Rest'INg Peace(fully) Annie

She started limping last week.  Favoring her leg, resting more than usual and rejecting Trip's enthusiastic invitations for a game of chase.   I made her rest for the next couple of days and she seemed fine. 

Then Tuesday she quit walking all together.    Laying on her side, whimpering, it was obvious her leg was sore.

It was only ten months ago that you, my readers, raised almost $1500 for her surgery.  Surgery that saved her life and gave her back use of that leg.  I watched in horror as my son's dog, my dog, and really YOUR dog lay in obvious pain from a blown out leg again. 

I made another quick appointment with the Vet.  We sat the kids down and explained the reality.  This was probably "IT". 

We will not do the surgery again.  First, It's not fair to Annie, an enthusiastic Jack Russell to require her to be crated 23.5 hours a day for three months for a repair that doesn't last a year.  Secondly, it is simply too much money.  

Silent tears.  Then loud tears.  Then some wailing.  Hours of  cuddles and bowls of treats. 

They all said goodbye, each in their own way.    There is no more helpless feeling as a mother than watching your teenage son double over in grief that he can not hide or contain, and you know there is no relief for it other than simply walking it through. 

As I held the dog in one arm and hugged him with the other I whispered in his ear the only words of comfort I could manage "She knows how much you love her Eric and that counts alot to a dog".

I loaded Annie into the truck for her final ride and we headed to the Vet.  Shel met me there, skipping out from work,  knowing I would not survive this alone.   

The vet on duty is a fellow hockey mom, and she met my stricken look with kind words.  She knew by reading the notes that this wasn't a good thing and she could tell by my swollen eyes we already had faced that reality.  As she laid Annie's file on the table several printed sheets slid out and off to the side.  I glanced down at the pictures of my children and dogs.  The blog story of Annie printed off by the head vet and attached to her file.

Ahhh right.  I suppose they have google too. 

She probed and palpitated and we waited for the grim news we were sure was coming. 

Except it didn't. 

She thinks with lots of rest there is a CHANCE, however small, that the injury might heal.  She thinks that possibly the surgery repair is torn, but not completely ripped. 

And so Annie, soaked to the bone with salty tears Annie, came home.  If you would like to say a little prayer for a little dog, we would appreciate it.  Eric would appreciate it alot.

A Dog Day Disaster

Caden has been planning this birthday for 2 years.

Last March we were in the midst of trauma and drama and planning a birthday party for a newly minted 8 year old fell off the to-do list.  I carry the mother guilt of his disappointment over his never got around to actually doing 8th birthday party so promise after promise over the last 12 months focused on this his 9th.

He had it planned to the most minute detail.

A Pinata.  Mostly because he has never had one before.

A Treasure Hunt.  Because he is a 9 year old boy.

A Mystery Meal of Gross and Disgusting Foods.  See above.

A Train Cake made and decorated by mom.  Because that is the first birthday cake he remembers having, and he loved it and he wanted it again. 

No matter WHAT happened this birthday had to go off without a hitch because there is nothing quite so poignant as the hopes and dreams of your baby boy. 

And so I shopped and planned and bought and invited. 

And Baked.  Yes BAKED. 

Now we have covered this before.  We all know that baking and cooking aren't exactly my best qualities.  HOWEVER, I have pulled of a couple supremely awesome birthday cakes in years past and Caden's expectations were high, based mostly on his recollections of his 3rd birthday and how much he loved his train cake that year.  We all know that impressing a 3 year old is much easier than impressing a 9 year old.  And more importantly, impressing his friends.   Also, his memory is fuzzy.

The day before party, while babies slept, I began the process.  The cake would be 5 feet long and placed on a long 2X4 with a KitKat bar track.  Each section of train would have a different candy cargo and would alternative with chocolate and vanilla cake.  It was cool. 

I iced and cut, molded and planned.  I was happy. 

I didn't bother taking pictures because I was going to wait until Caden could see the cake at his party.

THAT was a mistake. 

I took the nearly finished cake and placed it outside on our screened in porch.  I placed it about 5 feet off the ground balanced on top of box that was placed on top of the table.

THAT was a mistake.

Then I put the dogs outside for a romp. 

THAT was a mistake. 

The rest of the day was a blur of planning and RSVPs and making dinner and changing diapers and I never went to check back on the cake.

THAT was a mistake. 

The morning of the party dawned bright and clear.  Or maybe that was ominous.  Caden was vibrating from excitement.  Guests were due to arrive shortly after lunch and I was running around hanging banners and doing last minute clean ups. 

I went outside to bring in the cake.  You know that Train Cake that my son had been planning on for TWO YEARS?

The engine piece was icing free.  The chocolate "log transport" piece was completely gone.  There were bite marks on the pieces that were left. 

At the moment of discovery my 12 year old came out of his bedroom and said "The stupid dog puked all over my bed during the night mom".

I would hereby like it to be known that the fact my dogs are still alive is a testament to my self control.  The fact that I didn't swear and throw things is a testament to the fact my mother had dropped by. 

I sat dumbfounded.  I facebooked.  I honestly did not know what to do. 

What I did not do is kill the dogs. 

THAT was a mistake.  (I am pretty sure anyways)

Shel raced to the store and bought the least girlie slab cake they had.  I scrounged candy that I had at home and fancied it up. 

I hugged my son and told him I was so very sorry. 

We had a party.  9 year old boys do not care about the amount of time it takes to decorate a cake.  What they care about is that the pieces of cake are BIG.

My sweet, sensitive, loving Caden crawled into my lap after the party and said "This was the BEST DAY OF MY LIFE Mommy.  I love you."

I smiled.   Then I put the leftover slab cake out on my porch, on top of a box, on top of the table.

And then I let the dogs out for a romp. 

Apparently I do not learn from my mistakes. 

We never got seconds.

It sounded like a good idea at the time ...

We had a dog already. Annie, quirky, fun and a tad mentally ill but overall a good dog. Two years of intensive training and she was now a loved member of the family.





Hockey season was ending and because life with 4 boys, a husband, one dog and a job apparently wasn't active enough, Jen got an idea. A dumb, dumb, dumb idea.




Why not get another dog? Ok there are about ten thousand reason I can think of NOW for not getting another dog, but at the time? Logic escaped me. Annie was getting fat and I was worried she was lonely while I worked. Apparently I thought getting a pet for my pet was smart. Did I mention the dumb, dumb idea?




WE (this implies someone else was involved in the decision, that would be a lie, but don't tell my husband I said so) scanned the SPCA website looking for a "rescue" pooch that might suit our family.




WE found a cute, little Jack Russell pup listed. The fact that the add said "Breed Experienced Owners Preferred" should have been a warning. The fact that his previous owners dropped him off, an expensive pup to buy, with nary a second glance, might have been my second warning. The fact that when I called to inquire about him the SPCA director apologized for the poor picture in the add because "we couldn't get him to stand still" might have been my third warning. The fact they were willing to ship him to us and assume all costs for transport if we were willing to take him within 48 hours might have been my fourth. I, apparently, am a bit slow.





And so we have Trip. Or actually TRIPPY as his name has morphed into. Because there is something completely trippy about watching a dog seemingly high on crack destroy your home.




He arrived seemingly healthy but harboring GERMS. Nasty, nasty contagious germs that resulted in chronic puking by both dogs for two weeks. Oh and hundreds of dollars in vet bills. You know, because I had this good idea that my pet need a pet.





Trip didn't sleep. Ever. He whined, he licked, he dropped balls on your head, he chewed, he ate my dirty underwear but what he didn't do was sleep. In absolute desperation last week, we found the solution thanks to Dr. Google. One half sleeping pill stuffed into his mouth. Wait one hour. Hide all toys. Turn off all the lights in the house. Ensure children understand they are not to make a single sound. So now, just maybe if we are really lucky, and only if he is wrapped around my neck and in my bed, will he sleep.


I have a hard enough time sharing my bed with the six and a half foot giant I married. I hate - absolutely HATE - sleeping with a smelly, scratchy, snugly, licky, noisy dog. This dislike is now irrelevant because if I don't, none of us sleep. Now I skip giving him the pill, take one for myself and hope for the best.


(A kennel you say. Been there. Done that. A kennel is no match for a Jack Russell. )



Then there is the pee. How a ten pound dog can manage to daily pee three gallons of urine spread over 2 levels of house is a mystery I do not comprehend. It would be bad enough if I told you his favorite target is the laundry.


But its worse.



Because although yes, his favorite target IS laundry, technically I am not sure if you can call it laundry when you are still WEARING the clothes. There really is nothing more heart warming than to have your cute, bundle of energy dog leap onto your lap and douse you with a warm spray.



The dirty underwear fetish has created a few embarrassing moments. So has the fact that he can escape from our yard with ease. We are now the only home on our street with rolls of chicken wire spread across our yard. We do not live in a Chicken Wire sort of neighbourhood.



He's active. He's crazy. He has impulse control issues. He needs medication. In other words, he fits right in. Welcome to the family Trippy. You're stuck with us for the long haul.

Adoption Thoughts: You're Thinking Too Much

You know you are thinking about adoption too much when you diagnose your dog with Reactive Attachment Disorder.

We are a dog family and a cat allergy in two of the boys has cemented that reality. We have had a few dogs, and although I started out writing this thinking only one has had a diagnosable disorder, I think I am underestimating our lack of doggy luck.

"Our" first dog, Kemper, was eight years old when we got her but she transitioned fairly seamlessly into our then small family. She had been loved, cared for and trained by her previous owner who was retiring and wanted her to be in a home with a yard rather than a small apartment. Her attachment to me took time, but it was firm and relatively painless to achieve. Well behaved and much loved she kept me company during those early years of marriage before children arrived and while Shel worked shift work.

Maybe due to her age, and maybe due to her disposition as a Blue Heeler/Border Collie, she always thought of the children as a responsibility to be tolerated rather than companions to enjoy. She was decidedly "my" dog and not the boys. She was already 11 when the kids started arriving, and as she aged, we realized her tolerance of children was deteriorating as her arthritis spread. By the time Caden began to crawl we knew the wise decision to protect the baby, and prevent Kemper from being hurt, was to put her down. Then Daisy, the dough head, arrived.

This disaster in doggy parenting came in the form of a pure bred Golden Retriever puppy. Daisy's mother had been rescued from a puppy mill run by an absentee psycho American owner who vacationed every summer on his ranch in our area, only to abandon his animals every winter. He returned to bury the bodies of the dead in the spring and "replenish" his stocks. When finally his dogs and horses were seized by the animal cruelty officers, one of the survivors was pregnant. By the special needs in her pups, we assume she was pregnant by her brother, who was probably also her cousin, nephew, uncle and quite possibly her father as well.

Daisy and her litter mates were as cute as they were dumb. Two died from seizure disorders. One ran INTO a moving train. One was hit by a car. Daisy was a chewer and completely, totally and thoroughly untrainable. She ate everything, and in a house with 4 boys and two teenager foster daughters, there was plenty to find and destroy. After she ate the hamster, knocked Eric down the stairs and broke his arm, ate two bikes, the high chair, numerous rolls of toilet paper and every single toy or shoe ever left out for a moment, and then developed the habit of barking incessantly if she was ever put outside, we decided she needed a higher level of "therapeutic parenting" than we could provide. Off went Daisy to a farm. No, really. It wasn't just a story we told the boys, we interviewed and found a "more suitable rehoming situation" for our dog. Eventually those owners had to have her put down as her untrainability turned out not to be a reflection of our inadequate doggy parenting abilities but rather her absolute brain dead idiocy!

The Daisy Disaster and still missing Kemper resulted in me making a "pet free" house declaration to the boys. Eric begged. And begged. And begged. Finally, after 4 years of begging, we began to look for a new dog just for Eric. She was to be a reward for his improving responsibility and behavior. At first glance, we thought we had found the perfect addition; Jack Russell, 3 years old, trained and small enough to be an easy inside dog. We were greatly underestimating the needs of our new addition (sort of like some pre-adoptive parents!) and you might see where this little tale is going.

Annie was a rescue dog (the fact she was rescued from my mother is a whole other story!). We were her third home in 3 years and she had been highly under socialized before she arrived in our highly socializing home. She had crazy behaviors we weren't fully aware of and deep seeded insecurities of abandonment based on her past. You might call it a sort of "foster care dog adoption". Little did I know how much my previous experience with fostering attachment in our sons would carry over into our dog.

We knew going in that we had no "out" with Annie. She was Eric's dog and we could never, ever admit defeat and decide that she couldn't stay with us anymore. I think it's that determination that got us through the next year or so of helping our Attachment Disordered Dog to "heal". Upon her arrival, Annie took one look at our crazy family and decided she was mine, or rather I was hers.

Now if you saw a child clinging to his new parents, you might assume the child was expressing his love and attachment and be happy for the family. For those of us in the know, we realize that this usually means a child has an "insecure attachment". Annie exhibited strong signs of an insecure attachment to me, never leaving my side, becoming frantic if I was out of sight, working herself into a state of frenzy if access to me was denied. She could puke on demand if too upset, and worse, punish any indiscretion on my part (like needing to grocery shop) by having explosive diarrhea throughout the house.

She chewed her way out of plastic kennels, bent the bars of a metal kennel, broke a window, chewed off door jams, ran several kilometers seeking me (and finding me) at a friend's house. She demanded my undivided attention, and thought the children were a threat to her status and needed to be eliminated; or at least reminded they were below her.

Through patience, retraining, discipline and the fortuitous happenings that I was now homeschooling the boys and we were home all the time with her, (and a BRIEF stint on Ativan at the suggestion of the vet) she slowly began to relax. SLOWLY. It was a worry when I went back to work in September that Annie would fall apart. It has been hard on her and in fact, she does sit in the front window the entire day watching the road for my vehicle to return, but she now believes that I will come home. She no longer needs to get sick with worry. She no longer destroys things when her frustration and fear get too much. She has a secure attachment.

Chalk another success up for Attachment Therapy.