifestyle of
Manhattan. But then on one of my walks with Hamilton I came across another Great Pyrenees and this dog was quiet and welcoming, issuing no threats to either Hamilton or myself. What differentiated the two dogs?
Recently someone mentioned to me that he would never have a dog. He had put down two dogs, a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd, because both had attacked his wife and children. These breeds are known to be intelligent and very protective of their pack and territory. Why would they turn on people their instincts would tell them to protect?
I had had my own experience with a dog that I thought was friendly and playful. Buster was a Fox Terrier mix. My father adopted him to give my mother some comfort around the house. We lived a block from the old Union Stockyards in Chicago. When I was a child Chicago still was hog butcher to the world. With that claim came all the attendant collateral damage, primarily rodents... rats actually, often as big as cats. They would wander from the stockyards down the alley and make their way into yards and often burrow under foundations and get inside homes, at least in between the walls.
My mother gave up on hanging her laundry outside because of the odors from the packing plants. Instead she hung them up in the attic, which worked fine until a rat poked itself out from between the eaves. The discussion with my father about that experience lead to Buster becoming part of our family.
My mother went nowhere in the house or attic without him. He had a sixth sense about rats. He anticipated a rat's appearance and before the rat knew it he was on it, his jaws locked around its neck, jerking his head until the vertebrae snapped. Once, out in the yard, he followed a rat down a hole under the garage, enlarging it furiously with his front paws until only his tail showed above the grass. He finally pulled back and reappeared with the luckless vermin in his jaw. He pranced around the yard with the rat jerking in his teeth. After his victory lap he abruptly jerked his head back and forth and the rat slumped quietly in his mouth.
My father must have thought it harmless to let me think that Buster was my dog. I was five years old and learning about life from Golden Books and comics. On television were Lassie and Rin Tin Tin. And wherever there was a dog there was a little boy just like me beside him. Of course those boys were portrayed as feeding, training and working with their dogs. I was doing none of this.
If Buster was not guarding my mother he was out on the back porch where his food and water bowl were kept. Although the porch was enclosed, my mother usually kept the door closed between it and our kitchen. If she needed Buster she would open the door and call him or go out and get him on her way to the attic. My interaction with Buster was close to zero. With my father's supervision maybe I would lightly pet him. But my mother did not share my father's indulgence of a boy and his dog. To her, Buster had one purpose, which he performed admirably.
Came the fateful day. I was on the porch unsupervised. A very rare occurrence by my memory. I was always with my mother. If she went shopping I went with her. If I was playing, she was in the room, cleaning, reading or just watching me. When she went to the attic with Buster I was left with my aunt who lived above us. How I came to be on the porch with Buster unsupervised I can't imagine.
He was eating. Maybe my mother had just finished feeding him and forgot momentarily that I was out on the porch or she became otherwise distracted, possibly by something cooking on the stove. In any case I decided this would be a good time to pet Buster like I always did with my father. Buster had other ideas. He was eating. Sharing his food with a stranger, and surely he saw me as that, was not a Fox Terrier's protocol, or any dog's for that matter.
He moved as quickly towards me as he did the rats. He lept and caught my lip with his teeth. I still have the scar. I yelled out and began to cry. Buster went back to his food. My mother rushed out ashen faced.
I was rushed to the hospital where I was given a tetanus shot. My father arrived from work. He and my mother had one of their quiet conversations. The next day I asked where Buster was. My father told me he had run away. A five year old believes his father. I did not miss Buster. I know he did not miss me. Some how my mother adjusted to the rats without him. It may have helped that the stockyards were winding down in Chicago and taking the rats with them to their new location out west.
I hope Buster was happy in his new home. He only did what his upbringing and instincts led him to do. After my conversation about the two dogs that had been put down I thought about Buster and wondered if my father had brought him to the pound. If so, he would have been put down too. It would be blood on my hands.
Although she was really a good dog she was not popular in the building because she was large and territorial with a deep basso bark, as you would expect from a dog bred to protect cattle and property from large predators in the mountains. She loved cats, but hated the interloper Hamilton. She was possibly an odd choice for a pet given the apartment living lifestyle of
Manhattan. But then on one of my walks with Hamilton I came across another Great Pyrenees and this dog was quiet and welcoming, issuing no threats to either Hamilton or myself. What differentiated the two dogs?
Recently someone mentioned to me that he would never have a dog. He had put down two dogs, a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd, because both had attacked his wife and children. These breeds are known to be intelligent and very protective of their pack and territory. Why would they turn on people their instincts would tell them to protect?
I had had my own experience with a dog that I thought was friendly and playful. Buster was a Fox Terrier mix. My father adopted him to give my mother some comfort around the house. We lived a block from the old Union Stockyards in Chicago. When I was a child Chicago still was hog butcher to the world. With that claim came all the attendant collateral damage, primarily rodents... rats actually, often as big as cats. They would wander from the stockyards down the alley and make their way into yards and often burrow under foundations and get inside homes, at least in between the walls.
My mother gave up on hanging her laundry outside because of the odors from the packing plants. Instead she hung them up in the attic, which worked fine until a rat poked itself out from between the eaves. The discussion with my father about that experience lead to Buster becoming part of our family.
My mother went nowhere in the house or attic without him. He had a sixth sense about rats. He anticipated a rat's appearance and before the rat knew it he was on it, his jaws locked around its neck, jerking his head until the vertebrae snapped. Once, out in the yard, he followed a rat down a hole under the garage, enlarging it furiously with his front paws until only his tail showed above the grass. He finally pulled back and reappeared with the luckless vermin in his jaw. He pranced around the yard with the rat jerking in his teeth. After his victory lap he abruptly jerked his head back and forth and the rat slumped quietly in his mouth.
My father must have thought it harmless to let me think that Buster was my dog. I was five years old and learning about life from Golden Books and comics. On television were Lassie and Rin Tin Tin. And wherever there was a dog there was a little boy just like me beside him. Of course those boys were portrayed as feeding, training and working with their dogs. I was doing none of this.
If Buster was not guarding my mother he was out on the back porch where his food and water bowl were kept. Although the porch was enclosed, my mother usually kept the door closed between it and our kitchen. If she needed Buster she would open the door and call him or go out and get him on her way to the attic. My interaction with Buster was close to zero. With my father's supervision maybe I would lightly pet him. But my mother did not share my father's indulgence of a boy and his dog. To her, Buster had one purpose, which he performed admirably.
Came the fateful day. I was on the porch unsupervised. A very rare occurrence by my memory. I was always with my mother. If she went shopping I went with her. If I was playing, she was in the room, cleaning, reading or just watching me. When she went to the attic with Buster I was left with my aunt who lived above us. How I came to be on the porch with Buster unsupervised I can't imagine.
He was eating. Maybe my mother had just finished feeding him and forgot momentarily that I was out on the porch or she became otherwise distracted, possibly by something cooking on the stove. In any case I decided this would be a good time to pet Buster like I always did with my father. Buster had other ideas. He was eating. Sharing his food with a stranger, and surely he saw me as that, was not a Fox Terrier's protocol, or any dog's for that matter.
He moved as quickly towards me as he did the rats. He lept and caught my lip with his teeth. I still have the scar. I yelled out and began to cry. Buster went back to his food. My mother rushed out ashen faced.
I was rushed to the hospital where I was given a tetanus shot. My father arrived from work. He and my mother had one of their quiet conversations. The next day I asked where Buster was. My father told me he had run away. A five year old believes his father. I did not miss Buster. I know he did not miss me. Some how my mother adjusted to the rats without him. It may have helped that the stockyards were winding down in Chicago and taking the rats with them to their new location out west.
I hope Buster was happy in his new home. He only did what his upbringing and instincts led him to do. After my conversation about the two dogs that had been put down I thought about Buster and wondered if my father had brought him to the pound. If so, he would have been put down too. It would be blood on my hands.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Goodbye First Friend
You probably met your first friend in the sandbox, pre-school or kindergarten. Hamilton met his in the lobby of our apartment building. He was a Bernese Mountain Dog, about ten months old at the time. Hamilton was three months old, still adjusting to his new surroundings.
The Bernese was a happy, exuberant dog that loved to pounce on Hamilton, at the time half his size. Hamilton was thrilled. He rolled on the floor and sprung up, challenging the Bernese to give him all he could. They played this way whenever they met, in the lobby, outside on the street or in front of the stock exchange, which is often used by the neighborhood at night as an unofficial dog run.
The Bernese's owner would often let him off leash, making me uncomfortable as I was paranoid to do the same with Hamilton. He was a good dog and came when I called but I could not get up the confidence to let him off leash. I could only think of all that could go wrong. I began to think that my lack of confidence was a rebuke of Hamilton. He wasn't as good as the Bernese. He could not be trusted like the other dog. Or worse, a rebuke of myself. I was not as good an owner, not able to control my dog as well.
After a while I began to walk Hamilton on a different route hoping not to run into the Bernese. But try as I might we would often meet up. The Bernese would jump up and slam into Hamilton, who rolled over and over and came back for more.
One day in front of the stock exchange, blocked off to traffic since September 11th, I let go of Hamilton's leash. I stood as close to the leash as I could as it dragged on the ground, ready to step on it at a moment's notice. Hamilton played freely now, able to better parry the Bernese's moves. I knew he was a good dog. I was proud that I trusted him and, truthfully, took some self satisfaction in my ownership abilities.
Both were cold weather loving dogs. A heavy weekend snowfall that first January left the streets downtown impassable to traffic. Hamilton and the Bernese were utterly thrilled and rolled and pounced on each other in the snowdrifts, leash free and without worry.
As time passed Hamilton began to go to day care. He loved it. The Bernese's owner favored using dog walkers. I spoke to her about Hamilton's day care and even offered to take the Bernese there so he could try it out. I knew Hamilton would be thrilled, but she never took me up on it.
As time passed we ran into the Bernese less. He and his owner were often out of the city. She favored her home in the country. When we ran into them he seemed less exuberant. He was nearly a year older than Hamilton. Hamilton had made a new best friend, Sawyer, at day care.
You probably remember the same scenario in your life. Different high schools or colleges or moving to different neighborhoods and the first friend drifts away. You promise to stay in touch but time and other experiences are sponges taking up your attention. Those exciting first experiences are memories you now use on days when you are sad or just feeling blue or old.
Now when Hamilton and the Bernese met, older adult dogs, they sniffed briefly but focused on us, the owners, looking for attention and, hope against hope, a treat.
A few weeks ago I ran into the Bernese's owner, but she did not have the dog with her. I rarely saw her without the dog. She told me he had Lyme disease. At first they thought he was anemic but now thought he had been bitten by a tick in New Hampshire. He was at the vet's. A week later one of the doormen in our building said that they'd found that the Bernese actually had cancer, and that he had just been taken, bleeding badly, to the 24-hour animal hospital in Midtown.
The next morning I asked the doorman how the Bernese was doing. He said that the dog had been put to sleep. The cancer was incurable, and he would have bled to death.
Is it a blessing that I can't explain all this to Hamilton? It's clear he has left the Bernese behind in his life. I guess I won't know until one day I get a call and my sister tells me that my first friend has died. Maybe he already has. Or he's somewhere feeling old wondering whatever happened to me. Or not thinking about me at all.
The Bernese was a happy, exuberant dog that loved to pounce on Hamilton, at the time half his size. Hamilton was thrilled. He rolled on the floor and sprung up, challenging the Bernese to give him all he could. They played this way whenever they met, in the lobby, outside on the street or in front of the stock exchange, which is often used by the neighborhood at night as an unofficial dog run.
The Bernese's owner would often let him off leash, making me uncomfortable as I was paranoid to do the same with Hamilton. He was a good dog and came when I called but I could not get up the confidence to let him off leash. I could only think of all that could go wrong. I began to think that my lack of confidence was a rebuke of Hamilton. He wasn't as good as the Bernese. He could not be trusted like the other dog. Or worse, a rebuke of myself. I was not as good an owner, not able to control my dog as well.
After a while I began to walk Hamilton on a different route hoping not to run into the Bernese. But try as I might we would often meet up. The Bernese would jump up and slam into Hamilton, who rolled over and over and came back for more.
One day in front of the stock exchange, blocked off to traffic since September 11th, I let go of Hamilton's leash. I stood as close to the leash as I could as it dragged on the ground, ready to step on it at a moment's notice. Hamilton played freely now, able to better parry the Bernese's moves. I knew he was a good dog. I was proud that I trusted him and, truthfully, took some self satisfaction in my ownership abilities.
Both were cold weather loving dogs. A heavy weekend snowfall that first January left the streets downtown impassable to traffic. Hamilton and the Bernese were utterly thrilled and rolled and pounced on each other in the snowdrifts, leash free and without worry.
As time passed Hamilton began to go to day care. He loved it. The Bernese's owner favored using dog walkers. I spoke to her about Hamilton's day care and even offered to take the Bernese there so he could try it out. I knew Hamilton would be thrilled, but she never took me up on it.
As time passed we ran into the Bernese less. He and his owner were often out of the city. She favored her home in the country. When we ran into them he seemed less exuberant. He was nearly a year older than Hamilton. Hamilton had made a new best friend, Sawyer, at day care.
You probably remember the same scenario in your life. Different high schools or colleges or moving to different neighborhoods and the first friend drifts away. You promise to stay in touch but time and other experiences are sponges taking up your attention. Those exciting first experiences are memories you now use on days when you are sad or just feeling blue or old.
Now when Hamilton and the Bernese met, older adult dogs, they sniffed briefly but focused on us, the owners, looking for attention and, hope against hope, a treat.
A few weeks ago I ran into the Bernese's owner, but she did not have the dog with her. I rarely saw her without the dog. She told me he had Lyme disease. At first they thought he was anemic but now thought he had been bitten by a tick in New Hampshire. He was at the vet's. A week later one of the doormen in our building said that they'd found that the Bernese actually had cancer, and that he had just been taken, bleeding badly, to the 24-hour animal hospital in Midtown.
The next morning I asked the doorman how the Bernese was doing. He said that the dog had been put to sleep. The cancer was incurable, and he would have bled to death.
Is it a blessing that I can't explain all this to Hamilton? It's clear he has left the Bernese behind in his life. I guess I won't know until one day I get a call and my sister tells me that my first friend has died. Maybe he already has. Or he's somewhere feeling old wondering whatever happened to me. Or not thinking about me at all.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
My Mother's Purse
Recently, writing this blog has reminded me of my mother's purse. It's black patent leather with a broken handle. My sister found it when she was cleaning out my father's house after he died. It turns out he had kept all of her personal items in a closet, from clothes to jewelry, after she died when I was nine and my sister was four. She was 43. My dad was 37. He out lived her by 35 years.
My sister thought I would want one of her personal items. She kept a few things. the rest she discarded.
Inside the purse was a dried out lipstick and a compact with powder that had turned to cake. There was a handwritten note from my Aunt Marcile, concerned that her sister seemed angry about something but she didn't know why. There was also a cardboard card the size of a cigarette pack that listed her chemotherapy schedule at Billings Hospital.
The discontinuity of my mother's death is linked with the day of my grandfather's funeral two years before. I was sitting with the adults and they were talking about something I could not understand. I felt compelled to contribute to warrant my inclusion. I looked at my Uncle Joe and proclaimed him the next to die. It was perfectly logical to me as he was the oldest with the passing of my grandfather. As a student of chronology I knew this to be certain. To this day I remember every event in a straight line of causation. I know every one's age at specific life events and birthday. I identify the alphabetical sequence of letters always by starting with the letter A. As plain as that, it was undoubtedly going to be my Uncle Joe's turn to die. I was proud to show my mature understanding of the ways of the world.
The look on my mother's face showed I had broken some ineffable taboo. She scolded me, so I sat silent, confused about the rules of adults.
My Uncle Joe died 43 years after that conversation. Despite decades of alcohol and tobacco abuse he outlived my mother, my father and his other siblings by 44, 16 and 15 years respectively.
Hamilton's illness has revealed the futility of my reliance on chronology. We have had Hamilton for only four years. I expected to have many more years of adventures with him. There have been many events and incidents that I intended to portray in this blog. Until we discovered he was ill I had only covered the first year or so of our time together.
Here are some of the stories I have yet to cover:
* The death of Hamilton's nemesis, our pet cat Gus;
* The adoption of our two new cats Julio and Pitch;
* My accidentally calling the fire department when I thought Hamilton had stepped on an electrified hot spot, resulting in five fire engines arriving on the scene;
* The bar that has become Hamilton's local.
There are many other tales I wish to share. But it has been difficult to maintain a regular schedule with Hamilton's illness even though it has imposed a new, more urgent narrative to my story. I struggle with the reliving of yesterdays with the imperativeness of today. Maybe if I retrieve my mother's purse from the attic it would help.
My sister thought I would want one of her personal items. She kept a few things. the rest she discarded.
Inside the purse was a dried out lipstick and a compact with powder that had turned to cake. There was a handwritten note from my Aunt Marcile, concerned that her sister seemed angry about something but she didn't know why. There was also a cardboard card the size of a cigarette pack that listed her chemotherapy schedule at Billings Hospital.
The discontinuity of my mother's death is linked with the day of my grandfather's funeral two years before. I was sitting with the adults and they were talking about something I could not understand. I felt compelled to contribute to warrant my inclusion. I looked at my Uncle Joe and proclaimed him the next to die. It was perfectly logical to me as he was the oldest with the passing of my grandfather. As a student of chronology I knew this to be certain. To this day I remember every event in a straight line of causation. I know every one's age at specific life events and birthday. I identify the alphabetical sequence of letters always by starting with the letter A. As plain as that, it was undoubtedly going to be my Uncle Joe's turn to die. I was proud to show my mature understanding of the ways of the world.
The look on my mother's face showed I had broken some ineffable taboo. She scolded me, so I sat silent, confused about the rules of adults.
My Uncle Joe died 43 years after that conversation. Despite decades of alcohol and tobacco abuse he outlived my mother, my father and his other siblings by 44, 16 and 15 years respectively.
Hamilton's illness has revealed the futility of my reliance on chronology. We have had Hamilton for only four years. I expected to have many more years of adventures with him. There have been many events and incidents that I intended to portray in this blog. Until we discovered he was ill I had only covered the first year or so of our time together.
Here are some of the stories I have yet to cover:
* The death of Hamilton's nemesis, our pet cat Gus;
* The adoption of our two new cats Julio and Pitch;
* My accidentally calling the fire department when I thought Hamilton had stepped on an electrified hot spot, resulting in five fire engines arriving on the scene;
* The bar that has become Hamilton's local.
There are many other tales I wish to share. But it has been difficult to maintain a regular schedule with Hamilton's illness even though it has imposed a new, more urgent narrative to my story. I struggle with the reliving of yesterdays with the imperativeness of today. Maybe if I retrieve my mother's purse from the attic it would help.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
A Walk Deferred
The reflection in the bathroom mirror is me and yet not. If I were looking into a pool of water I'd place my hand into it and stir it up and start over.
Inside, where I register the aches and pains, I acknowledge my chronology. Outside I am building a facade with the help of my barber, a better diet and my exercise regimen. Hamilton, my dog, is integral to this external development. Since we adopted him almost four years ago I have lost over 160 pounds, the average weight of entire races of people. People were always commenting on how much younger I looked. My walks with Hamilton were as responsible for my improved health as the sensible diet and my short cropped hair and beard.
Since Hamilton's heart disease was diagnosed, our walks have been ratcheted back. As he has been recuperating, I have been walking him at the frequency and the length of his endurance. We started a couple of times a day for five to ten minutes. On our walks people commented how tired he looked. Some people were surprised that he was only three-years old.
I always took my lead from him. If he wanted to go home I would immediately head that way. If he did not want to go out at all, we stayed at home. You could not miss his intentions.
The dog that could not wait to go out, who would wag his tail furiously and bound to the door the moment I picked up his leash, would now look at me with his head down, ears back and walk away to lie down. Looking at him splayed on the floor I saw what I expected too see of myself in the mirror - a person without fight, marking time with the daily passing of light and shadows.
We gradually added a third and then fourth walk and the duration and distances became more typical, averaging twenty to thirty minutes each. He was improving with the medicine. He walked with his head and ears up, a bounce to his stride. He no longer deferred his walks. Whatever we felt in the inside we were both putting up a gallant front.
Inside, where I register the aches and pains, I acknowledge my chronology. Outside I am building a facade with the help of my barber, a better diet and my exercise regimen. Hamilton, my dog, is integral to this external development. Since we adopted him almost four years ago I have lost over 160 pounds, the average weight of entire races of people. People were always commenting on how much younger I looked. My walks with Hamilton were as responsible for my improved health as the sensible diet and my short cropped hair and beard.
Since Hamilton's heart disease was diagnosed, our walks have been ratcheted back. As he has been recuperating, I have been walking him at the frequency and the length of his endurance. We started a couple of times a day for five to ten minutes. On our walks people commented how tired he looked. Some people were surprised that he was only three-years old.
I always took my lead from him. If he wanted to go home I would immediately head that way. If he did not want to go out at all, we stayed at home. You could not miss his intentions.
The dog that could not wait to go out, who would wag his tail furiously and bound to the door the moment I picked up his leash, would now look at me with his head down, ears back and walk away to lie down. Looking at him splayed on the floor I saw what I expected too see of myself in the mirror - a person without fight, marking time with the daily passing of light and shadows.
We gradually added a third and then fourth walk and the duration and distances became more typical, averaging twenty to thirty minutes each. He was improving with the medicine. He walked with his head and ears up, a bounce to his stride. He no longer deferred his walks. Whatever we felt in the inside we were both putting up a gallant front.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?
Mexiletine -- 7:30 A.M.
Lasix, Enalapril, Pimobendan, Sotatol -- 8:00 A.M.
Mexiletine -- 3:30 A.M.
Lasix, Enalapril, Pimobendan, Sotatol -- 8:00 P.M.
Mexiletine -- 11:30 A.M.
This is Hamilton's and our regimen for at least the next 30 days. His diagnosis is congestive heart failure due to underlying heart disease or dilated cardiomyopathy. The Mexiletine and Sotalol regulates his heart rhythm. The Enalaprin and Lasix help with his fluid retention and kidney function. The Pimobendan is a new drug which in trials has improved the pumping strength of damaged hearts from heart disease.
The key to Hamilton's long term survival is his body's ability to stave off the side effects of the drugs, which primarily are kidney failure, and his heart's ability to regain its muscular strength to avoid fluid congestion in his lungs.
The weakening of the heart is the primary killer of dogs predisposed to cardiomyopathy. It is so lethal in some breeds, such as Doberman Pinschers, that death is often only 30 days after diagnosis. Pimobendan is a promising drug just approved by the FDA in 2006 for dogs. In trials it has extended the life of Dobermans over a year.
Hamilton responded to the drugs well in the hospital where they were given to him at first intravenously and then in pill form. At home we at first had a hard time giving him his pills. We tried pill pockets and hiding the pills in his food. He either spit out the pills or ate around them. Worse, he began to associate certain foods with the medicine and refused to eat. We finally steeled ourselves and began to place the pills in whole form down his throat. This required us to keep opening his mouth to be sure that he swallowed them. He has a long muzzle and tongue and it is easy to lose sight of the pill as it sits in the back of his throat. He can use his tongue to either work the pill back out or to hide it inside his jaw.
Although he intensely dislikes taking the medicine he explicitly trusts us and does not show any aggression when we pry open his mouth and place our hands down his throat. He sits as we command and swallows his medicine with some encouragement from us.
Once we got our wits back, and remembered that the carrot always works better with dogs than the stick, we began to give him a reward after he successfully took his medicine. It would be an exaggeration to say that he looks forward to taking his medicine but he eagerly pops up after the ordeal is over, tail wagging, walking behind us into the kitchen where he knows he'll receive a dry beef liver or other favorite delicacy.
When we took him for an exam after his first week at home on the medicine he failed his electrocardiogram. His cardiologist, Dr. Boileau, determined that the dosage of his medicine for the heart arrhythmia needed adjustment. He wanted to stay with the Sotalol and Mexiletine because they had the best prospects for not causing kidney complications. He prescribed a 100 mg increase in the Mexiletine. Hamilton had to stay in the hospital for another two days to get readjusted to the new medicine regimen.
We took him home that Friday and he seemed happy and doing well. We gave him his 11:30 P.M. Mexiletine pill and my wife went to bed. I was too wound up so I stayed up and read. About an hour later I heard Hamilton whimpering at the foot of the bed. He was on the floor. The cedar chest at the foot of the bed blocked my view. At first I thought he was dreaming. He often moves and makes noise when he is in rem sleep.
To be safe I got out of bed and stood by him. He was on his side and his eyes were open. I laid on the floor beside him and petted him. He began to move, at first gently, then violently, jerking himself back and forth. I held his back and tried to pull him up. He could not get his legs underneath himself. He was wiggling on the floor like a fish desperate for water.
I yelled for my wife to wake up. Hamilton was dying.
I threw on some clothes, called the animal hospital and hurried down to the lobby of our building to get the luggage cart. Hamilton is 65 pounds and would be impossible to carry if he was squirming and shaking. I asked our night concierge, William Carney, to help me get Hamilton on the cart. William is the type of person you would want to have your back in a dark alley. Solid and sullen there was a reason he worked the night shift.
My wife had dressed. William followed me into the bedroom and took Hamilton in his arms and carried him out. The jerky movements had stopped but Hamilton was paralyzed and his eyes were wide open trying vainly to understand what was happening to him.
In a stroke of luck, it being a Friday night, I had been able to park in front of our building, so I didn't have to waste fifteen minutes getting the car from the garage several blocks away. Bill placed Hamilton on my wife's lap in the the back seat, and I sped off. It was 1 A.M. and pouring rain. This being New York, neither the time nor the weather kept people from clogging the streets. There were no police directing traffic so each intersection was anarchy, with cars blocking the intersection, as if life or death was at stake for the drivers to get to their restaurant or club or home or wherever, while Hamilton's literally was slipping away on my wife's lap.
She pleaded with him to hold on. He was still but his eyes were open and frightened and his breath was short and rapid. I cursed and sped through stop lights when I could. I drove as fast as possible on the wet streets, frightened that the car would spin out of control. His 24-hour Emergency Hospital was in Chelsea, three miles from our apartment in the Financial District. I had told them my fears and that we were bringing him in as soon as possible.
I kept expecting my wife to tell me to slow down. He was gone. I looked in the rear view mirror as often as I safely could to see his face. Finally I pulled up to the hospital and we carried Hamilton to the door. It was locked. I pushed the buzzer. No one came. I pushed it again. A nurse cautiously came to the inside door. Wet and leaden I felt Hamilton slipping from my grip. She buzzed us inside.
I explained Hamilton could not walk. My wife sped through his medical history. A doctor had arrived and had heard what she had said. The doctor said to place Hamilton on the floor. He splayed out like Bambi on the icy pond. He squirmed and whimpered. We pulled him to the intensive care unit elevator. The elevator lowered him down. We sat in the lobby and waited.
The doctor returned in a half hour. She said the problem seemed to be resolving itself. He was walking in ICU, albeit wobbly. She suspected he may have suffered a series of small strokes, not uncommon she said with his form of heart disease. The next 24 hours would tell us what the prognosis would be. She said the good news was that his heartbeat was good.
We debated staying at the hospital. The doctor discouraged us, saying they would be sedating him. We sullenly went home. Exhausted, we fell asleep. When I awoke I realized it was nearly 6 A.M. and we had not received a call from the hospital. I took solace in that.
We received the diagnosis that afternoon. Hamilton had suffered a neurological episode. It was a side effect from the increased dosage of the Mexiletine. He hadn't had a stroke after all. Dr. Boileau was going to adjust the arrhythmia medicine, shifting the additional dosage weight to the Sotalol and reducing the Mexiletine to its previous amount. Hamilton could come home on Sunday. Friday night was just part of the healing process.
Lasix, Enalapril, Pimobendan, Sotatol -- 8:00 A.M.
Mexiletine -- 3:30 A.M.
Lasix, Enalapril, Pimobendan, Sotatol -- 8:00 P.M.
Mexiletine -- 11:30 A.M.
This is Hamilton's and our regimen for at least the next 30 days. His diagnosis is congestive heart failure due to underlying heart disease or dilated cardiomyopathy. The Mexiletine and Sotalol regulates his heart rhythm. The Enalaprin and Lasix help with his fluid retention and kidney function. The Pimobendan is a new drug which in trials has improved the pumping strength of damaged hearts from heart disease.
The key to Hamilton's long term survival is his body's ability to stave off the side effects of the drugs, which primarily are kidney failure, and his heart's ability to regain its muscular strength to avoid fluid congestion in his lungs.
The weakening of the heart is the primary killer of dogs predisposed to cardiomyopathy. It is so lethal in some breeds, such as Doberman Pinschers, that death is often only 30 days after diagnosis. Pimobendan is a promising drug just approved by the FDA in 2006 for dogs. In trials it has extended the life of Dobermans over a year.
Hamilton responded to the drugs well in the hospital where they were given to him at first intravenously and then in pill form. At home we at first had a hard time giving him his pills. We tried pill pockets and hiding the pills in his food. He either spit out the pills or ate around them. Worse, he began to associate certain foods with the medicine and refused to eat. We finally steeled ourselves and began to place the pills in whole form down his throat. This required us to keep opening his mouth to be sure that he swallowed them. He has a long muzzle and tongue and it is easy to lose sight of the pill as it sits in the back of his throat. He can use his tongue to either work the pill back out or to hide it inside his jaw.
Although he intensely dislikes taking the medicine he explicitly trusts us and does not show any aggression when we pry open his mouth and place our hands down his throat. He sits as we command and swallows his medicine with some encouragement from us.
Once we got our wits back, and remembered that the carrot always works better with dogs than the stick, we began to give him a reward after he successfully took his medicine. It would be an exaggeration to say that he looks forward to taking his medicine but he eagerly pops up after the ordeal is over, tail wagging, walking behind us into the kitchen where he knows he'll receive a dry beef liver or other favorite delicacy.
When we took him for an exam after his first week at home on the medicine he failed his electrocardiogram. His cardiologist, Dr. Boileau, determined that the dosage of his medicine for the heart arrhythmia needed adjustment. He wanted to stay with the Sotalol and Mexiletine because they had the best prospects for not causing kidney complications. He prescribed a 100 mg increase in the Mexiletine. Hamilton had to stay in the hospital for another two days to get readjusted to the new medicine regimen.
We took him home that Friday and he seemed happy and doing well. We gave him his 11:30 P.M. Mexiletine pill and my wife went to bed. I was too wound up so I stayed up and read. About an hour later I heard Hamilton whimpering at the foot of the bed. He was on the floor. The cedar chest at the foot of the bed blocked my view. At first I thought he was dreaming. He often moves and makes noise when he is in rem sleep.
To be safe I got out of bed and stood by him. He was on his side and his eyes were open. I laid on the floor beside him and petted him. He began to move, at first gently, then violently, jerking himself back and forth. I held his back and tried to pull him up. He could not get his legs underneath himself. He was wiggling on the floor like a fish desperate for water.
I yelled for my wife to wake up. Hamilton was dying.
I threw on some clothes, called the animal hospital and hurried down to the lobby of our building to get the luggage cart. Hamilton is 65 pounds and would be impossible to carry if he was squirming and shaking. I asked our night concierge, William Carney, to help me get Hamilton on the cart. William is the type of person you would want to have your back in a dark alley. Solid and sullen there was a reason he worked the night shift.
My wife had dressed. William followed me into the bedroom and took Hamilton in his arms and carried him out. The jerky movements had stopped but Hamilton was paralyzed and his eyes were wide open trying vainly to understand what was happening to him.
In a stroke of luck, it being a Friday night, I had been able to park in front of our building, so I didn't have to waste fifteen minutes getting the car from the garage several blocks away. Bill placed Hamilton on my wife's lap in the the back seat, and I sped off. It was 1 A.M. and pouring rain. This being New York, neither the time nor the weather kept people from clogging the streets. There were no police directing traffic so each intersection was anarchy, with cars blocking the intersection, as if life or death was at stake for the drivers to get to their restaurant or club or home or wherever, while Hamilton's literally was slipping away on my wife's lap.
She pleaded with him to hold on. He was still but his eyes were open and frightened and his breath was short and rapid. I cursed and sped through stop lights when I could. I drove as fast as possible on the wet streets, frightened that the car would spin out of control. His 24-hour Emergency Hospital was in Chelsea, three miles from our apartment in the Financial District. I had told them my fears and that we were bringing him in as soon as possible.
I kept expecting my wife to tell me to slow down. He was gone. I looked in the rear view mirror as often as I safely could to see his face. Finally I pulled up to the hospital and we carried Hamilton to the door. It was locked. I pushed the buzzer. No one came. I pushed it again. A nurse cautiously came to the inside door. Wet and leaden I felt Hamilton slipping from my grip. She buzzed us inside.
I explained Hamilton could not walk. My wife sped through his medical history. A doctor had arrived and had heard what she had said. The doctor said to place Hamilton on the floor. He splayed out like Bambi on the icy pond. He squirmed and whimpered. We pulled him to the intensive care unit elevator. The elevator lowered him down. We sat in the lobby and waited.
The doctor returned in a half hour. She said the problem seemed to be resolving itself. He was walking in ICU, albeit wobbly. She suspected he may have suffered a series of small strokes, not uncommon she said with his form of heart disease. The next 24 hours would tell us what the prognosis would be. She said the good news was that his heartbeat was good.
We debated staying at the hospital. The doctor discouraged us, saying they would be sedating him. We sullenly went home. Exhausted, we fell asleep. When I awoke I realized it was nearly 6 A.M. and we had not received a call from the hospital. I took solace in that.
We received the diagnosis that afternoon. Hamilton had suffered a neurological episode. It was a side effect from the increased dosage of the Mexiletine. He hadn't had a stroke after all. Dr. Boileau was going to adjust the arrhythmia medicine, shifting the additional dosage weight to the Sotalol and reducing the Mexiletine to its previous amount. Hamilton could come home on Sunday. Friday night was just part of the healing process.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
A Heart Too Large
Canine cardiomyopathy occurs in dogs between the ages of four and ten years. It occurs more often in large dogs and is often congenital. It is more common in certain breeds such as German Shepherds, Doberman Pinchers and Golden Retrievers. Hamilton will be four years old in May. He is 65 pounds and, among other types, is largely German Shepherd. He was diagnosed with Canine Cardiomyopathy on March 30.
It started with a light cough in February that lasted into March. In addition, he would sometimes balk at walking and didn't have the same enthusiasm for playing as he once had. We went on a brief vacation in March and when we returned the cough was getting more frequent and deeper. We made an appointment with his vet who at first thought it was a virus or an allergy. During the check up she noticed a change in his heartbeat from his last visit.
She suggested having it checked out before we treated the cough as she didn't want to prescribe the wrong type of medicine for the cough if there was a heart issue to take into consideration. She said I should not worry because he was in good health and there wasn't likely to be anything serious. Let's just get that heart rhythm checked just to be certain. Hamilton sat on the scale in her office, his head cocked upwards in that quixotic gesture he often takes when he's trying to figure something out.
We were able to get him an appointment for that Sunday to have an electrocardiogram and ultra sound done of his heart. Nothing to worry about, just to check.
We dropped him off at 9 A.M. The night before he had slept in the bathroom, unusual for him, seeking a darker, cooler spot than our bedroom. Walking him to the car he had to stop three times because of his coughing. After breakfast we waited at home. The call came at 11:30 A.M. Hamilton was at risk of sudden death. His heart was enlarged resulting in congestive heart failure. The cough was the result of the fluids building up in his lungs. The Tribeca Animal Hospital had called a canine cardiologist in Chelsea and strongly recommended we take Hamilton there immediately. They had already forwarded the exam results.
We rushed him to the Fifth Avenue Veterinary Specialists and 24-Hour Emergency Care Facility in Chelsea. He was now under the care of Dr. Jean-Sebastien Boileau, DVM, DACVIM ( Cardiology ). My wife and I were now incidental to Hamilton's life.
It started with a light cough in February that lasted into March. In addition, he would sometimes balk at walking and didn't have the same enthusiasm for playing as he once had. We went on a brief vacation in March and when we returned the cough was getting more frequent and deeper. We made an appointment with his vet who at first thought it was a virus or an allergy. During the check up she noticed a change in his heartbeat from his last visit.
She suggested having it checked out before we treated the cough as she didn't want to prescribe the wrong type of medicine for the cough if there was a heart issue to take into consideration. She said I should not worry because he was in good health and there wasn't likely to be anything serious. Let's just get that heart rhythm checked just to be certain. Hamilton sat on the scale in her office, his head cocked upwards in that quixotic gesture he often takes when he's trying to figure something out.
We were able to get him an appointment for that Sunday to have an electrocardiogram and ultra sound done of his heart. Nothing to worry about, just to check.
We dropped him off at 9 A.M. The night before he had slept in the bathroom, unusual for him, seeking a darker, cooler spot than our bedroom. Walking him to the car he had to stop three times because of his coughing. After breakfast we waited at home. The call came at 11:30 A.M. Hamilton was at risk of sudden death. His heart was enlarged resulting in congestive heart failure. The cough was the result of the fluids building up in his lungs. The Tribeca Animal Hospital had called a canine cardiologist in Chelsea and strongly recommended we take Hamilton there immediately. They had already forwarded the exam results.
We rushed him to the Fifth Avenue Veterinary Specialists and 24-Hour Emergency Care Facility in Chelsea. He was now under the care of Dr. Jean-Sebastien Boileau, DVM, DACVIM ( Cardiology ). My wife and I were now incidental to Hamilton's life.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Lucky, the Dog with No Name
It was my idea to call the hunched dog Lucky. The man holding its leash, wearing a cotton embroidered coat with an upside down, saucer-shaped hat held tightly at his chin, looked puzzled. Two golden lab mixes circled his feet off leash. As Hamilton and I approached them walking through the Seaport I thought it curious that he had two dogs off leash but the black dog was held tight and muzzled. On a warm night I wasn't surprised to see another dog walker.
He projected confidence and comfort with his dogs. Given his outfit I thought he came from Chinatown on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge. He seemed over dressed for the heat. But maybe there was something to dressing warm for warm weather. I was dressed in a tee shirt, shorts and sandals and was sweating profusely after a half hour walk. The man looked impeccable if curiously dressed. Hamilton, showing solidarity, extended his tongue in a sympathetic gesture.
He is a social dog so I knew he wanted to make friends with the new dogs. As we came closer the man warned me off. He said the black dog could not be trusted. He was just becoming comfortable with the two lab mixes who seemed protective. The black dog continued to pull back from us, curling lower as if to will himself smaller. The man told us his story.
He was kept outside tied to a pole with two bowls which were infrequently filled with water and food. What happened in inclement weather the man did not know. Finally someone called the Humane Society. The dog was difficult to approach but he was rescued and the man agreed to take him knowing he would be a difficult dog. He had had success before with troubled dogs and was taken by the challenge the dog's circumstances presented. As he spoke the two off leash dogs continued to stand by his side shielding the black dog from Hamilton and me.
It was then I asked for the dog's name. The man said he had no name. He said there were other priorities for the dog, and anyway, what name could you give him? That's when I blithely said,
" You could call him Lucky."
"You could call him Lucky," the man repeated. He called his dogs to him and walked away with the black dog trailing behind. I wanted to say something but was dumbstruck by my facetiousness.
Hamilton and I often walk in the Seaport, particularly in warm weather. We have never seen the man or his dogs again. Maybe he thought it better not to walk on the other side of the bridge where a dog could be called Lucky just because someone treated it with kindness and decency.
He projected confidence and comfort with his dogs. Given his outfit I thought he came from Chinatown on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge. He seemed over dressed for the heat. But maybe there was something to dressing warm for warm weather. I was dressed in a tee shirt, shorts and sandals and was sweating profusely after a half hour walk. The man looked impeccable if curiously dressed. Hamilton, showing solidarity, extended his tongue in a sympathetic gesture.
He is a social dog so I knew he wanted to make friends with the new dogs. As we came closer the man warned me off. He said the black dog could not be trusted. He was just becoming comfortable with the two lab mixes who seemed protective. The black dog continued to pull back from us, curling lower as if to will himself smaller. The man told us his story.
He was kept outside tied to a pole with two bowls which were infrequently filled with water and food. What happened in inclement weather the man did not know. Finally someone called the Humane Society. The dog was difficult to approach but he was rescued and the man agreed to take him knowing he would be a difficult dog. He had had success before with troubled dogs and was taken by the challenge the dog's circumstances presented. As he spoke the two off leash dogs continued to stand by his side shielding the black dog from Hamilton and me.
It was then I asked for the dog's name. The man said he had no name. He said there were other priorities for the dog, and anyway, what name could you give him? That's when I blithely said,
" You could call him Lucky."
"You could call him Lucky," the man repeated. He called his dogs to him and walked away with the black dog trailing behind. I wanted to say something but was dumbstruck by my facetiousness.
Hamilton and I often walk in the Seaport, particularly in warm weather. We have never seen the man or his dogs again. Maybe he thought it better not to walk on the other side of the bridge where a dog could be called Lucky just because someone treated it with kindness and decency.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Arcadia
In the best of all possible worlds my dog, Hamilton, would run through grass so tall only his tail would show. He'd roll in clover and stand on hills barking at the sun. But the world we live in is the one we are trying to make the best of. So Hamilton goes to doggie-day care most days of the week. There he can play with other dogs and use up his energy so my wife and I can reserve ours.
Issac, the dog driver who drove Hamilton to his puppy training classes and who Hamilton adores, recommended Paws in Chelsea to us. He said they had an impeccable reputation for being dog centric. No cages, sensitivity to dog temperaments and careful screening of clients. They were even selected the best dog care facility in New York by New York magazine in its Best of New York feature in 2007.
Hamilton has been going to Paws since we adopted him in 2004. He is segregated with the large, active dogs. Each dog at Paws is segregated with other dogs of the same size and temperament. each play room has a supply of toys, couches and beds for resting and a television for diversion. The dogs are taken out by the staff for individual play sessions and for walks. There is a dog groomer on the premises and they will also make arrangements for a veterinary visit and will administer medicine provided by owners. They do overnight and longer term boarding, not only for dogs but also for cats.
One of the most generous services they provide is that they take in strays and abandoned dogs and cats. The rescued animals receive medical attention and shots and their care is provided until they are adopted. Two of our cats were adopted from Paws in Chelsea as little kittens: Julio, a tabby, was found by a staff member roaming the streets of East Harlem, a scrawny three-month old feral cat; Pitch, black as coal , was found at only six weeks old abandoned on the subway.
Paws has taken in dogs and cats in all shapes and conditions, some missing limbs. The care and decency they show these unfortunate animals is duplicated in their care of their day care clients. Next to his own home, Paws is Hamilton's favorite place on this earth. He knows each route I take to drive us there, and as he gets closer, he gets progressively more excited so that by the time he is within a couple of blocks he is barking and howling in the car announcing his arrival.
Recently, the Paws team has expanded into Soho which is closer to our apartment in the Financial District. Hamilton has adjusted well, making new friends and embracing the staff, many of whom were originally at the Chelsea location.
One staff member mentioned that one of Hamilton's best friends at Chelsea, a pit bull mix, has had a difficult time finding another dog he feels comfortable playing with. After consultations with my wife and Hamilton we decided that Hamilton would split his time between the two locations.
Now, driving him back to Chelsea, head out the window, ears back in the wind, I can hear in his voice the cry of a loyal pack member to one of his own, " I'm a coming! I'm a coming !"
Issac, the dog driver who drove Hamilton to his puppy training classes and who Hamilton adores, recommended Paws in Chelsea to us. He said they had an impeccable reputation for being dog centric. No cages, sensitivity to dog temperaments and careful screening of clients. They were even selected the best dog care facility in New York by New York magazine in its Best of New York feature in 2007.
Hamilton has been going to Paws since we adopted him in 2004. He is segregated with the large, active dogs. Each dog at Paws is segregated with other dogs of the same size and temperament. each play room has a supply of toys, couches and beds for resting and a television for diversion. The dogs are taken out by the staff for individual play sessions and for walks. There is a dog groomer on the premises and they will also make arrangements for a veterinary visit and will administer medicine provided by owners. They do overnight and longer term boarding, not only for dogs but also for cats.
One of the most generous services they provide is that they take in strays and abandoned dogs and cats. The rescued animals receive medical attention and shots and their care is provided until they are adopted. Two of our cats were adopted from Paws in Chelsea as little kittens: Julio, a tabby, was found by a staff member roaming the streets of East Harlem, a scrawny three-month old feral cat; Pitch, black as coal , was found at only six weeks old abandoned on the subway.
Paws has taken in dogs and cats in all shapes and conditions, some missing limbs. The care and decency they show these unfortunate animals is duplicated in their care of their day care clients. Next to his own home, Paws is Hamilton's favorite place on this earth. He knows each route I take to drive us there, and as he gets closer, he gets progressively more excited so that by the time he is within a couple of blocks he is barking and howling in the car announcing his arrival.
Recently, the Paws team has expanded into Soho which is closer to our apartment in the Financial District. Hamilton has adjusted well, making new friends and embracing the staff, many of whom were originally at the Chelsea location.
One staff member mentioned that one of Hamilton's best friends at Chelsea, a pit bull mix, has had a difficult time finding another dog he feels comfortable playing with. After consultations with my wife and Hamilton we decided that Hamilton would split his time between the two locations.
Now, driving him back to Chelsea, head out the window, ears back in the wind, I can hear in his voice the cry of a loyal pack member to one of his own, " I'm a coming! I'm a coming !"
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Walking the Dog
I was given my own bedroom when I was nine years old. It was an eight by ten foot room with no door off the kitchen, next to the bathroom. It was quite a privilege as our entire flat was about twelve hundred square feet for my parents, my little sister and myself. My parents had originally used it for storage before my father squeezed a single bed into it. He also managed to fit two tall chests for my clothes.
I immediately sequestered myself in my room and sat in my bed reading my comic books and broadcasting my imaginary variety show which was a combination adventure program featuring my comic book heroes and sport show relating the exploits of my beloved White Sox.
A year after I had moved into my own room my mother passed away. At first my sister and I were moved upstairs to stay with my aunt and her family while my father sorted things out. This was good for me as I became frightened about being downstairs. Eventually we did come back to our flat and I returned to my room. But there was an addition. A television now sat on one of the chests. My own television to watch what I wanted when I wanted.
I couldn't wait for the weekends. My father let me stay up as late as I wanted as it was not a school night. I doubt my mother would have approved of this arrangement. On Friday and Saturday nights the only light you would see from our flat late into the night was often the blue-hue of my television screen. On these nights I was introduced to the movies that are now considered cult classics.
Coming on after midnight The Late, Late Show televised old movies from the 1930s and 1940s. I would watch the Marx Brothers, Humphrey Bogart, Fred Astaire and so many others until dawn. I felt so grown up watching these movies when so many others were sleeping I saw myself as a sophisticate like the people being portrayed on the tube. I couldn't wait on those weekend nights for the strange tune that announced the beginning of The Late, Late Show's broadcast.
Walking the Dog was composed by George Gershwin in 1937 for a Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers musical Shall We Dance. Of course I had no clue about this history back then. I just knew that the tune, with its metronome beat, announced my favorite show, despite its strange time of day. The tunes soft, insistent beat, reinforced my sense of time elapsing. I always watched the movies with an eye on the clock, dreading the coming of dawn and the last credits before the station segued to its morning programming.
Now the night time ritual I look forward to is walking Hamilton. I love my evenings walking with him through the quiet streets. Dog trainers emphasize how important it is to regularly walk your dog. It establishes your role as pack leader and reinforces those bonds so important to a dog's psyche.
Particularly during our evening walks I am reminded about how special it is that I have Hamilton as my companion. He stays at my side, ears back, following my pace and commands as we maneuver through the warren of downtown Manhattan streets. When he does something good, like stopping and sitting at street corners until I tell him its safe to cross, he looks up at me with bright eyes, his tale wagging. I fulfill my role of protector and leader and give him a treat and he fulfills his, eagerly taking it from my hand before starting off looking for some other way to please me. And all the time Walking the Dog plays in my head as clearly as if it were on my I-Pod.
I immediately sequestered myself in my room and sat in my bed reading my comic books and broadcasting my imaginary variety show which was a combination adventure program featuring my comic book heroes and sport show relating the exploits of my beloved White Sox.
A year after I had moved into my own room my mother passed away. At first my sister and I were moved upstairs to stay with my aunt and her family while my father sorted things out. This was good for me as I became frightened about being downstairs. Eventually we did come back to our flat and I returned to my room. But there was an addition. A television now sat on one of the chests. My own television to watch what I wanted when I wanted.
I couldn't wait for the weekends. My father let me stay up as late as I wanted as it was not a school night. I doubt my mother would have approved of this arrangement. On Friday and Saturday nights the only light you would see from our flat late into the night was often the blue-hue of my television screen. On these nights I was introduced to the movies that are now considered cult classics.
Coming on after midnight The Late, Late Show televised old movies from the 1930s and 1940s. I would watch the Marx Brothers, Humphrey Bogart, Fred Astaire and so many others until dawn. I felt so grown up watching these movies when so many others were sleeping I saw myself as a sophisticate like the people being portrayed on the tube. I couldn't wait on those weekend nights for the strange tune that announced the beginning of The Late, Late Show's broadcast.
Walking the Dog was composed by George Gershwin in 1937 for a Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers musical Shall We Dance. Of course I had no clue about this history back then. I just knew that the tune, with its metronome beat, announced my favorite show, despite its strange time of day. The tunes soft, insistent beat, reinforced my sense of time elapsing. I always watched the movies with an eye on the clock, dreading the coming of dawn and the last credits before the station segued to its morning programming.
Now the night time ritual I look forward to is walking Hamilton. I love my evenings walking with him through the quiet streets. Dog trainers emphasize how important it is to regularly walk your dog. It establishes your role as pack leader and reinforces those bonds so important to a dog's psyche.
Particularly during our evening walks I am reminded about how special it is that I have Hamilton as my companion. He stays at my side, ears back, following my pace and commands as we maneuver through the warren of downtown Manhattan streets. When he does something good, like stopping and sitting at street corners until I tell him its safe to cross, he looks up at me with bright eyes, his tale wagging. I fulfill my role of protector and leader and give him a treat and he fulfills his, eagerly taking it from my hand before starting off looking for some other way to please me. And all the time Walking the Dog plays in my head as clearly as if it were on my I-Pod.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
First Snow
Among the many breeds of dog that are Hamilton's ancestors is a breed with webbed paws. Early on my wife and I noticed the webbing between his three toes and anticipated a water dog happy to frolic in lakes and streams. Not.
And it's not just bodies of water he abhors. He hates rain fall of any type. Drizzles to down pours cause the same reaction -- " I'm not budging an inch. I want to go home."
On the other hand, snow he loves. We was eight months old when he experienced his first snow fall. Nearly a foot of snow fell on the city. It came down so fast that the city had to prioritize clean up and the Financial District of Manhattan, where we live, fell to the bottom. It was a weekend and traffic was expected to be light.
On those rare winter days when there is heavy snow in the city it is a spiritual sensation to be outside. The stillness of the Financial District is eerie in this constantly rebuilding quarter of narrow, colonial- designed streets. The storm left a shining cover of snow, clean and white.
Hamilton pounced on the snow in delight again and again. Joyfully he threw himself into the snow drifts covering the silent streets. From above you would have seen two dark figures spotting the snow cover; one figure standing still, the other disappearing and then breaking through the snow, leaving a trail of indentations.
You would have seen Hamilton stop and patiently wait for me. I would use his trail to navigate the deep snow towards him, then bend down and hold him tight. Soon the snow would melt, the traffic would be back and there would be rain.
And it's not just bodies of water he abhors. He hates rain fall of any type. Drizzles to down pours cause the same reaction -- " I'm not budging an inch. I want to go home."
On the other hand, snow he loves. We was eight months old when he experienced his first snow fall. Nearly a foot of snow fell on the city. It came down so fast that the city had to prioritize clean up and the Financial District of Manhattan, where we live, fell to the bottom. It was a weekend and traffic was expected to be light.
On those rare winter days when there is heavy snow in the city it is a spiritual sensation to be outside. The stillness of the Financial District is eerie in this constantly rebuilding quarter of narrow, colonial- designed streets. The storm left a shining cover of snow, clean and white.
Hamilton pounced on the snow in delight again and again. Joyfully he threw himself into the snow drifts covering the silent streets. From above you would have seen two dark figures spotting the snow cover; one figure standing still, the other disappearing and then breaking through the snow, leaving a trail of indentations.
You would have seen Hamilton stop and patiently wait for me. I would use his trail to navigate the deep snow towards him, then bend down and hold him tight. Soon the snow would melt, the traffic would be back and there would be rain.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Leader of the Pack
I believe that to survive abandonment a dog has to have an Alpha personality. It seems illogical to me that a Beta dog would easily survive predators, lack of food and the elements.
My wife is certain that Hamilton has a Beta personality. This misconception comes from two sources. The first was our misconceived personality test when we adopted him. We had attempted to place him on is back to see if he would tolerate having his belly exposed. We figured a more passive dog would allow this.
When we put him on his back Hamilton rolled from one side to another. Having fallen in love with him from first sight we took this as a passing grade. In hindsight he probably presumed this was a game we were playing with him. After all, the rest of the dogs in the shelter had spent days trampling over him, the smallest dog in the pack. He seemed to revel in this hazing exercise as a form of acceptance. I guess he knew from first hand experience or instinct the difference between how the pack would accept or reject him. The first entailed trampling but the latter would entail much biting. If we wanted to join in the trampling he was happy to oblige.
The second source of her misconception was Hamilton's sweet personality. He is a happy dog. We are doing the best we can to give him a secure and nurturing home. He was also fortunate that he was never separated from his mother as an infant. The people at the NJ Collie Rescue and Referral organization who rescued him were also very care giving and he and the other dogs lived in the shelter in a comfortable environment free to roam without cages and the fear they reinforce in a confused, lost animal.
I think Hamilton is a benign or gentle Alpha -- Richard the Lion Heart rather than Prince John. Or to take the analogy further think Robin Hood himself. I draw this comparison based on Hamilton's interactions with some of the other dogs in our building. His first meetings with these dogs were similar to the meetings of Robin Hood with his Merry Men in the 1930's movie.
In one scene Robin crosses a river on a log bridge which only allows one person to pass at a time. Unfortunately, Little John, hardly a little man, is also attempting to cross from the other side. Robin, being cocky and impetuous, challenges Little John to retrace his steps so he can pass. Little John at first shows some patience, but when Robin refuses to recognize that he had begun to cross the log first a fight ensues. Battling with their staffs Robin initially gains the advantage. His arrogance catches up with him and Little John slaps him into the river. Being adaptable and seemingly a good sport Robin offers Little John his hand in reconciliation. Foolishly, Little John trusts him and Robin pulls him into the river. Thus a great friendship is forged.
Hamilton met his Little John in the lobby of our building in a large Bernese Mountain Dog puppy that was a few months older than he was. The two pups took each others measure as we walked to the gate where only one of the dogs with his owner could pass. The Belgian was a good foot taller at the shoulder and at least forty pounds heavier. Hamilton smelled his rear and took his position with his front paws down and rear end up and barked the challenge. The Bernese responded with a deep bark of his own and pounced on Hamilton. Hamilton collapsed, I hoped strategically, and both dogs rolled on the floor until Hamilton squirmed loose and crawled to the wall. Hamilton then ran towards the Bernese, pulled up short and stood on his rear legs, barking some sort of dog taunt. The Bernese ran over Hamilton and left him on his back as he pulled up and looked behind him at his victim. Hamilton couldn't have been more thrilled. He got to his feet and bounced around the Bernese barking his dares. The doorman looked none to pleased as the Bernese's owner and I left the dogs to their game.
Finally the Bernese ran towards the gate that lead to the stairs that take you to the outside doors. Hamilton yelped and the Bernese looked over his right shoulder. Hamilton broke to his left and made it through the gate as the Bernese spun around. From that day on Hamilton and the Bernese were fast friends. They loved the rough housing, although it always seemed that Hamilton took the brunt of the battles.
In the movie, after the confrontation with Little John, Robin Hood and his growing band of Merry Men stop a friar on the road through Sherwood Forest with the intent to rob him. But, although portly, the friar, known as Tuck, stands his own with his surprisingly expert swordsmanship and wins the respect of Robin and his men.
For Hamilton, Friar Tuck appeared in the presence of a bulldog adopted by one of our neighbors from a breeder who'd used him as a show dog. The bulldog, stout and low to the ground, walked with a confident stride on bowed legs. He was four years old and Hamilton, as a puppy, recognized a higher caste animal. Hamilton cautiously approached the bulldog and attempted to engage in some play. The bulldog immediately addressed that presumption with a snort and shrug of his broad shoulders. Hamilton took his servile position exposing his belly and the bulldog ambled over to me for a pet. Hamilton went to the bulldog's owner and received a treat. Discretion, again, rewarded the shrewd. When Hamilton sees the bulldog today he always treats him with deference, but its the type you would give an elder statesman.
Hamilton goes to doggy day care most days at Paws in Chelsea or Soho for socialization and exercise. There he's known as the dog the others rally around. He is also the dog that the staff uses to break in new dogs to the day care center. When one of his special buddies was challenged by another dog Hamilton jumped in and led the posse driving the offending dog away.
Hoping Hamilton was a Beta was important because we also had cats who where elderly at the time he was adopted. I feel we gained the best of both worlds with his Robin Hood personality. If he occasionally robs from the rich by stealing some food from the counter its a small price to pay.
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