Harley: Feb 8, 1994 - June 16, 2009

Her last act was sniffing the vet's pocket and then happily gobbling 3 cookies before the sedative took hold and her head slowly nodded down until she laid her chin on the floor between her front legs, which is how she remained until the end, which was very peaceful when it came. This morning it was strange coming downstairs and not picking her up off the floor so I could give her pills disguised as treats. It was odd picking up the paper off the stoop and not having her simultaneously step over it. And its strange to be sitting here at my desk without her sprawled across her blanket breathing noisily beside me. And that's about all I am able to say about that. Here is Olivia's tribute to Harley: She will be sorely missed. Rest in Peace old girl.

The Loss of a Furry Best Friend

I remember riding home on the tube over 15 years ago, Harley, a tiny bundle of cuteness tucked first in Arron's lap and then mine as we argued like two year olds over who got to hold her. "How about Dolby?" Arron asked me, trying on a name as he looked down at her. "Dolby! Dolby!" Harley seemed oblivious. "Maybe" I said, trying to sound encouraging. But when we got home, and Harley began her nippy barking at the low rumble of a motorcycle, I finally made my suggestion for her name. "What about Harley?" I had an ulterior motive. Arron hadn't remembered telling me that he would love to name our first child Harley. I figured if we named the dog Harley, our first born would be spared. Of course the plan nearly backfired and we almost had a both a dog AND a child named Harley. During one of my first walks with Harley (after her 4 month shots) in our London neighborhood's Normand Park, near Fulham Broadway, Harley the size of a large bunny tugged on the leash ahead of me. At the park, a black dog began running towards us fast, not leaving me enough time to pick her up before the dog, a pit bull, pounced on her. After what seemed like 10 minutes of shaking, despite the dog's owner beating it with a tennis racket, Harley was dropped, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, her chest ripped to ribbons. I was in shock. A man came up to me and told me he could drive me to our vet. I didn't hesitate long enough to get the pit bull owner's info, and was suddenly in the car of a stranger. When my vet was closed, he drove me downtown to the emergency vet and waited for an hour while Harley was seen. When he could no longer wait, he handed me ten pounds for a cab ride home. I was stunned at his kindness, and at my stupidity for being so trusting. The pit bull's owner was never charged and we were left with a thousand pound vet bill. She took weeks to recover, but she did and became the happy, always smiling, quick-to-flop-onto-her-back-in-order-to-present-you-with-her-belly-for-a-pat dog who won hearts with her kind and patient temperament. She would let babies grab her ears, barely flinching, knowing that they would soon be the source of dropped cookies. When my kids were high-chair age she got porky, and I rarely had to mop. Carter used her for a pillow while he drank his bottles. Olivia began calling her "Bear." Arron was her master, while I was her keeper and slave. We all knew it. For every major event in Harley's life, it was me that was there. When she was hit by a car, it was me who drove her to the vet thinking she was dead in the back of the car and begging her to live. When Arron died and she mourned him by refusing to walk into the park, it was me who pulled her leash, or carried her. And now that she can't get up, it is me who picks her up when she barks, who cleans her when she has had another accident, and it will be me with her tomorrow, when the vet will come to our house. It took my mother-in-law coming to tell me objectively that it was time. It is time. She is miserable and I can't prolong it no longer. And while the relief will be palpable, the loss will be acute.

Magical Moments

I had dinner alone with my daughter last night. She has decided she needs to try new things, so she asked to go to a Thai restaurant. She ordered a yellow curry and I got a Pad Thai and we both enjoyed it all. What's not to love? We chatted about going to Thailand and widened our eyes at the massive ear rings, the size of golf balls in the ears of a man behind us. Afterwards we roamed Urban Outfitters and she showed me all the things she wants to buy (or more to the point, wants me to buy her). Rare are the moments I spend alone with her. Later, I took Harley outside, trying to get her to poop, so she wouldn't do it on the floor in the middle of the night, and met a jazz singer and teacher named Maggie, who fell in love with my dilapidated ball of yellow fur. Somehow, we got talking and we each revealed our losses. Hers was her fiance and brother all in one year. We talked about how lovely it was to be in "the zone" when working creatively, how hard it was sometimes to get there. For a moment, I felt a tinge of the serendipitous magic that I have been craving lately, just talking with her. I think she felt it too. This morning at 6:30, I lifted the dog off the floor, only to discover she was covered in poop, as I now was. I have already cleaned the white shag carpet and sprayed her down and I haven't even had my tea yet. Ah, the magic of life...

Barrel O Laughs

A few updates: 1. I have not killed the dog. She lumbers along and I follow picking up either her or her poop. 2. Still trying to figure out the new washer/dryer. I keep putting the duvet into the dryer, but can't seem to make it go for more than 54 minutes, so the thing won't get dry. Perhaps I should read the instructions 3. We seem to be lice free. I still do nit checks, but haven't found any for a while. Bedding is almost all clean (it has been almost two weeks!). See #2. 4. I am still slogging away with my grandfather's book. I am really struggling to figure out what the story is about, but I am determined to make it through. If anyone is up on their WWII RAF terms, drop me a line... 5. My friend Daniel wrote about my Cabin in his blog. Its a really beautiful post because he is a really beautiful writer (we took a memoir class together). I have just gotten a book to read up about renting it, cause I seem to be hemorrhaging cash at the moment, so if you are interested, let me know. 6. Still no word on my audiobook being up on Audible.com, but I will keep you posted. 7. Got told today by my financial advisor to sell everything. Trying not to panic and remain cool. All in all, still doing the single mother juggling-with-fire routine. On a tight rope. Blind. Barrel 'o Laughs.

Death with Dignity

It might be ironic that today begins the new Death with Dignity act in the State of Washington, just now, when I am up to my eyeballs in dogginess. We have an old Golden named Harley. She is 15 now and I am usually awakened two or three times a night because she needs to be picked up off the floor. I spend the entire day doing the same thing. Often she can't control her poop and so I clean that up too. Arron and I got Harley in London, after rejecting a Jack Russell Terrier for being way too small (at 8 weeks it was smaller than a tiny kitten), and a Scottie dog, known for having crabby personalities. We took one look at Harley and we were lost. We got her and on one of the first days that we were able to walk her in the park after she finished all of her shots, she was brutally attacked by a pit bull (and I barely escaped). They never found the owner and we were left with a £1000 vet bill. She was a mess, but eventually recovered. We were the typical young couple with a puppy and six months later we were pregnant. Harley stood guard over both our kids as they rolled about on the floor grabbing clumps of fur in their tiny fists. She didn't flinch. Carter used to use her as a pillow while he drank from his bottle. When Arron died, she mourned her beloved Master, refusing to go for walks in the park without him. Since then she and I have lived in guarded harmony. I don't think she has ever fully trusted me. She likes men. Can't say I blame her. I have been a pretty crabby Mistress. And now she can't get up off the floor and poops on the rugs. And I am tired. I don't know how to tell when it will be "that time." She still eats her food, still goes for very slow walks around the block with me. But is she happy? or miserable? Is it better to prolong her life so I can avoid what is sure to be hell-blown grief all over again? And what of the kid's grief? Twice now she has bared her teeth at me when I have gone to pick her up. It scared me. She has never done anything like that before (unless devouring a bone). I worry she might do it to the kids. Is it time?