Rejected by Rescues: I Abandoned the System.

So, you are on Facebook, minding your own business when up pops a "news" story about an abandoned dog. His ribs are sticking out, flies land on his eyes. Scared, he retreats to a drainpipe to get away from his rescuers. You begin to weep uncontrollably.

But there's good news! You can adopt this dog and give him the home and love he deserves. That idea had never crossed your mind, but now it's an obsession.

You post a comment on this story and you get a response. You notice there are literally hundreds of comments from people all wanting this particular dog. There are other kind souls out there. You are not alone. You feel better but now, you actually want to help. If they can do it, so can you.

I'm sure we didn't meet Heart of the Catskills
qualifications either, but they knew no one
would adopt two old dogs together, so they
did the right thing and let us skip the adoption
application. I have Mitch and HoftheC to thank
for this wonderful year with Clark. 

You click on the website of the rescue and you begin to fill out the application form. With each passing question, you wonder, am I adopting a dog or a child? Neither are easy processes to be sure. Here are some of the questions that our family failed when trying to adopt a dog after Clark died.

1.) Fencing Lesson
We don't have a fence. We have an electric fence, but not a physical fence. Many rescues don't think it's humane nor effective in keeping dogs in the yard.
Our stubborn dachshund would sometimes discover that the fence was off or that her collar was not charged or as was the case the day she died, her human took her collar off because it was causing scabbing on her neck. While she had run our of the yard before, she had always come right back. Not that day. And still, we have no fence.

2.) Population and Demographics
How many people live in your house? Do you have children under 15 or elderly relations? If there are people that live with you that don't want the dog, you may not get the dog. In our case, this means the dog would never have to be crated, left outside to brave the elements, or be alone all day. But for some reason, I don't know if this was a good thing.

3.) Canine Companions
They ask you if you have other dogs. I thought this would be a good thing. Surely, if you have a dog already, they must realize how much you love dogs! But this turned out to be the most troublesome issue. If you have a dog, what kind is it? They want to know how old, how the dog deals with other dogs and a huge surpise and deal breaker is if the dog is neutered.
Rescues do not want you breeding your dog. Our remaining dog is a pure bred English Setter with papers. We had originally wanted to breed his predecessor, Oz who was smart, handsome, and obedient. Maverick, not so much. But the breeder asked us not to fix him and we didn't. I don't see why I should subject him to an unnecessary operation and expense since he would never come in contact with another dog unless we wanted him to. That's our business, no? It's not as if we are breeding him or don't care about where he is so that he can breed? I would totally get the rescue neutered if that's the rule, sure. But him? Why?

4.) Dog Family History
Then they ask you to list your other pets and how they died. This was painful but as you all know, I rather enjoy expressing my pain.
I wrote about Oz and Otse and what they meant to our family. How our neighbor at the time (in Africa) had shot and killed them becaues he found them on his property. The shelter I had applied to responded that she couldn't give us another dog because she wouldn't feel right putting it in danger. We live in the USA now. I doubt very much our neighbors here in Poughkeepsie would shoot our pet! But she stopped responding.

More recently, I wrote about Chelsea and how she was my shadow. How her loss was something I had to live with because I had taken her collar off that day. One minute she's next to me, the next she was gone. I found her a little over an hour later hit by a car blocks from our home. I wrote about how devestated I was because I was her pet. There's that fencing problem again, rearing it's ugly little head.

I wrote about Clark, how we had adopted him from a rescue after he'd been found by our friend Mitch. Mitch had come across the two old malnourished brothers walking along the road in the middle of the woods. According to the dog warden, who, it is worth noting, is also the mail carrier, their owners had left them there three times that week. One time with their collars. One time without. And the third time, Mitch picked them up and called the warden once again.
   We took in both elderly dogs and named them Lewis and Clark. But only Clark would make it home with us. Lewis didn't recover from the neutering. For a year, Clark followed me around, cried when I would leave him behind, and lived a happy, healthy, and loved life for the first time in his 12 years. He had gained weight, regained full use of his arthritic back legs, and had just settled into our lives and our home when he had a seizure and never came out of it. Again, we rushed him to the emergency vet - the first time was in Syracuse while visiting Macallan, his ankled swelled up and he was in visible pain. Another time, he was lethargic and had a fever. We joked that we had spent more on Vet bills for Clark than our other dogs combined.

5.) Vetting based on Vet Bills
Which leads me to the questions about our Vet. We had no regular Vet and many of their vaccinations Peter and Macallan would give them. We really should have gotten them rabies shots, but up until recently, we had no medical coverage, we certainly couldn't afford regular visits for our pets. So, when the rescues would check out our care of our animals from the Vet, they weren't happy with the answer. No, we hadn't had our dogs checked each year. Our dogs' vaccines were not updated as far as they were concerned. And none of our dogs were fixed, except for Clark.

I have to say, I applaud the work that rescues perform. I admire the dedication to animals' care. I think it's amiable to make sure pets are in homes that will give them a healthy, happy life.

What I wonder is, how many dogs are not homed? How many dogs remain with unstable futures in fostercare? Fostering is short-term and yet there aren't enough "qualified" adoptive families for the dogs to go to permanently. How many dogs die before the rescue decides which home is suitable? How many live in kennels instead of a loving home because of strict regulations?

But other than going through a shelter/ rescue, there are few ways to acquire dogs. There is buying a dog from a breeder, a pet store (Please Don't Do That! Many dogs from Pet Stores are produced in puppy mills, with breeding dogs in horrendous conditions resulting in odd mixes and poor health for the puppies.) and on Craigslist.

I've seen the stories of dogs being used for dog fights and puppy mills coming from Craigslist. I hadn't gotten a positive response from any of the rescues so I started looking for dogs that might fall between the cracks. I only started looking that day and up popped an ad for a coonhound puppy. I answered it right away. And she answered right back. We had a dialogue for an hour or so. Peter was unreachable at a conference. I had to wait to ask his opinion and ask if he would be willing to drive an hour to go meet the owner and the dog.

Five hours later, with no forethought. We were driving home with a coonhound puppy. I had always noticed them in a crowd, but never thought about owning one. After the personality of Clark, I wanted a basset hound. I wanted a companion, not just a pet. Coon Hounds had similar person-like personalities, just like Clark. As I held this little guy, I hoped he too would be as attached.

Meet 11 week old Black and Tan Coonhound,
Westley Fitzwilliam Darcy,
the perfect companion
for me. 

Long story, just a little bit longer...It's been a week since we went to get him. A month after losing Clark. I wanted another dog because I saw how much of a difference we made in Clark's life. I thought about his brother, Lewis, who never made it to our home. I remember crying after the rescue called to tell us he wouldn't recover from the surgery and thinking, "I hope you knew we wanted you. Your family didn't , but we did."  And that's what I wanted to do for another dog.

I looked for an older dog that someone might not want. I searched and applied for abandoned or homeless dogs that needed someone to love them. I didn't find one through a rescue.

But I think, this dog was meant to be. I will give him the care that Clark should have gotten. From the start, I can give him the love and trust a dog needs to feel safe and secure. He'll have good food, a soft bed and positive attention from caring humans.

With Clark, I got to see him go from being a guest in our home, to knowing he belong here with us. With Westley, I get to see him blossom and grow to reach his greatest potential. Our home will always be his home, the only home he'll know. That's something I can give him. And for many dogs, that's something they never receive.

Aunt-Tithesis of Love & Hate

My mother included her in our family
from the beginning. She accompanied
my siblings and me to the USA in 1966.

I hate her, I thought to myself as I once again waited for her to emerge from the house. She is late for every single Dr.'s appointment.

It is 6:20am. Three hours before I usually get up! Here I sit, dressed and on time to take her to the hospital.

Last night, I had set my alarm for 5:30am so that I could jump in the shower and be ready to drive her to yet another Dr.'s appointment. But just as my alarm is going off, I hear her throw open her door and shuffle into the bathroom.

Always in the way. She. Is. Always. In. The. Way.

I wait for her to finish and go back to her room. Now, I only have enough time to brush my hair and teeth.

I finish quickly to get out of the way of the regular routine my son and husband have before they leave for school and work. That's what considerate people do.

It is now 6:05 and I make my way to the car. I know she is awake, so as I go toward the front door, I knock on her bedroom door and say, Ready? She doesn't answer, but she knows it takes 15 minutes to get to the hospital from here. I will meet her outside.

It is 6:20 and we should have left 5 minutes ago. I walk back into the house to retrieve her. The front door is locked so I ring, ring, ring the doorbell. She takes a while to come to the door. "Come on!" I holler at her. "You have to be there by 6.30!" I shout.

I wonder if my neighbors can hear me. I can't control my anger with her. She is the anti-thesis of everything I hate - lazy, dumb, inconsiderate, complaining, unresponsive, ineffectual, silent, and a follower who hides behind religion to excuse her lack of motivation, her ignorance, her inability to care for herself. Jesus will do it. 'fraid not.

Her bedroom today. Hoarding is just one
sign of her instability, not due to the
Cancer but as a result of a lifetime of
unresolved issues. 

This has been a long 9 months. Hmm...the length of time it takes to have a child, well, unfortunately, she's been like one all of her 75 years! Imagine, 75 years of expecting everyone around you to take care of you.

It may seem heartless for me not to want to care for her as she battles cancer, but this is not new, a special circumstance, it is the norm. And not only does she expect someone else to take on her burdens, she requires it and isn't thankful for any help.

Last night as my sister-in-law explained to me what our aunt's end-of-life scenario would be, I felt sad. It dawned on me how little time she really had, and for a time, I felt compassion. I have waves of it toward her. But all that was erased when she not only kept me waiting once again, but then she let the car door fall shut and didn't try to reclose it. She looked at the door and then at me and decided she didn't care and started to walk away. "Close it again." I shouted for the second time this morning.  She reluctantly did. Then she turned to walk herself into the hospital because I was going to be damned if I went out of my way for her!

She's infuriating! I was prepared to go into the appointment with her but not after her late departure. Do it yourself, I thought. You can go this alone because you're so difficult.

I drove away even before she reached the front door only to have to return because I hadn't given her the prescriptions for the procedure. Why did I have them? Because the oncologist's office wanted to make sure she had them with her. Because I had to make phone calls for her to schedule them. Because my mom, the nurses and I weren't sure she would be responsible for her own care! So, I turned the car around, pulled over leaving the hazards on and ran inside to give her the script.

I see her still making her way down the hall. 'Oh, come on!' I think to myself. 'It's not that far from the front door to the first medical office in the building. Gimme a break.'

I call to her, "I have your script." She looks at me and keeps walking. "Stop!" I shout. I know I'm in a public space but I can't can't can't help myself. I hate her right now. I really do.

I catch up and thrust the script into her hand and turn around and leave.

"Fuck you." I say to her in my head, but I bet I'm so mad, she can hear it.

Once home, I am too wired to go back to sleep, which was the plan. Just as well. I get a call. It's the nurse. "Are you Consuelo's neice?" Yes, I say. "We need a list of her prescriptions. Can you tell me what she is taking?" "She's there isn't she?" I ask timidly. Sometimes, people don't know she can speak English because it takes her so long to answer or not answer. "Yes, but she doesn't have a list and she doesn't remember. She even said she wasn't sure why she was here. That you just dropped her off." "No, she knows she's there for a port." I responded defensively. The nurse says, "I"m sure she does. Believe me, I know. But she's insisting that she doesn't know what she takes and we really would like that list." I don't know any of that stuff but I'll see if I can find out some information in her room. "Even if you can just read off the labels to me, that would be helpful." I say, "OK. I'll call you back."

We're not allowed in her room. She doesn't let us in. I am shocked by how much more stuff she's accumulated since I was there a few months back. There is literally only a foot path from the front door to her bed. The door doesn't open all of the way because the closet behind it has erupted and spread well into the rest of the room. I don't see any prescription bottles on top of her dresser, even as I gingerly lift papers, bags, clothing to peer underneath. I step closer to her bed that is covered three feet deep in stuff - blankets, towels, books, rosary beads, a dish of half eaten food. I step on something greasy. I am totally grossed out. Ugh! What the fuck is that?

I walk on bags, slippers, newspaper so that I don't have to touch the floor and still can't find anything on this side of the room except for a pill dispenser that has a compartment for each day of the week. I open it but I don't know what each of the 8 pills are for, only a few look like drugs while the others look like vitamins.

Ah, I think I see her stack of vitamins and a small bin that holds prescriptions. I turn to leave with the entire tray when I notice another pill bottle toward the back. I pick it up. I don't know what these convoluted names mean. I didn't take Chemistry even in High School. I read the bottle. Disgard by 04/14. Oh. I look at the other bottles I have in the tray. Shit. They all expired in 2006. None of this will do me or the hospital any good.

I call the nurse back. It is now only 15 minutes before they're supposed to start the proceedure. "I'm sorry. I did find medication in a weekly dispenser but I'm not sure what they are. There are no bottles that I can find. "(She doesn't know that my aunt is a hoarder.) "Well, we can only do what we can do. I'll tell the Dr. It would be helpful if she wrote these things down." I agree.

Today, I'm going to have her do that and to make a list of her assets and other necessities. There is no time left and she is quickly failing.

Her cancer was kept at bay for the past 9 months, but now, the tumor is growing again. Funny how the 9 months gestation is the same for this tumor as it would have been had she had a child. She never did and that's one of the biggest causes of uterine cancer.

Her eminent death is the very reason I think that we die as we lived. I can't equate this with every death, but I can with the ones I'm intimate with. She was always a passive person. She let things happen to her. Cancer is that kind of disease. It happens to people. And like her life, she now needs others to care for her.

There's also a beauty to cancer, if I may. I am speaking about my aunt in particular, not about every cancer patient. For her, this is how she lived. And I think that "God" has given her this way out in order for her to rise to a level of human interaction and to make amends with those around her. She is dying slowly so she could be a better person, have better relationships, rekindle old ones, make new friends, but she doesn't.

"God" also is giving her a chance to reflect on her life and be grateful. But she isn't.

With cancer, "God" has given her a chance to complete a bucket list. No more delaying. Do it now. But she didn't.

She chose to go about her life as she had always done, again and again not acting but going along as if nothing has changed. Not facing the fact that she could no longer drive. Not addressing the fact that she had difficulty dressing herself, walking, eating.

She has filed for bankruptcy twice. Her room is filled with the fruits of her ill financial gains.

She would drive an hour home at 11pm from over an hour away after a Bible class and on several occassions had to call my brother in the middle of the night to come change her flat tire, to dig her out of a snow embankment, to have her car towed because she seized the engine. We noticed her car was leaking oil and instead of paying $500 to fix it, she drove it until she couldn't drive it no more! Then, she asked each one of us to buy her a new car.

That's is the woman we live with. The woman we invited into our home years before my mother would move in with us. The woman who lived with my mother all her life previously and the woman who resented her for it. They don't speak to each other and when they do, they bark. It would take me years to figure this out. One day, I saw my daughter relaying messages from them - "Tell Tita Chet that her laundry is done." "Tell Mae I will drive her to CVS."

I was her least favorite neice. She had slapped me across the face when I was six. When my mother found out,  she told her she better not ever do that again. She has never been kind. When my daughter was 12, for her birthday, she asked my aunt to make a Filipino dessert that she was particularly good at. My aunt said no. She didn't feel like it. Had it been my mom, she would have felt flattered, but my aunt said no.

She is oddly suspicious of everyone and seems to think nurses that have met her for the first time are being mean to her. Last week when she had to get a blood transfusion, she wanted a chair with a TV. There was a woman leaving and my aunt wanted to sit in that seat. The nurses apologized and said a woman who is on oxygen needed that seat so that she could plug in. My aunt complained and cried. She cried. The nurses kept coming up to me to explain. I said, It dosen't matter to me. I totally understand. But the whole day, my aunt was pissy. I left her there and an hour later she called me crying that they still hadn't found the right blood and she didn't want to sit there any longer. What?!? Too damn bad, I wanted to shout. But instead I said, "It won't be long now."

I have no sympathy.

I am not patient or kind or pleasant. I can't be.

So, I updated my brother and sister and other family members, as I do now and then, and asked for help. I know how I should act. But I can't do it. And no matter how much of a pain in the ass and asshole my aunt is, she is suffering through this disease and its treatment. Having someone yell at you  is not helpful.

Something my aunt will never have the benefit of knowing, I know. I willingly asked she and my mom into our home. My wonderful, really, saintly husband and children agreed. And we live relatively happily together. I don't ask my brother or sister to pat me on the back. It's something I wanted to do.

But I also know that when I need them, they are there. I emailed them and everyone - sister-in-laws, brother-in-law along with my siblings - rallied empathy, suggestions, solutions. That's how great my family is.

Yes, our aunt is a piece of...I'll be polite and say, work. But despite her, we can all get together and show love for each other.

Sad to think, really. Due to her own insecurities, Consuelo had received very little comfort her entire life.

Writer's Oath No. 786

It's September 9, 2015 and my kids are officially off to school.
     My daughter left for college before Labor Day. While I think of her all day long, every day, I know she is leading her own life now. I used to get morning and evening texts, now, it's when she wants to share something with me. That's pretty awesome too.
     My son left for his Junior year of High School this morning. I made him hold a sign up as I took his picture. I made sure it was way before the bus pulled up. It was apparently totally uncool to take the picture, much less hold a friggin' sign up, but he did it and I love him for that. And many other things...I'm hoping this will be the year he really finds his "calling". And I'm so alright with it being all about the snowboarding. Just find something you love.
     And so, as promised to my husband and more importantly to myself, this is my time to write. That is what I love. I have a self imposed deadline of November to have a completed manuscript. I can do that. I have the stories written, all-be-it needing much editing. But they're there. My job the next few months is to fashion the stories into a book, a memoir, my memoir.
     I will turn off all electronic devices (which is difficult for me, ask my husband and kids, ugh!) and meditate, then sit in my favorite chair in my bedroom and write. I will spend 30-45 mintues getting my thoughts together and then I will pull out my computer. Reading, re-reading, editing, shuffling electronic pages, and peering at pictures from our life during 2003-2006. I get weepy just thinking about the process.
     I get remorseful thinking about the life we've lived.
     I get scared thinking about how to best convey it.
     I get anxious thinking about what I will do if I can't do this?
     Then, I remember, that I can. I can write the book I want to read, send the message I want to give, not want to sell or tell to please others. This is my story. Writing has always been my first love and I will love it as it deserves to be loved.
     No more excuses; no old, sick, sad dog waiting for me to return from my writing studio, no need to sell everything from the store in order to unclutter our lives and our home, no major financial drawbacks that require I bring in some money, no kids to attend to and no unhappy husband who needs extra attention. I have no excuses. None.
     I tell my kids over and over again, find something you love. Do what makes you happy. Follow your dreams.
     Maybe it's time I took that advice and threw myself in the one course of life I had always thought was my purpose. So. Here goes.

Without Clark

Most mornings I wake uncomfortable after sleeping pinned between my husband and Clark the Elderly Rescue Dog​. If I get up before them, I crawl over Clark and the small wet spot he has unwittingly left due to his slight incontinence. He makes it worse after he obsessively licks it, thus further drenching the spot with his saliva. I sometimes step in more drool or some throw-up and occasionally poop, but in fairness, not since we first got him last year this time. He now only pees or poops in the sunroom, which, to Clark, must be an extension of the outdoors.
I jump in the shower and when done, I'd find him lying on the bathmat. There's no room for me to rest my foot in order to get out.
He will awake to lick my legs of remaining water droplets, leaving behind his rancid breath. He also likes the taste of my skincare, Marula Oil and will lick my legs and arms after I've applied some.
His shedding fur clings to my newly washed feet. Ugh, I have been heard to exclaim. I never feel clean.
This has been my morning routine for a year or so now,  until yesterday, this is, when I woke up without him.
I will recount my many complaints about my buddy Clark in this blog, on FB, and in private correspondence, I'm sure. Complaints aside, I will remember him fondly. Oh how I would gladly experience them again and again if only he were still alive.
I will miss his hot stinky breath on my face when he climbs into my lap, pinning me down and claiming me as his.
I will miss how he looked at me as I did things like brush my hair, chose clothing to wear for the day and walked out of the room. I'm sure I left him wondering where I was going and what I would do while he waited for me to return.
I will miss his howling at what seemed like nothing in my bedroom, but perhaps it was a lingering ghost in a house that holds trapped souls.
I will miss how he arouses himself from his deep sleep and runs around the house looking for me when he realized I'd returned.
I will miss how he smelled like Fritos.
And I will miss a very good and loyal friend who helped me get through the loss of my shadow, Chelsea.
I would give anything to have to care for you again, Clark, and miss the way you took such good care of me.