For Madame Skye

This is a picture of Madame on the back of the settee in my office.  Made a few years ago.

As I write this, our Madame Skye cat is still with us, but barely.  She is sleeping on the settee in my office, a favorite spot of hers, but her breathing is labored.  She won't be with us much longer, I know, even if we make it to the vet tomorrow and he is able to do something for her.  We have seen the x-rays.  There is cancer everywhere inside this poor kitty.  Yet, until very recently, she has had a pretty normal quality of life for an eleven year old cat with cancer.  As recently as last evening, she was chasing a string and following us around as we did things.  She got in my face as I was settling in to watch Doctor Who.  This morning, she was having trouble breathing, but we heard no congestion.  Still no congestion, just hard for her to breathe.  (Something inside in the way, I suspect.) 

This kitty is one who chose us.  We went to a PetSmart adoption event, and asked if they had any short-haired cats.  Madame was the only one left.  They had named her Skye, and as her coloring reminded me of the rock of the isles, I decided the name Skye could be kept.  Her attitude and bearing made us call her "Madame", however.  They told us she was "kinda standoffish."  As soon as Matt reached toward the cage when the girl opened the door, Skye got up, walked right into Matt's arms, reached for me, looked up at the girl and meowed, as if to say :  "Write up my release papers.  My staff has FINALLY showed up to bail me out." 
Skye is the cat who cannot resist a piece of string.  She must chase it, try to take it somewhere, hide it for later.  She loves her toy mice, plays with them excitedly, has tried to "drown" them in her water bowl. 

Madame loves Mozart.  She always listens to my voice practice, coming from wherever she has settled into the dining room to supervise.  Mozart is her favorite.  She loves "Deh viene non tardar, o gioja bella!" (from Nozze di Figaro) that it is what I must use to call her.  She will NOT come unless I sing that aria.  If Matt wants to call her, he has to flip the drawer pull on his desk drawer where he keeps the string. 

This cat will be SO missed.  She is the Regulator of the Household Daily Liturgy.  She it is who tells us when we should get up, when we should (she thinks, anyway) go to bed, when she should be fed, when we should go to work.  There have been rituals involved in all these things.  She MUST help me make the bed every morning, even if lately, that has been a very half-hearted attempt to grab the blanket when I spread it back on the bed to tuck it back in.  Every night for a long time, she had to have ice cubes put in her water dish.  I don't know why.  I get ice for my tumbler of water every night, and she started loudly demanding that she get some too.  This has stopped since she has been ill, but for awhile, it was part of the nightly ritual.  She always had to sit at the foot of the bed and watch Matt put on his lip balm before he retires for the night.  She also demands to be brushed if either of us gets out a hairbrush.  She hides from the doorbell, but if our friends the Rogerses come over, she demands that Michael sit down on the couch so she can trap his arm and go to sleep.  She is in heaven when Nancy also sits on the couch.  She traps them both.

I know we will soon be seeing her off to wait at the Rainbow Bridge with Taz and Dougal, and of course, Bear (HER dog).  I don't want to let her go, but if she is ready, I will send her off to keep Mr. Bear company until we get there.  He grumped at her a lot, but he let her sleep with him if she behaved. (She tried to bite him, which he did NOT appreciate.) 
Here are some pictures of Skye trapping Mike and Nancy:

And here is a picture of her snoozing on my settee today:

I will add more when we know more. 
We have just returned from a rushed trip to the emergency vet.  Madame Skye passed away on the way up there.  She had severe problems breathing, and was vomiting, so we rushed her up there, but it was already too late.  We knew she would go soon.  I miss her already.  My Opera Cat.


Here is a picture of her just last night, she climbed up on me to watch Doctor Who with me.

Sorry.  Crying too much to type any more.

The Love Of Dogs

I started thinking about dogs Saturday.  There has nearly always been a dog in my life.  The first one I remember is our neighbor's dog, Skipper.  Skipper was a terrier of some sort, and would play ball forever and ever, as long as somebody would throw it.  The neighbor on the other side had a nice, calm Cocker Spaniel named Bobby.  Bobby loved ginger snaps, and would do all sorts of tricks to get one.  Our family didn't own a dog until I was about six years old.  Then, because my teacher had a sweet little dog that she had to find a new home for, we got Misty.

This is a picture of me and Misty.
She was a sweet little terrier, all black, and she and I became fast friends.  She taught me how much fun it was to have a dog of my own, and how much work.  She also taught me one of my first lessons about the pain of loss.  Misty got out of the yard one day, a few months after we got her, and got hit by a car.  Right in front of our house.  I cried for days.  So did my Mom, because Misty was trying to follow her to our neighbor's across the street. 
The next year, a lady who lived on my route to and from school had some cocker mix puppies that she was looking for good homes for.  My Mom was walking with me, and we both fell in love with one golden little guy.  He was about the color of peanut butter, so I named him Skippy.

This is Skippy when he was a few years old. 
We had him for several years, and then, we suspect someone either took him or let him out.  (Because soon after that, someone tried to break in.)  Again, I cried for days.  I loved Skippy, and he followed me around all the time.  He had such short legs, that when he had to sneeze, he'd hop up in one of the patio chairs so he wouldn't bang his nose on the ground. 
Shortly after we lost Skippy, we got a German Shepherd puppy and named her O.D. for Other Dog.  (We were still hoping we'd find Skippy.)  Odie, as we came to call her, was big, awkward, and loveable.  She was scared to death of the Goodyear blimp  One year a hot air balloon race came near our house, and the poor dog just came unglued.  We had to bring her in the house and keep her away from the windows, and turn the TV up so she couldn't hear the burners on the balloons.  My Mom took her to obedience classes, and she did pretty well, but when we moved to a house with hardwood floors, she couldn't come in without help because she was like Bambi on the ice on those polished floors.  She lived a good long life and died peacefully of old age.

This is me and Odie.  Nobody even tried to bother our house after we got her.

 This is Doobie (left) and Dougal, our first Schipperke, he who could chase tennis balls forever.
 This is Dougal trying to learn the fine are of out-stubborning a gopher from Doobie.


 Now, when Matt and I got married, we inherited a dog from Matt's Mom who was moving up north with Debbie, Matt's sister, and already had one dog to take with her.  Doobie was that dog's name, and she was so ugly, she was adorable.  She was half Scottie and half Wire--Haired Dachshund.  Doobie was fun-loving and happy go lucky, and even when she got out, she somehow always got delivered safely home.  She had belonged to Matt's cousin Susan, who had to leave her with Matt's Mom when she went into the Air Force.  (Where she became a dog handler!)  Doobie could track gophers and catch them better than any dog I have ever seen.  It was one of her favorite things to do.  She, too, lived to a ripe old age, and we only had to have her put down when her chronic illnesses became too painful for the vets to do much for anymore.  That was a very hard decision, and we still miss Doobie. 


Dougal.  Ah, Dougal.  My baby boy, our first Schipperke.  (Means Little Captain in Flemmish).  Schips are a Belgian breed, kept commonly on barges to keep rats down and unwanted visitors out.  Dougal was good at both.  He was a most excellent watch dog.  He had to be.  I had to stay all alone in a not so hot neighborhood in San Bernardino when Matt was on TDY, and Dougal was my fierce protector.  We got him when he was a puppy, and Matt had to go TDY the day after we got him.  Dougal became very much MY dog, but he adored Matt.  Matt would play with him a LOT longer than I would, you see.  Dougal was the dog we took with us to Germany, who endeared himself to our German landlords, and the neighbor's kids.  He went on LONG walks with me every day through the German countryside.  (Our apartment was in a farmhouse, out in the country.  There was no on-base housing available for NCOs at Rhein-Main when we arrived. )  Dougal was my dear companion and fierce protector for the long months that Matt was deployed with his squadron for Desert Shield/Storm.  He was the dog that went bananas when Matt came home and wouldn't let him out of his sight.  It made me cry to see how much that dog really loved Matt.  The landlord's dog, Blackie, almost wouldn't let Matt get out of the car when he got home from the desert.  He saw us coming up the drive, and started barking, and wagging his entire body, and then everybody who was upstairs in the landlord's apartment came out and greeted Matt as well.  They had all taken good care of me while Matt was gone. 

Above is Dougal on Matt's lap here in our Oklahoma house. The picture below it is one Matt made with the timer on the camera when he was home for 3 days during Desert Shield.  (His crew got to bring home one of the C-130s that needed maintenance.)  Notice that Dougal would NOT leave Matt alone.   (And, oh, my God, was I really that skinny?!)

Dougal lived to be almost 18 years old.  He was almost deaf, and almost blind, and then his kidneys gave out.  We had to let  him go.  I missed him SO much.  I still do.  He was my baby boy.  (We never had children.  Only pets.) 
I wrote this poem for him, but it could apply to any of the dogs I've lost.  And I still have the best one yet to tell you about. 
Bear.  Oh.  I still cry for my Bear.  He was the sweetest dog EVER.  He's been gone a little more than a year now, and I just can't make room in my heart for another dog yet.  Bear's going to be a hard act to follow.  As much as I love Dougal, Bear was sweeter, and his love meant more.  Bear came to us from a breed rescue group.  He was also a Schipperke, but he was larger than breed standard.  (25lbs as opposed to 18 and longer and taller, too.)  He had been tossed out of the house and made to live basically without human contact in a yard for most of his life.  He was five years old when we got him.  They said they had to put him out because he "couldn't be house trained."  Excuse my French, but, bullsh*t.  They just didn't want to try.  The rescue folks convinced them to turn Bear over, and it took us almost a year of crate training and tethering, (tying him to us whenever he was loose in the house so he knew he was being watched), but we got that dog so well trained that he only ever had an accident when he was ill.  He went from being a standoffish dog, uninterested in people, to being a love bug.  It was like he just couldn't believe he could really stay in the house, get petted a lot, have treats, regular mealtimes, walks, and lots of new friends.  I have written about Bear before.  He was my walking buddy.  He made friends everywhere he went.  He was with us for eight years. 

There's my Bear.  Mr. Bear and Madame Skye would occasionally call a truce if it meant sharing a blanket.  (We still have Madame, she is as despotic as ever. )  (That is Matt's office, by the way.  Mine is NEVER that messy.  I'd trip and fall on my a** if it was.) 
Dogs and the unconditional love they give us can make life so much richer and fuller.  Someday there may be a new dog in our house, and if so, it will be a rescue. They can turn out to be the most wonderful dogs EVER. 
Here's my poem.  Hope I can type it all right.  Hard to type when you're trying not to cry.

For my Dougal
Where are you, old friend?
I listen for your  step
Even though
I know you will not come.
Why did you have to go?
You weren't so old and tired yet, were you?
I know, dear heart, your eyes were growing dim, your ears missed much,
And more things hurt than didn't.
It was time to say our goodbyes.
But still, I find myself looking for you,
Listening for you -
Hoping to find you
Someplace besides my heart.