But She Was Just a Dog

After being in Charlotte a little over one year, I decided I needed a companion. I read about different breeds, consdiered my lifestyle and decided upon a mini-dachshund...aka "wiener dog." It was the days pre-internet…can you imagine?…so I scoured the paper and found some puppies for sale not too far from my apartment.

A trip around the corner found me considering a litter of adorable playful doxies …well except for one. The supposed “runt” of the litter was sitting apart from the others as they tugged at my shoelaces. Her expression seemed to reveal her opinion that her brothers and sisters were acting foolishly and she would have no part of it.

Hmm…that’s the only one not chewing on something…she’s the one for me…maybe that means she won’t chew up furniture, shoes, and whatever else I presumed to have actual worth.

A small pet carrier, a bag of puppy chow and a few toys later she was home with me. I’d always thought I’d wanted to name my future-dog “Lucy” but now that she had shown up in the present, it didn’t seem to fit the little pupp wondering around and occasionally whimpering for her mom. So, at the suggestion of my boyfriend, she became “Baxter,” and I would spend the next seventeen and a half years explaining that she was a girl. In the end, it just seemed to fit. Baxter curled up in my lap when I ate and curled up on my feet when I ironed my clothes. At two and a half pounds and eight weeks old, she fit in the palms of my hands, but she was just a dog.

We took walks, worked on leash skills and tricks. She tumbled down the hill at the apartment complex with abandon. At one point, some kids saw us from afar and asked, “Is that a pig?” But she was just a dog.

Eventually, she could perch herself on the window and watch other residents retrieve their mail from the boxes below…barking at most of them. We took naps and visited local parks. She traveled home for family visits and holidays…donning the requisite reindeer ears and Santa outfit…and appearing in the photos like a grandchild – she became known as the “granddog.” I don’t think the rest of my family really cared much for animals per se, but somehow she won their hearts. Dad always had treats for her. I began to think that he actually liked her, but just didn’t like that she was a dog.

She would ride nearly the entire six hours on my lap, sleeping, until she sensed the car slowing down or upon hearing a semi truck pass us.

Usually she got a french fry or two, and occasionally a dog biscuit from an attentive drive-through window employee. One year while we were home for Christmas and she was on my lap, my boyfriend asked me to marry him. Completely taken by surprise and suffering from a terrible headache which had been with me the entire six hours from Charlotte, I looked down and asked Baxter what she thought. She looked at him and licked his nose. I figured that was a good sign, but still, she was just a dog.

I moved to a slightly larger apartment which boasted a balcony overlooking a pond. She spent many hours watching the ducks and people below and taking naps in the sun. Sometimes it seemed she was standing guard on that balcony. After she was spayed, I brought her home and we approached the bottom of the steps to the apartment. Clearly, I was new at this because she stopped, looked up at me and I instantly realized what she was communicating, “Are you kidding, mom? There’s no way I’m climbing those steps after that surgery.” But she was just a dog.

I’m not sure any other non-professionally traveling canine had as many miles on them as Baxter. Back and forth and back and forth from Charlotte to Newport News before and after the wedding…she even flew to California to visit my sister-in-law...whom I guess was her aunt. Baxter ran, barked, played, barked, ate, barked, drank, barked, cleaned up food dropped on the floor, barked, and napped. Did I mention she barked? She was all things dog, learned lots of tricks and words – even a bit of sign language. At times when I didn’t feel well, she seemed to sense it and was content to lie in bed with me. But she was just a dog.

She touched the Pacific and the Atlantic – though she never seemed to care much for water, unless it was a filthy creek or pond. One day at Freedom Park in Charlotte she stood on the edge of the pond, leaning, leaning, leaning in an attempt to get a drink. Being so small, her neck wasn’t long enough to reach the water. Suddenly, she jumped and sank what seemed at least two feet under the surface. I screamed for my husband to get her but not yank her head off in the process as she was still attached to the leash. I can not adequately explain how large her eyes were when she emerged – terrified and clearly trying to figure out what went wrong and why that water bowl was so deep! She was quite slimey after that little dip and thrilled to be back on solid ground.

Over my 18 years in Charlotte, I’ve lived in two apartments and four houses. Baxter has been with me in each one. She journeyed with me through most of my 20’s, all of my 30’s and as I crossed the 40 year line. Baxter was my companion before I married and after I separated. I consider her to have been part of my cancer recovery and motorcycle accident rehab. She was the only roommate I ever had – before or after the marriage. But she was just a dog.

Years take their toll on us all – one way or another. Her hearing seemed to become more “selective” and it became apparent she had lost most of it except certain frequencies…and anything to do with food. Eventually she no longer stood at the top or bottom of steps in the house barking to be moved to another level. Instead, an alarming thud was heard and we realized her sight must be failing and she had tumbled down the steps. Over the years she survived ant bites, a snake bite, leaping from my arms and landing on her head, more than one tumble down the stairs and numerous escapes from the yard or leash. Somehow she kept going. Eventually around age 15, I finally asked the vet if she was surprised each year when we showed up for another check-up. “Yes. She’s like the miracle dog that just keeps going.” But she was just a dog.

The walks became slower – taking longer to go a fraction of the distance. Her days were filled with napping. We moved from a three level house to a single level bungalow after the separation. No more tumbling down the stairs, no more chasing squirrels, no more picking fights with dogs 500% her size. She had finally slowed down and I was finally beginning to heal from the horrific events of 2010. Baxter spent her days sleeping while I spent mine in physical therapy and wondering what to do about a job. We spent our nights on the sofa and I began to whisper in her ear, “I love you, Let me know when it’s time.” Was I thinking such thoughts because it had become “inconvenient” to care for her in this failing state? I didn’t want her to suffer, but I didn’t want to prolong her life for selfish reasons. She began having trouble standing when I took her outside. I would assist her however I could, but I wanted her to be happy. It began to feel as if her life was more burdensome to her than joyful. But she was just a dog.

Finally, lymphoma appeared. For two weeks, I focused on making her comfortable, but the medications didn’t seem to do very much. Briefly, softening her food with chicken stock and adding canned chicken seemed to keep her interest, but eventually that wasn’t enough. Her breathing seemed more labored. I could feel the vibration of a clock ticking. She had Five Guys fries that night.

In the morning, I called the vet, “I think I need to bring her in for another look, but this might be it.” They would see us at one o’clock. I called my ex-husband and completely broke down as I knew I would. Then I made pancakes and Baxter ate hers while sitting on my lap.

Thankfully, I was able to hold her through the entire process – snuggled in her blanket, petting her side. Then she was gone. Quietly, peacefully – the way any of us would hope for our family or ourselves. It simply looked like the deep, deep sleep I had seen so many times, and as she got older, the sleep that made my heart stop because I thought she had passed.

That weekend, I went to my sister’s house and was revived by the hugs of my nieces and nephew. As my sister and I were chatting in the kitchen, she expressed the thought that Baxter had held on until she felt like I was going to be okay – that Baxter felt she could finally rest because I was finally healing. But she was just a dog.

About one week later, I returned to the vet’s office to retrieve Baxter’s ashes. While waiting, a large dog who clearly had some years on him from the gray on his face, approached me and allowed me to pet him. His owner kept trying to sit down, but he turned around for a rump scratch, head scratch, and licked my hand as I knelt beside him relishing the contact. “He really likes you,” his owner said. I told her that I had lost my dog of over 17 years last week and she said maybe her dog was sensing that. I asked her dog’s name. “Baxter,” she replied.

But she was just a dog.

Fleas, Flatlands and Mountains

A couple of months ago, I had the good fortune to spend some time chatting with Tamela Rich about vocation, motorcycles, and the journey we call life. I first learned of Tamela through a couple of local news articles reporting on her cross country motorcycle adventure to raise awareness and funding for breast cancer research. As I read the articles prior to my own journey, I made a mental note that I should get in touch with her upon my return. How different our experiences would be!

I had been riding for three years when I threw up the kickstand, cranked up my Boulevard and pulled out of the driveway for my 4500 mile adventure. Tamela had ridden for three months. On August 8, 2010 Tamela concluded her cross country jaunt by wheeling into the parking lot of the Caribou Coffee at the edge of my neighborhood for a celebration party. That same day I returned home on Amtrak in a cervical collar with thoracic extension and my left arm in cast, brace and sling. My mother was at my side and would stay with me for the next four to six weeks as there were very few things, basic things, I could do for myself. Very different indeed.

Am I jealous of her journey as compared to mine? It would not be honest if I said no. Do I feel like my journey was a failure - on a certain level, yes I do, but the events are part of the larger picture...even if I am still so close to it that I can't quite make out what the image is. Maybe it's like those digital images that were the rage back in the '90s. In order to see the "hidden" image you actually had to sort of "un-focus" your eyes. If you tried too hard, you would never see it. You had to just let it come.

During our conversation, Tamela shared her approach to the inevitable comments that we motorcyclists hear when someone learns that we ride. Typically it's a story of a friend or loved one being seriously injured or killed. Tamela's reaction is to stop the person before they continue and ask what in the story will be of help to her - what is the take away that will make her a better, safer, more aware rider. I like that. As riders, we know the risks and for our own reasons, we choose to live with them and continue to ride. Couldn't we look at this approach and apply it to life more broadly? As we each have our own journey, aren't we constantly evaluating situations we and others encounter and using them to inform our own world-views and approaches to life? Don't we all want a little insight that will make our "ride" a little safer and more rewarding?

As we continued talking, I shared with her my experience of my first trip to Florida several years ago. Mainly, I remember that I didn't like it - at least the topography of the place. It was so flat! I actually found myself feeling a bit agitated and didn't really know why. Fast forward a year or so later and I was driving back home from the mountains in my car. Even though I was on the interstate, the route took me through beautiful vistas where trees and vegetation rose up on either side of me. The feeling was one of being completely nestled into the earth. That was it! That's what I didn't like about Flordia! Driving through the mountains made me feel connected with the earth - a part of it. Dare I even say I felt I was a part of earth that mattered. Conversely, Florida's utter flatness made me feel exposed, unprotected and totally extraneous - almost to the point of being a nuisance - as if I were a flea on a hairless dog that was going to be flicked off into oblivion at any moment. Riding a motorcycle on the backroads gave me a similar experience. When you're on a bike, you are part of the scenery. You experience temperature and weather changes, the smells of the road. You are part of time and space. When in a car, at least for me, burning down the interstate, the sensation is completely different. Instead of feeling part of time and space, I feel like I am hurdling through it - completely disconnected.

I don't want to hurdle through time and space; I don't want to be a flea. So, let's continue to share our stories with one another as long as they bring us that connection and make us all better "riders."

Peace on the Journey!