Tugg

I love dogs.  Anyone who knows me knows I am a dog person.  I’ve had dogs all throughout my childhood and a good portion of my adult life.  There is something so wonderful and magical about a dog.  I can’t really explain it.  All animals are great, even cats, but the uniqueness of the canine is one you have to experience to appreciate.

Have you ever had a dog, or any pet for that matter, that seems connected to you?  I don’t mean lovingly following you around and staying up your ass 24/7 (I have that as well in the form of my German Shorthaired Pointer, Briscoe, whom I adore).  I mean a dog that was so emotionally and mentally in tune with you that is seemed as if it was part of you?  Sounds nuts, I know. Yet I had a dog like that.  He was a sweet red and white piebald dachshund named Tugg. 

Tugg died suddenly six days before I was admitted to the hospital for my stroke.  A few people have said his death was the stressor that put me over the edge that contributed to the stroke. I often wonder if he knew what was coming before I did. 

When we found Tugg he was at a not so reputable pet store and it was clear that he was a puppy mill dog.  Now for all you anti-puppy mill people, don’t get all huffy.  We did not go into that establishment looking for a dog, just some toys for Linus, our other dachshund, who still lives with us happily perched on his throne we like to call the couch.  I wasn’t even aware they sold puppies until we walked in.  There were those sad ass glass cages with rows upon rows of all kinds of dogs.  We looked at them for a few minutes and that’s when I saw Tugg.  He was so tiny and just sat still with his face resting on the glass.  I wanted to see him.  Reluctantly Keane let me ask the salesperson to play with him.  She picked him up and brought him out to me.  We didn’t go into one of those pens with doors, she just handed him to me.  He immediately felt heavy for his size, but not with weight but as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his little tired back.  He instantly rested his head on my shoulder, letting out a long tired sigh.  I am certain to this day, at that moment, Tugg and I both felt we were home.  I looked over at Keane with a tear in my eye knowing I could not leave him behind.  Something was off.  His back legs were weak and just hung down if not supported.  He was a little older than the other puppies there and obviously hadn’t sold yet so we got him for a discount.  $800 later (yes it was hardly a discount) we took Tugg home.  I think it was the best money we’d ever spent. 

Tugg’s background became apparent quickly.  We took him to the vet to be checked out and his back legs were so badly damaged and atrophied that the vet said with treatment and care he might walk but he’d never run.   It is most likely he spent his early weeks crammed in a cage with several other dogs unable to move.  We gave him glucosamine for his muscles and I massaged his little legs every day.  I took off work for a few days when we first brought him home to help him acclimate and also help Linus, who was almost two and an only dog thus far, get used to him.  He was a happy little dog. Everything new with Tugg gave us an inkling of what his short life was before us.  And it didn’t seem good.  For days, every time we took him in the car he cried.  He didn’t stop until we reached home again.  It wasn’t the fear of the car or being out I don’t think.  It was if he was concerned about the destination.  It finally connected for me when I called the pet shop to discuss his legs the day after we visited out vet.

The guy told me that Tugg was fine but if we didn’t like him we could bring him back for a full refund. I asked what would happen to him if we did (not that I EVER considered it for a minute). They told me they’d put him down.  They had lost money on him already.  The light bulb went on.  Someone bought this precious boy and then returned him because he was too much work.  No wonder he cried in the car.  After that call to the store, I cried.  I promised Tugg I would love him and take care of him forever. 

Over time Tugg walked freely and steadily around the house.  Within two months he was bolting up and down the stairs.  He ran like the wind.  I would take him on long walks and he flourished.  We realized over time that Tugg had a lot of physical characteristics of his breed that indicated his mother was grossly over bred.  Hence the puppy mill theory.  He had a lot of recessive genetic markers that would only show in up dachshunds that were of a ninth litter or later.  I wish I could have found his mother and cared for her too. 

Tugg had a lot of difficult habits that I easily overlooked.  When we brought him home it was clear he did not know how to disregard his own feces.  We’d come home from work and he’d be in his crate covered in it. Every single day for months.  Keane and I would call each other on the way home from work to see who would get there first.  It got to the point where I was happy to come home and see him, even though he was a smelly mess and Linus, who for a dog could be categorized as a neat freak, would be all out of sorts wondering what in the hell we are doing letting this dog smell the place up.  Shit covered and smelly, Tugg always greeted us with happy eyes, an excited tail, and shit to fling in any direction with scrappy feet.  He was such a sweet dog that it was easy to see beyond the mess.

Over time we trained Tugg to keep his crate clean.  We rewarded him with love and lots of affection.  Of course, we did figure out that he was shitting in the house and eating it to cover it up.  But like the mess in the crate we were patient with him and eventually he disposed of all of his waste outside in the grass, as was appropriate. 

Despite his training and great behavior, Tugg will be remembered by some as quite the “piddler”.  If Tugg liked you and was happy to see you when you visited, you got sprayed.  It was hysterical to me, and he was so cute and lovable that anyone he would spray, (and there were only a select lucky few), adopted a stance so they could greet him while avoiding the excitement of his urine shooting everywhere.  It was kinda gross but adorable and hysterical too. 

The thing about Tugg was he knew things.  He was very much in tune with me.  I say that a lot to describe him.  When I was sad, he sat at my feet or lay next to me. When I was afraid he would reassure me things were ok with his happy tail.  And when I was anxious, which was a lot back then, he would comfort me.  He followed me everywhere and was always ready to do as I asked and behave in a way that I needed.  Again, I know it sounds crazy but its true.  I said that Tugg was the canine manifestation of my ‘Id”, always looking for happiness and trying to protect me from my saddest and darkest parts of myself.  He always could make me smile, even when I think of him teary eyed today.

One morning I work up and got ready for work.  I went downstairs and Tugg was lying in his crate.  He was slow to get up.  He usually jumped up in the morning and ran around the house as if to greet not only us, but also every piece of furniture in the house. That day he seemed tired and moved slowly.  We thought perhaps he’d hurt his back or hip, as he ran around like crazy all the time.  I always used to think Tugg ran a lot because the vet told us he never would.  His legs seemed to give him lots of freedom.  I also like to think he ran because he was stubborn and wanted to constantly remind himself and us he could do it regardless of what anyone said.  Of course I may be projecting…

Luckily Keane was off work at that time so he was home to monitor him.  I had to go off to work and felt terrible to leave him not feeling well, but I was happy he wasn’t alone. 

The next day he was dragging a leg.  We took him to the vet who said he may have slipped a disc and gave him an anti-inflammatory and a muscle relaxer.  It didn’t help. Each day Tugg got a little worse.  By day three he couldn’t move anything but his tail. He could lift his head but we knew it was painful for him to do so.  I was distraught.  I was so upset each day that I had to go to work and leave him.  Keane was beside himself as he did a myriad of things each day to make him comfortable without success.  One day Keane managed to wrap Tugg in ice packs and the swelling was relieved enough he slept for awhile.  When I arrived home on day four, Tugg’s neck was swollen.  He couldn’t rest his head.  His chin was forced up by the swelling.  Each day I came home and he would wag his tail at the sight of me.  But on this day he didn’t.  He looked up at me as I cried. I told Keane I was not going to let him suffer anymore.  I called the vet and asked if we could bring him in to be put to sleep.

The vet, knowing what was up, said he would stay late and we could bring him in.  This was his fourth and final visit to the vet over those four days.

I wrapped Tugg in a big, soft, red fleece blanket from the couch.  It was his favorite to lie on.  I held him close to my chest, on my lap in the passenger side of the truck as we drove to the vet at seven o’clock in the evening.  I was crying hysterically.  I could not believe it was coming to this so quickly.  I looked down at Tugg and asked him, “Am I doing the right thing?”  This dog, MY dog, who barely moved anything but his tail in the past 48 ours, used every ounce of energy to pull himself up to my face and began licking me uncontrollably.  I cried harder.  It was as if he was telling me it was the right thing to do, and even in the last hour of his life he comforted me. 

We walked into the vet’s office to a full lobby of people and their dogs.  I, of course was a mess.  The nurse was waiting for us and immediately took us back to a nice quiet room that looked oddly out of place for a veterinary office.  Thank god she was there waiting because I have no idea how I would have sat among those people sobbing over my sick dog.

The room was bright but not obnoxiously so.  It had a nice soft couch where I sat and held Tugg.  It had that Rainbow Road, or whatever it’s called, poem framed on the wall. The vet came in, took one look at Tugg and said, “Wow, it appears he has advanced lymphoma.  This is the right decision, he can’t come back from this”.  It didn’t make me feel any better but it was something.  Tugg gave me all the confirmation I needed in the truck.  Maybe his immune system was compromised and that sped up the lymphoma.  Who knows.  I just knew my dog was sick and I had to love him enough to put him to rest.  

The vet explained the very easy and painless injection.  I looked into Tugg’s eyes and held him as the vet injected the syringe into his hindquarters.  I kissed him and kept telling him I loved him and that he was a good boy.   Within a few seconds he was gone. 

The nurse came in to retrieve Tugg but I was not ready.  I asked for some time. She left us alone with him and I held his little limp body for what seemed like a long time then, but not long enough looking back now.  I don’t really know how much time had passed but I was petting him under the blanket and realized he had gotten cold.  “He’s cold.” I turned to Keane.  He went and got the nurse.

When they came back into the room, I asked her what was going to happen to him. “Well”, she seemed not thrilled to be answering my question, “He will be placed in a mass cremation and disposed of in a sanitary manner”.  Mass cremation?  I looked at Keane and said, “We can’t”.  He then asked what a private cremation would cost and how his ashes would be returned to us.

By the time Tugg’s ashes came back to us, I was already hospitalized.  I read a lot of stuff on dogs and their sensory instincts.  I often wonder if Tugg knew the stroke was coming and that Keane could not take care of both of us.  I know it seems ridiculous to think that my dog somehow accelerated his own death so Keane could focus on making me well.  But that’s the kind of dog Tugg was. He was loving.  He was gentle and sweet.  He was entertaining and funny as hell.  Most of all he was grateful.  Tugg showed me everyday for five years how I could smile through anything. 

I still have Linus and Briscoe.  They are both great dogs and I know that they notice Tugg’s absence every day, as I do.  It’s been two years and I still look at this picture next to his ashes and greet him everyday.  I like to think he is running around, wagging his tail greeting me from wherever he is as well. 

Esther

Walking is a gift.  Its one of the most apparent things about being human, being able to walk upright on two feet.  Despite what the average person thinks, it’s hard.  I suppose that’s why, like being born; we usually don’t remember how we learned to do it.  Learning to walk is traumatic, especially if you already knew how to do it once.

I completed my first half marathon in Miami Beach, FL four days ago.  I ran.  I walked.  I finished.  It took me 3 hours and 9 minutes to reach that finish line, but I did it.

Two years ago this time I was learning to walk again.  I was learning to balance, to fight against a lack of equilibrium and make myself stand upright without help.  But I needed help in the beginning.  And it came in the form of a clumpy walker I so appropriately named Esther.

I felt since walkers were for “old ladies” this one should have a proper old lady name.  I liked the name Esther and it seemed to fit.

I was still in the hospital when the physical therapist issued Esther to me.  I was first introduced to a cane, but my equilibrium was so skewed by my vision and weakness on the left side of my body, I needed something I could hold onto with both hands. So a walker it was.  The therapist had made sure Esther was a good size for my height and quickly ran me through how to use her.  For several days following I would get out of bed, assisted, and grab onto Esther white knuckling her hard padded handles as if I was driving a race car at a thousand miles an hour.  I pushed her up and down the hospital hallways relying on her to keep me safe.  I tried to not put all my weight on her but I usually did.  The therapist would walk beside me or behind me ready to grab me at any moment.  I remember thinking how ridiculous I must have looked.  A 35-year-old woman shaking and hobbling down the hall with this walker, clinging for dear life.  I just didn’t want to fall.  I was terrified of falling.  Keeping my head off the ground was a must at this point. 

Several navigation lessons with Esther ensued before I was released home.  The final lesson was stairs.  I looked at the wide hallway staircase and wondered how in the hell I was going to get Esther and me up them.  The instruction was baffling to me.

Apparently for someone with a walker to navigate stairs, you need to fold the walker, hold it sideways, and essentially use it as a cane while grasping the handrail on the stairs with your free hand.  The using both the walker and the rail, pull yourself up to each step.  Now, this doesn’t sound too difficult.  I’m sure as you read this, you can easily picture what needed to be done.  However you must lift not only your body weight upward and forward, but the walker as well.  Now, Esther doesn’t weigh a lot but it was simply an awkward method to force someone to practice.  Especially since I could barely hold myself up and centered.   I looked at the therapist as if she was speaking Swahili. I then looked at Keane, who stood there laughing because he most likely could read what was going on in the bubble above my head, and folded the walker while leaning against the stair rail.  I told my therapist that her method was simply ridiculous and proceeded to fling Esther over my shoulder like a purse, letting her rest on my back while I pulled myself up on the railing with both arms.  Both Keane and the therapist looked at me with a combination of alarm, amusement, and disbelief as I pulled myself up the entire flight of stairs.  I then told her it would just be easier to leave the walker at the bottom of the stairs and have someone bring it to me at the top.  It took too much damn energy to hold it or carry it.  Ridiculous.

Once I was home I spent a lot of time in bed.  I slept a ton.  Honestly the ICU is not a place for rest.  You get awoken every ten seconds so someone can poke you, prod you, take a vital, or give you medication.  Sleep was not something I got a good amount of in the hospital unless I was zonked out on meds or simply so fatigued I passed out for half a day. Which I am sure happened on a few occasions.  Being home was different.  It was so quiet.  Even with two dogs, the house felt like it was always silent.  Our bedroom was kept dark as I was, and always have been, visually sensitive to light. I was able to rest and save up some energy for the weeks of occupational and physical therapy that awaited me.   Esther stayed right by my bed, but I must admit I used her very little at first.  Partially because I could not move quickly enough to get to her situated and hit the bathroom in time, but mostly because it was easier to call Keane and have him just carry me.  Thinking that as I write this now I feel a bit bad about being lazy.  I should have made more effort to use Esther at home that first week, but I simply did not want to be bothered with her. Not too mention Keane could have broken his back hauling me back and forth. 

I began trucking Esther around the house. Doorways were challenging.  Stairs were also a challenge. My physical therapist asked me upon my release from the hospital if my home had stairs.  I told her two sets, one set of fourteen going from the first floor to the second and another set of fourteen going from the first floor to the basement.  She asked me if there were railings on the stairs and I told her no.   I had Keane rip out the railing when we bought the house because they were ugly and I was not putting any back in. She didn’t like that answer but Keane told her he’d install railings ASAP.  (Which of course he never did because I did not want them.)  So the stairs were tricky, but I managed.  

Esther became a brief extension of me.  I did not use her very long but she was handy when I did.  Truth is I acted as if she was a burden.  She was actually a gift.  I was grateful to have her even though I bitched about her daily.  And I know I was quite a sight pushing her around like an old curmudgeon.  I used to say, “No wonder old people were always pissed off, these things are terrible to use!”   Yet once I got used to her I let her become part of me.  I secretly enjoyed the security she provided to me and the piece of mind, albeit a small one, she might have given Keane.  

I only needed Esther for about five weeks.  Our tryst was brief, but it felt like an eternity at the time.  I was anxious to be rid of her.  When the time came I no longer needed her, I was thrilled.  Yet I could not bring myself to give her away.  I folded her up and placed her in the basement, where she still sits to this day.

As I ran in the hot sun this past weekend, thinking about the finish line, Esther came to mind.  I thought about how two years ago we met and how I hated her at first.  I didn’t want to need her.  I didn’t want to rely on her.  But I did.  And now I was running a half marathon.

Esther was not an apparatus; she was the beginning of the path to normalcy.  An inanimate hand to hold to get me to that finish line.  Although I don’t remember the first time I learned to walk, I clearly remember the second.  And I am more grateful for those memories than I can ever express. 

I completed my first half marathon in Miami Beach, FL four days ago.  I ran.  I walked.  I finished.  It took me 3 hours and 9 minutes to reach that finish line, but I did it.  Those very first steps I took towards that finish line, I took with Esther.