Leave it alone

It is my consistent  luck, combined with a bit of conscious noticing, that when I am particularly perplexed, something often comes from the animal world to provide a little perspective. I was saved again recently when Ann and I had the extraordinary honor of housesitting for our friends in a small town whose location I shall keep secret so that it remains small.
I swear this town has been frozen in time, circa 1964. The streets are wide so kids and dogs roam them, it's right by the Sound, there is one store, and throughout a whole long weekend I did not hear one grass blower. Even the occasional lawnmower seemed to blend in with the sound of the wind and the water and happily buzzing bees.

We found ourselves there because of the odd phenomenon that if you know how to give rectal valium to a dog your stock goes up—at least with certain dog owners. And so we came to be hosted for a lovely weekend by dog Fox and cat MC.
MC let us share the loft.

While we were a little nervous to be on deck for a dog with seizures again, we also knew too well what it’s like to try to get away for awhile when your dog might need rectal valium quite suddenly. All we knew was that Fox had a brain tumor that had caused two seizures, but they'd been easily traceable to heat and stress. Fox merely had a little trouble walking, was all. The house turned out to be a log cabin, by the water, and within two hours' drive. We were sold.
When we wandered up the driveway we were greeted by loud barking. We grinned and entered the yard where a white dog leapt to his feet, fell, lurched in our direction, fell, then lurched a few feet more before we simply came to him, calling his name, letting him smell us. I have to admit we also did the classic double-take to each other over his head: what have we gotten ourselves into?

That night after dinner Holly took us around the neighborhood with Fox. Every 10 feet or so she’d haul him up by his harness when he fell, or head him off if he got too near a ditch. All the while she nonchalantly kept up a steady patter about his care, the neighborhood, the history of the town, her cabin, and so on. The looks Ann and I shared over Fox’s head grew into alarm as we watched our strange procession cover a square mile of town, all fraught with ditches, cars, and fading light.

That night we crawled into bed in the upstairs loft with MC, with a window slightly open “so you can hear Fox in his doghouse if he has a seizure.”

We spent the night fitfully, relieved that Holly wasn’t leaving until the next morning, and clearer now why she’d demurred when we’d offered to host Fox at our own house. 

The next day as the school bus sounded in the street, Fox leapt up from his spot in the yard, lurched and fell and lurched and fell all the way out the gate to the middle of the street to greet the kids. After the bus left, Holly did, too, explaining the rest of the routine: snack then walk then sleep then snack then walk then dinner. We were puzzled as to why there was such a routine and why she seemed not to have much hand in how that went.

From the minute Holly left Fox patiently trained us. We watched him fretfully, wincing every time he fell, stunned that we could actually hear his jaw clack when he hit the pavement. Then up he’d go, lurching off, smelling everything, clearly the alpha dog about town. 

That can’t be much of a life, I thought to myself.

The poor dog, Ann thought to herself. 

A one...

a two...

...and a three!

Off we went, or rather trailed, because it soon became clear that Fox had his entire day well planned. His route was clear, and our picking him up by his harness was merely a luxury that he appreciated but could do without easily.

He never took us on the same walk twice. He’d been a feral dog and knew every inch of the territory, which turned out to be pretty large. What’s more, everyone in the neighborhood knew him and they gazed at us curiously if a bit protectively (of Fox). We figured we’d see a few pitying shakes of the head when we met the neighbors but on the contrary, everyone greeted him with gusto and loved to tell us their part of his story. Over the course of a few days I learned exactly “what kind of life” Fox has:

Dance up the street, get treats from human friends, sniff the bush where the new dog pissed, poop at the neighbors' house, investigate car—fur friend!—turn the corner using the entire intersection, drag humans up the street to the farm, listen to turkeys, smell turkeys, crest the hill in a long, diagonal lope, sniff the ditch–fur friend!—duck into the bushes for a pee, human friend—treats!—turn around slowly, training Ann and Caitlin to walk on either side for balance—cat!—play chicken with the cars, new yard, fence down, chickens! my gate! trundle in, water bowl brought up to mouth, nuther treat, find sunbeam, get scratched behind ears, pass out for a long nap, lurch out gate, pee, return and flop down, legs massaged, find shade, sleep all day—school bus!

Etc.

I am not ready to stop sniffing... 

Our routine was set by the second morning. After the long, stimulating walk Ann and I were on our own for the day to nose around the beach, find hidden paths and learn all we could from the local newsletter posted at the one store. It took me awhile to discern what exactly was different about the signs of life from those in a big city:
When something was repaired, there was only a new board, not a whole fence. Things didn't "match." Nothing was "perfect." Yards were in progress, cars might be on their last legs but were used, and in interesting configurations, neighbors stood in the street talking to one another while cars waited. And kids were in abundance, not one accessorized with ear buds or gazing down at something digital. A pile of dirt in the middle of one street slowly disappeared over the course of several days, everyone just drove around it.
The thing that had perplexed me before I left: Aging, injury, brains letting go, illness, loss, the usual things I have no control over. At the other end of the weekend a mantra emerged: leave it alone. Everything I’d been grinding away at had to do with trying to change the course of life, of nature, of time. And when you simply stop doing that stuff, what kind of life does that leave? Quite a real one. 

Thank you Fox, MC, Holly, and John for a wonderful weekend. We can’t wait to come back. 

Ready to go.

Kola

He was my buddy. A gift. A warrior on his path. 

I have written this post in my head for weeks but there is no right way to do it.

He succumbed to one final seizure, the whole thing lasted less than 90 seconds. He knew when to arrive and when to leave.

At first it was simply outrageously unfair, and all I could think about was robbery. Of future, of present, even of past, because now all memories are colored by his quick departure, the disbelief at it being about 10 years too early, if anyone were to check with me first. But then there was a shift. And there was communication. And there has been some peace. For which I am grateful. 

So he is both gone and he is here. He was both brave and a sacred clown. Looked at strictly from his point of view, he found the right house, the right people to help him do his work, and he moved leaps and bounds in a short amount of time. He wasn't in his body when he came to us. No one knew he was funny. He had no idea what it felt like to be welcomed back into the world after a seizure; it was obvious he had been punished. His gratitude was boundless, and so, soon, was ours. 

Here's another thing, and the reason I decided to say anything at all: if you ever wonder if writing a quick email or sending a card helps the grieving, it does. Ann and I are so grateful for all the outpouring of support, the words both clever and simple, the steady checking in, the endless listening to both our outrage and our joy. Thank you so much for your kindness. It always does help. 

Toksa ake, our kola Kola.

So then THAT happened...

I can't stand it; I was going to post a whole slew of stuff I've been saving up but it's been so long since I posted anything that I have to do something:

I thought when a dog had seizures you just gave him meds. I didn't realize you'd have to experiment with doses, be there every second of every day, monitor for seizures in clusters (very dangerous), learn to give liquid Valium rectally, discern between large and small, aura-extended and contracted, and a host of other happy accompaniments to epilepsy (which could also be a tumor, a reaction to vaccines or "other..." ).

I don't believe I enumerated the attending bodily fluids and I don't believe I will.

This derailed the blog for awhile but I am happy to report that at present (hearty wood-knocking) things seem to have calmed down.

Also the dog formerly known as Carlo is now called Kola. It's a long story perhaps shared in future but meanwhile call him Kola cuz he won't answer to anything else. Although sometimes we call him "Seize-y."

So Sir Kola seized 5 times in one day (prompting an overnight ER stay, aka the most expensive dog-sitting in town), four the next, then two, now none for almost a week. I never thought I'd measure time by how many seizures did not happen in an hour and then a day but there you are. We even got to take the long-awaited trip to the coast, being sure to pack our new Seize-y Kit(TM). We learned that Kola:

loves to travel in the car

would prefer riding over walking

doesn't like rain

loves to run in sprints

loves to pull dead fish from under the sand

doesn't eat the brake handle when not drugged on that one drug we can't pronounce

um, loves to ride in the car.

More soon. Seriously.

Nothing's simple

Well, you'd have to expect that if the Sullicake household got a new animal, it would turn out to be a little... special. New kid Carlo turns out to have epilepsy. Or at least that's what it looks like. Needless to say we have been thrust into the world of research, worry, relief, concern, bemusement, etc and we're still learning.

At 5:00 a.m. a week after we got him he had a seizure. It had all of the symptoms of "grand mal." Reaching over the bed in the dark to him, holding gently, waiting, watching him on his new bed convulsing. An eternal 90 seconds.

In the last week we've been getting to know him, partly by noticing what he's not and what he doesn't do. Wow, we'll say, he didn't bark at the neighbors! Oh, hey, did you notice he didn't grab food off the table? Such is the discovery process of adopting from a shelter. It's been delightful--so many things he doesn't do--we just got lucky. And then there's, oh, lookie, he's having a seizure!

When Carlo came out of it he was breathing hard, foaming at the mouth. And, a shock: he clearly did not know who Ann and I were. Total blank. What I realized a few hours later was that in our concern we had gotten all in his face, and even though he didn't know us, he didn't get aggressive or bite. If I'd come out of a seizure or even a deep sleep, I would not have appreciated someone in my face, especially from another species. (Well, I might have preferred animal over human.)

Yet another thing he "doesn't do."

So, here we are researching, weighing, and opting for something as holistic as possible without depriving him of what he needs to keep the symptoms down. But the thing I noticed this morning after we talked to the vet that I "didn't do," was for one second think, "oh what a drag this is." Not because I'm so enlightened but because there's been a shift in me lately from "oh god, not one more thing," to "this is life." It used to be that if anything unexpected happened it threw off the whole apparatus. But this is what is now. A new teacher has come to us.

Grateful yet again.