Saying Goodbye

Almost exactly fifteen years ago, I was pregnant. And while some people will always remember this pregnancy ending in a miscarriage, I will always think of that pregnancy resulting in our dog, Cosmo. After all, the dog was as much my husband's doing as the pregnancy was.

You see, immediately after I returned home after spending a day in the hospital undergoing a D and C, my big brothers appeared at our house. My first thought was oh, that's really nice of them to come over and hang out with their little sister while I'm an emotional wreck, but I wonder if they realize that I'm not in the mood to make any food? And then Doug said oh good, they're here, and I thought what do you mean good, they're here? You knew they were coming over? And then a little white dog started running around our house, which made me happy but sort of pissed off our "I'm-already-king-of-the-canine-part-of-this-family" beagle, and I said "Awww, he's so cute! Can I keep him? I mean, ha ha. Can you imagine having a second dog? Just kidding. But HOLY SHIT LOOK AT HOW CUTE HE IS!"

That's when Doug said, well yeah, that's kind of the point, I got us another dog. He knew that my brothers' neighbor bred rat terriers and that he had a litter ready for new homes, and he knew that we had both been anticipating an addition to our lives, so he arranged for my brothers to pick a dog out for me and deliver it on one of the most emotional, heartbreaking days I've ever experienced.

And fifteen years later, because of this dog, I just experienced another one of those sad, emotional, heartbreaking days.

Cosmo's health has been gradually declining over the last six months. Diminishing eyesight, hearing loss, disorientation, fatigue, a tendency to trip on things and the increasing I'll-poop-where-I-want-to-attitude left us with no doubt that he was, in fact, getting old. The dog-age experts -- or whatever it is that they call themselves -- say that a dog is the equivalent of a human senior citizen at the age of seven. So in Cosmo's case, he was more like a centenarian and I don't know many guys that age that are still out chasing squirrels and able to make it to the bathroom all the time, every time.

Early Monday morning I opened the door to our mud room, where he sleeps, and was immediately hit with the smell of poop, mixed with pee, with a slight top note of dog barf. I quickly surveyed the body fluid bonanza and that's when I saw Cosmo having what appeared to be a small seizure. He was covered in poop, sort of half-standing, half-sitting on a clean corner of the rug, swaying from side to side and drooling. This was not good.

I quickly cleaned up the mess and lit a candle, tried to comfort the ailing dog and started thinking about how I was going to tell the kids that today was the day that they were going to have to say one last goodbye to the dog before they left for school, and hey don't forget your backpack! And then I started to cry.

While the boys ate breakfast in silence, I gave Cosmo a bath so that he didn't have to go to the vet smelling like an old man that just pooped his pants, holding him the whole time so that he didn't fall over in the sink. After his bath, he laid down on a clean blanket and shook while the boys sat by him and said their good-byes. And I cried some more.

I am grateful for the fact that Doug took the morning off to come to the vet with me. I am grateful for the fact that we were both in agreement as to what needed to be done and the excruciating decision that needed to be made. What I'm not grateful for, though, is having a veterinarian that dared to place a shred of doubt into our heads while we stood there with our drooling, delirious, unable-to-stand dog.

Seriously! Our kids, especially Charlie, were emotional wrecks, the dog was obviously suffering, and we were trying to be responsible pet owners by making sure that the four-legged member of the family didn't suffer any more or any longer than absolutely necessary. And here was the vet, looking into our teary eyes and suggesting that, after charging us a couple hundred bucks for the office visit and sending us out the door with our geriatric dog and some drugs, we could medicate him into a pain-free haze, have the kids watch him drool, fall down and poop on himself for a couple more days and then, when his condition didn't improve, we could say goodbye. Again.

In the end, Doug and I held Cosmo's head while he slipped away and, although that day sucked more than any other Monday morning ever has, we didn't, and we never will, have doubts about the decision we made.

But I miss my dog.

Happy Birthday Smelly Old Dog

Even though I am able to exterminate goldfish in a matter of hours, and despite the absence of canine therapists, nutritionists, psychics, holistic healers and massage therapists, as of today I have managed to keep our dog, Cosmo, alive for fifteen years.

I have written about our dog before (like here, here and here), and since his daily schedule is pretty consistent (wake up, eat, go outside, come in, fall asleep, walk around putting nose on people, fall asleep, eat, go outside, fall asleep, go outside 14 times until treat is issued, fall asleep) there aren't many new stories to share.

So instead of bitching (yet again) about the dog and his excessive body odor, bad breath and inability to always defecate outside, I'll just say thank you, Cosmo, for giving me a justifiable reason to party it up tonight. After all, everyone likes to see their friends and family members having fun on their birthday, right?! In fact, I'm pretty sure that if Cosmo could speak using something besides "Bark, Bark" he would say something like "If I had opposable digits, carried a wallet and understood the monetary system, I would buy that woman a drink because, unlike the goldfish Hank and Sophia, she hasn't killed me yet!"

Happy birthday, Smelly Old Dog. Maybe I'll find the time to give you a bath today so that, at least for a little while, you'll just be Old Dog.

Just Pick It Up!

In case you're wondering the answer is yes, we still have the dog. He's almost 15 in dog years, but smells like he's 893 in people years and even though he doesn't have that much hair to begin with, the shedding is out of control. In fact, I think he's actually growing hair just so that it can immediately fall out and piss me off. Also, except for an unfortunate accident a couple days ago, he's been pretty good about making it outside to crap. And while I'm happy about this, I'd be even happier if it weren't for the fact that I'm the only one that is capable of seeing piles of dog shit in the backyard and has the skills necessary to operate a pooper scooper.

On Monday, before I cut the grass, I picked up the dog shit. Completing this chore is an absolute necessity because if the lawn mower goes over a piece of crap that is less than two days old and isn't dried into an almost petrified-state, it clings to the mower blades and I end up walking behind the mower with shit fumes wafting around me. I do not enjoy this experience, especially since it ends up making everything, even a post-mow beer, seem unappetizing.

When Charlie went outside yesterday afternoon to play baseball with some friends in the backyard, I mentioned to him that he might want to take a quick look around for poop and if he sees some, pick it up. This, of course, resulted in no reaction from him. Nothing. No "Uh huh" or "That's gross I'm not going to do it" or "Oh, did you say something?" Not even a questioning glare that wordlessly said "Are you crazy, woman?" Zilch reaction. Apparently, since I was standing on the deck when I said this to him, he thought I must have been talking to a chair, or maybe the grill. So I said again, a little bit louder this time, that unless he wants his friends to fall in a fairly fresh pile of dog crap, he should probably walk around, find the poop, wrap his fingers around the handle of the scooper and PICK THE CRAP UP!

He not only heard me this time, but his brain even managed to process the directions. Or more accurately, he managed to partially process the directions, because instead of walking around he just stood in one place, glanced at the grass and said "Nope, I don't see any." Since I refused to let him off the hook and treat him like the incompetent idiot that he was clearly trying to be, I stood on the deck and waved my arms around like an air traffic controller, guiding him to the two piles of shit that were clearly visible and resisting the urge to bludgeon him with the pooper scooper.

Doug recently sent me an article about some researchers at Berkeley that managed to teach a robot how to fold a towel. (You can view the video and read the article here) To me, the most impressive part of this news isn't the fact that robots can be taught how to do stuff like fold towels, it's that they are able to recognize that what they are holding is, in fact, a towel and that the item can be folded. And not only does it know that it can fold the towel, but it folds at a speed of 25 minutes per towel which, as Doug pointed out, is just slightly faster than an 11-year-old boy.

Now, if they could just teach the robot how to identify that a pile of dog crap is, in fact, a pile of dog crap that can be picked up, I'll really be impressed and may even want to buy a robot of my own someday. Honestly, though, I'd probably kind of miss receiving all those glares. Maybe they could teach the robot how to do that, too.

869 Down, Four To Go

The second trimester of school is over, which means that the school year will soon be over and exactly three months from today, I will be enjoying a much-needed week of vacation on the Gulf of Mexico in Florida. Before my boarding pass is scanned, though, I will need to survive one more choir concert and an orchestra concert plus extra rehearsals for both of these, a high school tennis season, two piano recitals, six tennis tournaments and four more science projects. Yes, you read that right...

ONLY FOUR MORE SCIENCE PROJECTS!

In the past, the thought of having to do four science projects in an entire school year would have been enough for me to consider homeschooling. Since I'm not insane I wouldn't have actually followed through with it, but I would have considered it for about three minutes. Now I'm at the point where the news of having only four more projects is like hearing that a money tree has sprouted in the backyard. Or that Ketel One has decided to give me a lifetime supply of vodka. Or that the fries at Five Guys are now fat-free.

Then I found out that the fourth-to-last project is a group project, and it kind of felt like someone had just taken a chainsaw to my recently-sprouted money tree. And then Zach informed me that he was hosting the first group meeting at our house, and that was like the Ketel One prize turning into a lifetime supply of Jagermeister.

He scheduled the first meeting for an afternoon when I would be gone at Charlie's violin lesson, and that made me happy. While I've never been a big fan of leaving the house when my kids have friends over, I figured this was an ideal time to become a fan. After all, these kids were all old enough to be left alone, but young enough to not deviate from the original purpose of getting together (science project) into something else (hey, there's a wet bar in your basement).

Since these teenagers came to our house straight from school, I threw a random assortment of snacks on the coffee table, pointed at the bar fridge, said help yourself, call me if you need anything and goodbye. As I was going up the stairs I heard a couple boys say "Awesome! Gimme a Red Bull." Note to self: One kid's friends have officially outgrown juice boxes.

While I was sitting in the car waiting for Charlie's lesson to get done, I got a call from Zach. I would have welcomed a phone call for the following reasons:

• We're all hungry again, so can we order pizza?
• We're done with the project because we worked extra hard.
• We ended up playing video games the whole time and forgot to do the project. Could you do it for us?
• Just calling to say that I miss you, and my friends think you're really cool.
• The house is under attack by zombies.

Instead, Zach started yelling about how the dog had taken a dump in the house and "Oh my god what do I do now?" I could hear the other kids in the background laughing their asses off and saying "Oh man, it smells! Like shit!

I told him duh, grab some toilet paper, pick it up, throw it in the toilet and flush. "You mean with my hands? I have to pick it up with my hands? GROSS!" As soon as he said this the background laughter got louder and I'm pretty sure I heard Zach make some faint gagging sounds.

Apparently the thought of having to pick up dog shit made his brain shut down even more than normal because when I told him that there was a can of Lysol under the kitchen sink, along with some Clorox wipes and if the smell was really bad he should just crack a window open, all he heard was "blah blah blah my dog shit on the floor blah blah girls are laughing at me blah blah" and all he could say is "WHAT? WHAT? WIPES WHERE? WHAT? OH MY GOD!"

It really doesn't matter that there are only four projects left, because I hate science projects. In fact, I hate them almost as much as I hate knowing that my dog is getting really old and keeps crapping on the floor, and I hate all of these things almost as much as the fact that the fries at Five Guys will never, no matter how much I wish they were, be fat-free.

The Brown Stain, Vol. 2

Now that March has arrived and the temperature is slowly rising the snow and ice is finally melting. While this is great for the streets and sidewalks, it's not so great for our backyard and more specifically, our patio. I guess I should be happy that the dog finally quit crapping on the deck and I don't have to look at the equivalent of an overturned outhouse every time I open the door. But unfortunately now that the snow melted on the patio, we have a turd field that is visible from the great room window. Over the weekend I got sick of staring at the ever-expanding appetite suppressant so I ventured out there wearing shoes that I didn't care about and a pair of rubber gloves. During this disgusting half-hour of my life, I discovered the following:

• My dog shits a lot.
• A pooper scooper is useless on previously frozen dog shit, and instead creates the visual equivalent of a poop snow cone.
• A garden trowel is a multi-seasonal tool and can be used to scoop more than just dirt.
• Maybe stapling a dog's ass shut shouldn't be considered abuse.
• A sense of smell is an overrated luxury, and should come with a switch.
• A gag reflex is easier to trigger than I thought.

To think that this is only round one of the spring de-shitting makes my head spin, but considering the fact that our dog is really old and hasn't ventured off of the deck or patio since it snowed, there can't be much crap in the yard. If spending one disgusting, nausea-inducing, hellacious Sunday morning dealing with dog shit is the grossest thing I'll have to do for the next month, then I guess I can handle it. After all, moms deal with gross things all the time, right?

While Doug and I were watching a movie on Sunday evening, the dog wandered over to where I was sitting on the floor and actually sat on my lap so that I could pet him. By now I had pretty much forgotten about the horrific experience that had occurred just nine hours earlier, so I happily scratched his ears and said "good dog" instead of "get away from me you stinky shit factory." After a couple minutes he left, which is good because something was starting to smell weird.

After he got up, I pulled my knees up and noticed a sticky brown smudge on my leg (and of course I was wearing my favorite cream-colored Gap sweats). At first I thought maybe I had sat on a chocolate chip from the trail mix that the kids were eating earlier, and even though I hate chocolate and the thought of chocolate on my pants pissed me off I really hoped that it was a chocolate chip, because if it wasn't a chocolate chip then that means it was...(sniff sniff) OH MY GOD! THERE IS DOG SHIT ON MY LEG! MY DOG WIPED HIS ASS ON MY LEG!

I guess when I go out in a month and complete the disgusting chore of picking up the winter crap I won't bother using another pair of rubber gloves because I'll just use my favorite Gap sweats instead. Stupid gross dog leaving shit on my leg. Yuck.

Leave The Old Man Alone

Much to my surprise our geriatric, smelly, old, stinky, and getting-older-by-the-day dog Cosmo is surviving the winter. He sleeps most of the time, doesn't play with toys very much any more and is mostly deaf and blind, but he is still eating normal dog food, drinking and, judging by the appearance of our deck, making it outside to crap. Most of the time anyway.

Zoe loves Cosmo, and considers him her own personal playmate when she is acting like a dog. Fortunately, Cosmo still has a lot of patience and manages to avoid her by jogging around the house at a steady pace while she chases after him on her hands and knees, panting and barking. Occasionally she'll try to surprise him by leaping out from behind the couch and grabbing onto his back, or will try to hold onto him as he attempts to escape her insanity. This, I am sure, will eventually piss him off. But instead of him being able to say: "What the fuck is wrong with you? I am deaf. I am blind. I am old. I don't like surprises. I just want to give you a mint, take a nap and then go to bed. Get away from me!" he'll have to get his point across by biting her.

In an attempt to avoid this situation, she has been told by me no fewer than 297 times to "leave the dog alone." Yesterday was no different and, for extra emphasis, Doug told her, "Listen to your mom and leave the dog alone." While I am accustomed to her not doing what I say, she normally always listens to dad because if she doesn't, the repercussions are not pretty.

Maybe it's that her short-term memory was malfunctioning even more than usual, but within one minute after her chat with dad, she came within two inches of body slamming the dog. Sure enough, this resulted in angry dad, a swat on the butt and a few minutes of sitting on the stupidly-named "naughty step."

After the tears came to a halt and the snot was wiped up we explained, for the 298th time, that the dog is really, really old and can't hear or see very well. He doesn't like to be grabbed, poked, shoved, or body-slammed, and he definitely doesn't like surprises. She finally seemed to understand and, after apologizing, went to her room to play with Mr. Potato Head. Thinking it was a perfect time to start dinner since she was upstairs and wouldn't be crawling through the kitchen, I was a little frustrated when she reappeared less than three minutes later:

Now I know why she didn't listen to Doug the first time: she didn't have her ears on.

A Productive Weekend

Things that were confirmed over the weekend:

1. Hyper-competitive parents get on my nerves, but it's fun to see their kids glare at them when they're not looking.
2. I don't like waiting for people.
3. Red velvet cake batter looks a lot like tomato paste.
4. Red food coloring in a white kitchen sink looks a lot like violence.
5. Bartenders never give you a straight answer as far as when happy hour starts.
6. A hungry five-year-old is not a pleasant person.
7. Old dogs don't care if it's someone's birthday, and will still shit on the floor.
8. No kid will ever turn down pancakes for dinner.
9. If you're not a fan of Roger Federer, you're often disappointed.
10. If you're a fan of Serena Williams, you may not be disappointed, but you're an idiot.
11. Think twice before eating hummus at midnight.
12. Dive bars aren't always quirky and fun. Sometimes they just suck, and are proof that natural selection has limitations.
13. A grilled sausage tastes better in January than it does in June.
14. Chlorine is a wonderful sleep-aid for children.
15. Best friends that head to Mexico for a long weekend without offering to take you along have a lot of nerve.
16. When the 13-year-old gives you a perfect "You're an idiot" look, it's kind of irritating, but it makes you kind of proud, too.
17. I'm already sick of the ads for horrendous Valentine's Day gifts.
18. Lady GaGa makes some questionable wardrobe choices.
19. Most of the time, after looking at the high-maintenance, over-priced martini menu, I will end up ordering a beer.
20. Since anger always motivates me to workout, choosing the treadmill in front of the TV that is broadcasting Fox News is a wise choice.

Some Evenings Stink More Than Others

Here's how my Monday night ended:

After dinner, Zoe hauled out Winnie The Pooh Candyland. When it was finally bedtime, and after I had played approximately 82 rounds with her, she made me promise that I would leave it on the table so that we can continue the marathon after breakfast. I agreed to leave the game out, but will consider this as pre-payment for any naughtiness I may commit in 2010, because: 1. I hate board games, especially licensed character mind-numbing, boring-ass board games, and 2. Leaving toys out-of-place overnight means I'll have a hard time going to sleep.

So anyway, after Zach and Charlie had played a couple hours of "Call of Duty: Modern Warfare" and managed to level up and acquire a throwing knife, they came upstairs around 10:00 and discovered Candyland sitting on the table. They proceeded to make up their own rules and became so captivated by the game that they failed to hear the "click click click" of the dog's toenails as he ran back and forth in front of the deck door. I knew what was about to happen, but waited to see if they would snap out of their moment of regression to notice. Sure enough, after a minute or so, I heard Charlie say: "Hey, you have to move two blue squares past the Heffalump before you...oh man. What's that smell? It smells like...OH MY GOD! COSMO TOOK A CRAP FIVE INCHES AWAY FROM ME!"

I walked over with a wad of toilet paper and saw both boys standing across the room, pinching their noses shut with one hand, and Charlie holding his Piglet game piece in the other. I calmly told them that if it was too hard for them to simultaneously notice that the dog needed to go outside and play Candyland, maybe they needed to move on to something easier. Like going to bed.

A Note From The Dog

I know this is going to seem a lot like Billy from "The Family Circus," but I'm not going to share with you how I run aimlessly through the backyard trying to deliver a letter. (I just run aimlessly through the backyard trying to figure out the best place to pee.) I'm writing because the person that feeds me, walks me, picks up my crap, and clips my nails is moving around at kind of a sluggish pace this morning, so I figured I'd take advantage of this opportunity to explain a couple things, and maybe clear up my bad reputation.

I will be honest and admit that I am probably part of the reason for Jody's need to self-medicate with Ketel One last night. You see, Minnesota winters are cold, and last week was really fucking cold. I am a little over 14 dog years old, which makes me about 108 in people years. If you ask a centenarian if he would voluntarily head outside in below zero weather to take a crap, I'm pretty sure his answer would be, "Go to hell, sonny." So, considering the fact that I've been good about defecating outdoors for over a decade, I think I'm entitled to a little cold weather leniency. Will I risk death by taking a dump on the kitchen floor instead of freezing my ass off? Definitely.

What I've discovered is that instead of the usual "Bad dog! Don't shit in the house! Ugh! Why did we get a dog?" routine that I tolerated as a puppy, she kind of feels sorry for me in my geriatric state. I still hear the usual "Why does the house smell like dog shit?" and "Oh Cosmo! That is really gross! You're a stupid dog!", but the whole incident seems to be wiped under the table in a matter of seconds, after the evidence has been flushed. Hmm...under the table. There's a spot I haven't visited yet.

Also, she stresses out about the fact that I have a tendency to throw up in the afternoons, but what does she expect? After dining on a little bit of frozen poop, licking myself whenever the desire hits, and eating random bits of food that happen to fall on the floor, excuse me if I happen to get a little nauseous in the afternoon!

I may act deaf, blind, and like I have no control of my bowels, but I'm not stupid. After 14 years, I have finally figured out that after I go outside around 10:00 at night, I get a treat. Should I go through the effort of going all the way down to the frozen grass, piss in the snow, and trudge all the way back up the deck steps just to get a stupid treat? I think not. I have figured out that if I just go halfway down the stairs, stand there for about 14 seconds, and then head back to the door, I still get the treat! Yeah, she's busted me a couple times and ends up standing at the door, waving her arm like a lunatic while yelling, "Go down the fucking steps, you moron," so then I just pee on the deck instead.

I guess I should get going. After a little ramen, a few Ritz crackers and a couple Advil, she seems to be moving around a little more. Besides, I have an itch I need to lick and the deck is just begging to be peed on.

He Took a Dump Where?

Cosmo, our rat terrier, has been a great family dog and we've had him around for 14 years. Sure, there are quirks...he eats frozen shit in the winter like it's a delicacy. He has allergies at the end of the summer that cause him to lick his paws until they look like they've been dipped in red Kool-aid. He doesn't really know any tricks, unless you count "get your cold slimy nose off of me" a trick. He pretends he's deaf and blind unless bacon falls on the floor, and every morning after he eats and takes a dump he deals with a red rocket. Trust me, you really do not want me to go into any further detail on that last bit of information.

Basically, though, he's a good dog. He rarely barks after dark because he knows we'll kick his ass if he does. He has never eaten any stuffed animals, shoes, toys, furniture or video game controllers. He doesn't bite strangers, and is always patient around little kids. He has never ran away and loves to chase the geese out of the yard.

Unfortunately, the last few weeks have left us looking really hard for those redeeming qualities. Just how many times can a geriatric dog shit/barf/ shit/shit/barf/barf/shit on the floor before we say adios? The last few times that I've bought the 15 pound bag of dog food, I wonder "is this the last bag of food I'll need to buy?" or even "maybe the 8 pound bag would be enough." It's horrible to think that way, but I'm just trying to be realistic.

Honestly, I think dogs have it pretty good at the end of their lives. When they get old and lose their eyesight, hearing, tolerable body odor, control of their bowels, and can't drive their Buick faster than 43 mph, they can simply get a shot to put them out of their misery instead of asking someone to change their colostomy bag. When I think of it this way, it makes the end a little easier to accept.