Separation Anxiety

Turns out there's a downside to letting your husband handle all of the planning and communications with the animal hospital when your dog goes in for surgery: you don't find out that your dog isn't coming home that night until last minute. We're spending a night at home without Macy for the first time since we adopted her. It is definitely going to be an eerily quiet evening without the pitter-patter of her paws on the floor. We call Jack the silent assassin, but Macy is our noisy ox even though she weighs a few pounds less.

Anyway, we're told the surgery went well and provided everything goes well with her tonight she'll be home tomorrow morning. Then, depending on how long it takes her to recover--anywhere from 3-8 weeks--we'll start preparing for the next one.

Even though I haven't seen her, I'm feeling more and more confident that we made the right decision in going through with the surgery. It broke my heart to spend a few days trying to decide how much money a dog is worth. Our dogs have been our children for all of these years, but we have new priorities around the corner, and we had the fear of putting an old dog through too much in such a short span of time, but then I think about how defiant and head-strong Macy is and I know we did the right thing. I know that dog has a lot of fight left in her and I can tell she's already got big plans for the various baby blankets and toys that keep finding their way into the house if she could only reach them. She has an agenda and nothing is going to hold her back.

So tonight will be a peaceful night. We'll have a quiet dinner without the fear of a dog stealing the food from my plate, and Jack will get to remember what it's like to be an only dog. Of course, he has to stop wandering around the house, searching aimlessly for Macy first. It should be interesting to say the least.

Saving Macy

Did you know a dog could develop breast cancer? Yeah, me either, but that's exactly what our vet diagnosed Macy with almost three weeks ago. From what I gather breast cancer is fairly common in female dogs who have not been fixed, and although Macy was spayed before we adopted her it wasn't until after she'd had at least one litter of puppies, making it much more likely for her to develop breast cancer than if she'd been spayed at a young age.

So what do we do? Well, she goes in for her first of two surgeries tomorrow in which she will receive the equivalent of a doggy mastectomy on her left side. It will be a one to two month recovery time and then she goes in for the second surgery to have the right side done. If all goes as planned she'll be fully recovered right around the time that, well, the baby gets here, and then we turn her world upside down and inside out by bringing yet another little life into the house that she'll feel responsible for keeping track of at all times. Needless to say, life is about to get very interesting, provided that she survives.

Wait. That sounds really dark, doesn't it? Provided that she survives? Fortunately, the vet doesn't seem the slightest bit worried that she'll pull through the two surgeries, the healing process, and the stress of bringing the baby home all in a three month span, but of course Jon and I have our concerns. We don't know how old she is--she was a rescue--and we don't know her past history with illness other than she was severely emaciated when she and her son were discovered in an abandoned home. We don't know for sure that she's got what it takes to get through the next few months, but we do know that she's not acting like a dog who's ready to call it quits, and the vet believes we'll be buying her another four to five years of active life if we go through with these surgeries, so we're doing it. We're going through with the surgeries and we're hoping for the best. We're hoping to not only give her a longer life, which is what we feel we promised her by signing the adoption papers, but we're also hoping to have the same animated, hard-headed, and loving dog we've come to know in the last three years.

I'll be the first to admit that I've been a hard judge of character where Macy is concerned. I'm extremely guilty of playing favorites between her and Jack--my first baby--but when I stop and look at what her life has brought her through and the fact that she still loves me and protects me as if there is nothing more important in the world, my heart aches for her, and I can't imagine life without her.

Shits and Giggles

I'm still in a bad mood. This is obviously not my week as everything seems to be going wrong, so rather than risk embarrassing myself in the future by ranting uncontrollably about said happenings I'm going to leave you with a few texts Jon and I exchanged this morning. (For those of you who don't know, I left my husband in Las Vegas on Sunday morning for his annual business conference. Since then I've been dragging myself to work each morning and spending the evening watching chick flicks. It's just that time of year.)

Jon: (10:22 am) Good morning. I love you so much. I miss you and I can't wait to get home.

Kate: (1:33 pm) Are you brown nosing? :P I can't wait for you to be home...although I have gotten used to having the bed all to myself...

Kate: (1:35 pm) Jack wants to play fetch with you...



Kate: (1:37 pm) I'm not kidding! He wants to play so bad he's licking his lips...



Kate: (1:39 pm) And after fetch, he wants to take a dog nap w/ you...



Kate: (1:41 pm ) Macy misses you so much she hides in bed all day...


Jon: (4:02 pm) No I'm not brown nosing.

Yes, yes, it's true. I have way too much time on my hands, but I rather enjoyed the idea of him sitting in a 6 hour meeting, taking an unapproved break every 2 minutes to see what his crazy wife had sent this time.

Before and After

It started as a joke one night when my nephew stayed over. It was the first Spring after we adopted Macy and he noticed a nasty bundle of black hair that had gathered in a dark corner. He asked what it was and I said, "Oh, that's Macy's dog Fluffy."

I was unprepared for the onslaught of shedding such a little Cocker Spaniel could do, but I know better now, so every Spring she's taken in for a total shave down. Sure, sure, we should probably get her one of those fancy, professional Spaniel do's but she's far too messy (read: would sleep in the kitchen trash can if we let her) to manage something so nice.

Anyway, here's Macy's transformation this year:

from Shaggy:



to Sweetheart:



Have you ever noticed how the smile is always bigger in the After photos?

Deaf, Dumb, and Adorable

We've been suspecting that Macy was going deaf for a while now, or I should say, Jon has been suspecting Macy was going deaf for a while and I've been thinking she has the same selective hearing problem she's had since we brought her home. It didn't take us long--only a matter of minutes after walking in the front door with her for the first time--to realize that she's the kind of dog that only marches to the beat of her own drum, but she is willing to give your drum a try so long as there is adequate compensation involved, preferably of the edible variety, and extra obedience for rice. She's never taken commands well unless her commander was carrying something she desperately wanted to devour, so to not have her listening now really shouldn't be all that alarming, in my opinion at least. She has me second-guessing myself lately though, because she's been partaking in vary odd behavior, even for her.

Last weekend, on Sunday afternoon, I realized I hadn't seen Macy in over an hour which rubbed me the wrong way because she's usually on my heels 24/7, her and Jack forming a small train behind me anywhere I go in the house. Her stealthiness had me worried because I have this really awful habit of getting lost in thought and closing the door to a room I've been in without first checking to see if all the members of my little dog posse made it out with me. Poor Jack has been left behind in the garage, spare bedroom, and the enclosed back porch before because I didn't pay enough attention to what I was doing, so I immediately jumped to the conclusion that I'd left Macy stranded in a room somewhere, and more than likely in one of the three places I just listed.

I did a quick search of all the usual spots, also checking under the bed and end tables where she has a tendency to fall asleep. When I didn't find her I began to freak out, calling her name throughout the house, bringing Jon in on the process, and when she didn't turn up, we started to debate over whether or not she had followed me back inside after I'd taken her out an hour or so prior. I was 99% sure I remembered her walking in the back door with me, but that didn't help us because there have been plenty of times when I thought I was 99% sure and it turned out I was dead wrong. This is why you should never list me as your phone-a-friend if you're really serious about winning that money on Millionaire.

The biggest problem with me not being positive that she followed me back in the house was that our little free-spirited Cockerspaniel has a secret escape route from the backyard that Jon and I have not been able to find after almost 2 years of searching the fence for holes and having stake-outs at the doors and windows facing the backyard to see if she'll play Canine Houdini while we're paying attention. This meant our search area increased from a measly 1300 square feet to roughly a mile of woods and dead end streets. I say only a mile because she may be free, but she's still slow, so we figured we at least had that in our favor.

Jon went outside to canvas the neighborhood, checking her usual haunts which are pretty much all of our neighbors who also have dogs, calling out her name every few steps. I stayed in the house pleading with Jack to show me where his sister had gotten to, all the while complaining because I could swear I heard her snoring but I couldn't make heads or tails of where it was coming from. I was still convinced I'd closed her up in a room somewhere because I was still almost sure I'd brought her back in from outside.

This went on for about 20 minutes. We must have called her name hundreds of times, inside and outside of the house. The only thing we could really do was wait and see if she came scratching at the front door like she usually does after a neighborhood rendezvous, or if she got fed up with whatever room or hole she was stuck in and started whimpering. I figured this may take awhile, especially if she stumbled upon a giant bag of stuffed animals which, sadly, we have stashed in various places around the house, or if she was locked up with a tub of dog treats.

After we'd resigned ourselves to settling down and waiting, everything became very quiet, and lo and behold, we could hear muffled snoring coming from a room we hadn't checked--the sun room--to which the french doors were wide open. We walked in, glancing at the couches and under the tables, but to our surprise she wasn't in any usual spots. We had to laugh when we finally spotted her sleeping soundly on a large, blue beanbag chair I'd stuffed in a corner behind one of the french doors and completely forgotten about. At most she had 6 inches from the inward opening door to the wall to squeeze through and nestle herself into the unused beanbag. How were we supposed to know to look in a place none of us--humans or canines--had ever acknowledged before?

We laughed, we called to her, we knocked on the door as if asking permission to enter her private room, but she didn't wake up. We had to actually pull the door back and tap her on the head before she opened her tired, bloodshot eyes and yawned at us. It was at that moment that I finally admitted that maybe Macy is going or has already gone deaf.

I guess it's happened again since then. While I was at work on Tuesday Jon had to launch another house-wide search for the vanishing dog. It didn't take quite as much time as the Sunday search before he found her in our bedroom, nestled in a basket of folded laundry I hadn't gotten around to putting away yet.

We won't know for sure until we take her to the vet to find out whether or not she's deaf or if her ears just need cleaned out again, but as more and more time passes everything is starting to make a little more sense. Her bad hearing would definitely explain why her muffled whine while begging for food from under the dinner table has turned into an incessant screeching. If she's losing her hearing then she doesn't realize how loud she is, and since I'm not giving her any of my food it must be because I can't hear her, or so she thinks. Truth is I hear her loud and clear, just as the neighbors 2 blocks over must hear her and grumble about those yuppies down the street who are constantly losing and abusing their dogs.

Suppose They Were Real

I was sitting in the living room today, staring at a tree that still doesn't look quite right to me, when Jack came creeping into the room and climbed into my lap. He laid his head in the hollow between my chin and my collarbone, and placed his paw on my shoulder with his front leg crossing my chest as if he was trying to hug me as tightly as any dog could possibly hug a human. I chuckled and hugged him back, scratching behind his ears. I'm convinced that he read the look I was giving the tree and somehow sensed my urge to run out immediately for new decorations. The hug was his way of saying, "Please don't go, Momma. I don't want to go in my room today."

That's when I decided that Jack was my clingy one. He'd be the type of child that would hang from my every limb like a monkey. He would cry every time I left him with a babysitter. He would take it personally every time I needed a moment to myself, even if it was just to use the bathroom. He would be a good, rule-biding kid because his number one goal in life would be to make me happy. He would grow up to be a straight A student, the class treasurer, and earn a scholarship to Harvard for fear I would trade him in for a new model if he did anything less than perfect.

Macy, on the other hand, is my mischievous toddler stuck in her terrible twos. She would be defiant, laughing maniacally or forcing a staring contest every time I told her NO. She would have to touch everything and break over seventy-five percent of everything she touched. She would be too smart for her own good, and know that the easiest way to get my attention was by being naughty. She would grow up to be a mediocre student who is disinterested in anything homework related. As a teenager, psychologists would diagnose her with Oppositional Defiant Disorder and she would milk it for everything it's worth. She would graduate high school by the skin of her teeth and spend her early adulthood flaunting her stuff as a waitress at Hooters.

I've never known two dogs to show so much personality that I could accurately imagine their lives as if they were humans. Between Jack's constant brown-nosing and Macy's brazenness there is never a dull moment around here, and yet I can't seem to get enough of it.

On Being the Family Pet

"You're not going to believe this."

"What?"

"I can't get Macy out of the car."

"Why can't you get her out of the car?"

"I was just grabbing some things and she hopped right in. Now she won't get out. Jack got in there too until I stormed out of the garage, but she won't budge!"

"Well, take them for a ride around the block."

"What? I'm tired of not being the master! These dogs walked ME today! Why should I have to drive them around just because they want a ride? They're spoiled!"

"Haha! Just take them for a ride."

And so I did. I, the family pet, drove my masters to the Fairlawn Country Club and back. For what it's worth they happily jumped out of the car once we arrived home.

You Can Teach an Old Dog New Tricks!

This young lady* has finally learned the meaning behind the bell!

It's been 7 long months of vigorous training. She has endured countless looks of disapproval, but she has finally overcome the language barrier between human and dog. She can now tell us when she has to get outdoors to pee. Macy May Keenan has proven that she is not only a pretty face; she is also well on her way to becoming a canine genius.

While her brother Jack has always preferred to swipe a paw at the jingle bells that hang from our back door (hence all of the scratches in the wood), Macy has a much more subtle technique. She quietly walks to the door with a cheerful swagger and ever so gently presses her little black nose against the bottom bell. This movement will emit the very faintest of jingles, but it's just enough noise to draw your attention in her direction. After ringing the bell she will look to us with a very firm plea to be let outside. And if for some reason we do not hear the initial chime (or maliciously choose to ignore it), she will resort to the bolder tactic of turning around and whacking the bell with her stub of a tail.

Thus far she has rung the bell five times; once to pee on the already wilting hostas, and four more times in an attempt to retrieve the dirty ball I will not let her bring in the house. I continue to look at each ring as progress; however, because she finally understands that ringing the bell is her ticket outside.

Well done, Macy! You have proven everyone wrong, and you can, in fact, teach an old dog new tricks!

*I would just like to note that I do understand that Macy is only a dog and not an actual lady.