As I begin to write this blog entry, it is 11:12 pm on Saturday, August 18, 2012. As I write this, I am sitting in my family room tapping my fingers onto the keyboard of my iPad. As I write this, I am so very sad and on the verge of tears. I know I will cry, and I will need to take a break or two as I construct this blog entry.

Earlier today my wife, daughter and I said our final goodbyes to our beloved Shiba Inu dog, Bandit.

Bandit was part of my family for about seven months before my daughter was born. He was born July 29, 1996 and my wife and I saw him for the first time about 5 weeks later. We went to the home of the breeder we got Bandit from and spent several hours with him, his 2 siblings and his mother. What a great day! I couldn’t wait to take him home, but that would have to wait for several more weeks.

The day to bring our new family member home soon arrived and we were on the road and heading out to pick him up. What an incredibly handsome boy he was. This little ball of fur and sharp teeth was ours. We said our goodbyes to Debbie, the lady we got Bandit from, and saddled up for the return trip to our home. My wife, who was a few months pregnant, put Bandit in her lap and stroked his fur as I drove. I tried to sneak in a few strokes of his fur myself, but I needed to keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the steering wheel.

Bandit was soon curled up and asleep in my wife’s lap and I knew the bond that they would share would be stronger than any other. What I didn’t know until months later was that my bond with him was the third strongest in our household. While curled in my wife’s lap, Bandit was laying next to our developing daughter, listening to her beating heart. My daughter and Bandit had bonded before she was born and I realized this the day we brought her home from the hospital.

No sooner was my baby daughter in the front door before Bandit made it known that he was in charge of guarding and protecting her. My wife and I worried that our rambunctious puppy might inadvertently scratch, nibble on or bark at our daughter. Nothing was further from the truth and we soon knew that their was nothing to worry about. Bandit was so sweet and very aware of our new baby girl. As soon as we placed her in her baby swing, Bandit came right over and sniffed her. Then he lay on the floor in front of her swing and kept watch. Never once did he do any of the things we had feared he might.

In my blog entry about the death of our other Shiba Inu, Fuji, I wrote that my memories of Fuji formed a timeline of my life and my family’s as well. The timeline is much longer with Bandit. 16 years he was part of our family. He saw us through three houses, several career changes, happy times including the birth of our daughter and sad times including the deaths of my father, our two cats, and his sister, Fuji. He also was there for our daughter’s late night baby bottles, diapers, potty training and learning to walk. He also witnessed many first days of a new school year, dirty dishes, exploding Teriyaki sauce bottles, and my family acting like fools on more than one occasion.

Was he an integral part of my life? Yeah, he certainly was. Was he good at keeping a secret? Yeah, he definitely was. As far as I know, he never spilled the beans on me and he knew many of my secrets. Did I talk to him? Yeah, I have to admit that I did on more than a few occasions. Just like I did with his sister, Fuji, and his kitty brother and sister, George and Jazzy. Were there times that he made me angry? Yeah, there were times that he certainly did.

One such time was when he was a tiny puppy and my wife and I put him in his pen when we left our house to run errands. I thought we had left him plenty of  toys to chew on, but evidently  that wasn’t good enough. He chewed on the linoleum floor and managed to destroy a fairly large area, right down to the wooden sub floor. I believe that little episode ended up costing about $250. I had to call in a floor repair guy and also purchase a sheet of 3/4″ plywood that I cut down and used for the floor of his pen. I made the mistake of covering the plywood in a felt like material so he wasn’t laying on plywood. He destroyed that as well.

I tried to be mad at him, but he was so darned handsome and personable that I just couldn’t stay angry. He was a sweet dog and once he grew out of his puppy bad manners, I rarely had any issues with him. He was a star and he knew it. He always got attention when we would go on walks. Everyone had to stop and take notice of Bandit. “What kind of dog is that?” was something I grew accustomed to hearing. I also heard, “Is that a fox you have on the leash?”. I guess he kind of did resemble a fox, but I always saw a family member when I looked at him.

Bandit was a constant in my and my family’s life for 16 years. He lived about one year longer than the upper end of life expectancy for his breed. About 6 months ago, I started reconciling the fact that he would not live forever and I knew the day would be coming where I would have to say goodbye to my companion.

In his younger days, Bandit was the epitome of  what a Shiba should look like. The breeder we got him from was always commenting on how perfect he was whenever she saw him. Many times she commented how badly she wanted to show him in competitions. We never entered him in any competitions as we never thought of him as a show dog. He was like our child and was a member of our family.

The Shiba breed is considered a hunting breed and is very active, alert and well muscled. About a year ago, we noticed that he was losing his muscle and his coordination was subsiding as well. As time went by, Bandit began to slow down and was showing signs of aging. He didn’t have the energy to play like he once did and he started just simply looking old and frail. Heart braking to see a once mighty warrior succumb to Father Time. But it happens to all of us eventually no matter how hard we try to fight it.

The past month or two has been very difficult for me. The dog that use to effortlessly leap onto the couch was slipping away. Bandit would attempt to clear the edge of the couch, but would just get hung up a little with his hind feet and slip back onto the floor. He also had a pronounced curve to his back and his rear end dipped. The tail that had majestically corkscrewed over his back was now limp and lifeless. His piercing eyes were now sinking into his skull. His once vibrant red fur was graying. In short, the muscular Adonis of days gone by was now reduced to a shuffling old man.

I spent more time with Bandit than anyone else and lately I had found myself staring at him as he tried to do any number of things. In the last few weeks, he had a hard time settling down and finding a comfortable spot to rest. My heart sank whenever I witnessed him attempting to achieve things that once were second nature. I had to accept what my eyes and mind were telling me, no matter what my heart said.

I had known for several weeks that the decision to peacefully and humanely say goodbye to my partner in crime, my confidante, and a valued family member had to be made. My wife’s heart could not allow herself to see and accept what her brain had to know. Intense love of a family member has a way of blinding oneself to reality. I don’t fault her for her inability to recognize the obvious. She just simply loved so strongly. Nothing more… Nothing less.

My wife and I had talked with Bandit’s doctor a month ago and detailed what we were seeing and what our thoughts were concerning Bandit’s health and longevity. We didn’t bring him into the vet’s office because Bandit would get very stressed whenever we’d go and I didn’t think subjecting him to that stress was something I wanted to do to him. We talked and left with an approximate life expectancy of perhaps a few months based solely on what we told her. Of course, the vet said she would have a much greater understanding of things if she would have seen Bandit.

Bandit continued to shows signs of decline and my wife finally made an appointment for Bandit to see the doctor on Saturday, August 18. The vet took one look at Bandit and knew he didn’t look good. Her examination of him and the fact that Bandit had lost a fair amount of weight confirmed that the end had arrived. As the doctor was talking, I looked at my wife and she was on the verge of an emotional meltdown. Knowing that the doctor was talking facts now and not hypotheticals was what finally broke through her wall of denial.

The decision was made to euthanize our dear, sweet boy.

We left Bandit at the vet’s office so they could insert a catheter into his leg to be used to administer the meds to end his life. We drove home and broke the devastatingly sad news to our daughter and to see if she wanted to be there at the end. She did. We headed back to spend our final moments with Bandit. Many tears and many Kleenex. Finally, the time was at hand.

The doctor came in to give him a sedative but she and a vet tech were having difficulty straightening his leg out to gain access to the catheter. It was suggested that my wife hold Bandit in her arms and Bandit settled down as she held him while the meds were delivered. How fitting. She had held Bandit in her lap as he came into our lives and now she held him as he was exiting our lives.

A quick listen with a stethoscope confirmed that Bandit was gone.

He will never be forgotten.

I made a short slideshow of Bandit that I invite anyone reading these words to watch. Click on the link below and have your speakers turned on.

Bandit in Remembrance

July 29, 1996 to August 18, 2012

Until next time,

Mark

Happy birthday to one of the most incredible people in the universe!

Talk to you soon.

Love from the Omaha gang

To be a father is both the greatest gift and greatest challenge a man will ever experience. To be your father is a role that brings with it times of frustration, anger, tears of sadness and worry. But more so, it brings joy, laughter, tears of pride and memories.

I remember the day you came into the World. That was when I knew what love really was. You arrived in my hands and arms. Arms that draw you in for a hug on good days and in celebration. The same arms that have offered a safe refuge from life on occasions you have needed it.

I remember many times wondering how to be a dad and scared out of my mind that everything I did or would do was wrong. How do you give your daughter a bottle? How hard do you pat her back to get her to burp without fracturing her spine or ribcage? Why did you make that noise you just did? I lay awake many nights just listening. Listening to the baby monitor and hearing you sigh or rustling around. Some nights I would sneak into your room, pick you out of your crib and hold you while we rocked. I just stared at you in disbelief and amazement.

I had no idea what life had in mind for you or me. I just knew that I prayed for a little girl and my prayers were answered. As I held you, so many things rushed through my mind. Would you be intelligent? Would you be athletic? Would you and I get along as life went on or was I in for many arguments and being told, “Daddy, you just don’t understand!”? Would you be open to my advice and be able to endure my often times lengthy dissertations on life? Would you have lots of friends and be well liked? So many additional questions flew through my mind as we shared time rocking and me holding you close to my heart.

Thankfully, we have not had many knock down drag out fights. You seem to have listened to my many stories and cautionary tales and have done an outstanding job of not getting arrested. ;>) I have always tried to be there for you in any way you need me and have missed less than a handful of the many events you have participated in. The sense of joy and pride I experience when I see or hear you perform is endless. You definitely don’t have anywhere near the level of performance anxiety that I had when I was younger.

I need you to never forget that I challenge you and “get on your nerves” at times because I see in you a most remarkable individual that occasionally needs a reminder to not coast through life, but to aggressively pursue life and immerse yourself in all the success you achieve. Carpe Diem! I am amazed at all your achievements and the numerous accolades you have received at such a young age. I can only imagine what is in your future but I have no doubt that it will make your daddy’s chest swell with pride and bring tears of joy to his eyes.

As your first year of high school comes to a close, I want you to know that I will always be here for you. No matter what life brings, I will always be here to offer encouragement, a hug, a kind word and the truth. I very rarely share your accomplishments and abilities with others as I don’t want to get into the proverbial one upsmanship of “my child is better than yours”. As I have always told you, don’t tell people how great you are, they will discover that for themselves.

Although people will read the words I have written, my words are written exclusively to you, for you and about you. I want you to always have a place to go to and be reminded how I feel about you. I will close by sharing a quote that you should never forget…

“To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.” – Steve Prefontaine

Until next time,

Daddy

Fuji

It seems like yesterday. I was headed for Winchester, Va. with my wife, daughter and our dog, Bandit. We were going to visit the breeder we got Bandit from and hang out for a while. After exiting our car, the first thing I remember seeing was the face of this little, beautiful dog and I was immediately drawn in. To say I fell in love instantly would surely be a complete understatement. I asked several questions about this little dog. Fuji was her name. She was a Champion show dog that had been retired and was now enjoying life in the slow lane.

I knew she was going to join my family and would be coming home with me. My daughter was on board, but my wife said we didn’t need to add to our current number of furry family members. Besides Bandit, we had 2 cats and my wife put up resistance. We spent several hours in Winchester that day. Bandit met some of his relatives and he enjoyed romping through the property that day. He also met Fuji and they got along well.

I sadly said goodbye to Fuji and we got in the car and drove back home. It was now time to convince my wife that Fuji had to become part of our clan. She eventually gave in to my incessant whining, begging and pleading. Arrangements were made to purchase Fuji and I soon found myself driving back to Winchester to pick her up and bring her to her new home. Fuji fit in from the get go and seamlessly became one of us.

Everything was great until the day we took Fuji to the doctor because she was getting thin and seemed to need to go outside quite frequently. Long story shortened… Fuji was diabetic and would need insulin twice a day. I remember thinking, “A diabetic dog? Really? Dogs can be diabetics?”. It also scared me tremendously. Two insulin shots per day. I didn’t know much about diabetes or shot giving. I just knew that I hate needles and getting shots almost as much as anything else I can think of. Ignorance can be a very bad thing.

It wasn’t so bad giving her the daily shots. I do know that I wanted to kill the veterinarian when he recommended 8 units of insulin twice per day and this resonated with me as entirely too much. I had done some research about diabetes in dogs and the suggested dosages based on weight. 8 units was what I calculated Fuji needed daily, not in each dosage. I questioned the doctor and he assured me that he was right. It was confirmed that he was almost deadly wrong about the dosage when later my wife found Fuji unresponsive in our basement.

I scooped Fuji up, put her in a towel and we jumped in the car with my wife driving like a maniac to get us to the animal hospital as quickly as possible. I talked to Fuji and begged her to stay with us. On the way, Fuji went limp in my arms. I feared that she was dead. I listened to her chest and couldn’t hear a heartbeat. I shook her slightly and she opened her eyes, but it was obvious that she was in bad shape.

Fuji was rushed into the back room and given glucose and put on a respirator. I told my wife in a not very quiet voice that if Fuji died, the doctor wouldn’t be alive for long. Fuji pulled through and seemed OK. I told the doctor he screwed up badly and that he prescribed far too much insulin and that he almost killed Fuji. I remember him saying, “I was trying to get her blood sugar under control rapidly so I prescribed a dose at the high-end for a dog her size. I have never seen a dog so sensitive to the amount of insulin given to them before”. Really, doc. You almost killed one of my family, put her through Hell and caused considerable grief and anguish to my family and that is your response?

As time went by, Fuji’s vision clouded which is a byproduct of diabetes. She was no longer able to go down stairs by herself. She would go down most of the way and then launch herself into the air and attempt to fly over the last few stairs. Her daredevil act only lasted a few times and then she was carried down the stairs. Her vision got worse and I believe that she became totally blind a month or so ago. She once was able to see shadows of people walking or moving near her and would move accordingly to get out of the way. That ended and she would just sit or stand there when activity was around her.

She soon just moped around. Wandering aimlessly and looking like she was sad, confused and lost. I felt that her days were coming to an end but didn’t have a clue when that would be. The answer was Friday, February 24, 2012.

On Thursday, the 23rd, my wife took Fuji to the vet because she was sort of crying and couldn’t really stand up. She just kind of moved in circles. The vet checked her out and said everything appeared OK (i.e. the vet couldn’t find anything wrong). Fuji slept until the afternoon when I took her out to go to the bathroom. I carried her downstairs, she did her business and I carried her back upstairs. I attempted to feed her, but she had no desire. An hour or so later, she started this sort of crying or vocalizing again. I put her in a confined area as the vet recommended if her earlier issues started again.

Fuji’s vocalizing lasted several hours. I left to take my daughter to a basketball game so she could participate with the Pep Band and my wife took over. Fuji eventually settled down and fell asleep. My wife had called the vet well before closing time to relay her concerns and to talk to the vet on duty. Her call wasn’t returned until well after closing time and the vet told my wife if she was concerned, she should take Fuji to the Emergency Vet Clinic. No attempt to hear what my wife had to say and certainly no attempt to call back while the vet office was open. This particular vet is not well liked by our family and her callous attitude only adds to our contempt for her.

That may be the subject of a future posting. Now is not the time.

Fuji started her crying again in the morning and my wife took her to the vet and dropped her off so they could monitor her. I received a call with an update and it wasn’t good news. It was believed that Fuji was undergoing a neurological event (paralysis among other things), probably threw a blood clot and almost certainly had a stroke. They could try this, that and the other thing. I cut off the doctor and asked if what she was eventually getting to was recommending euthanasia? “Yes”, I was told. I told her to keep Fuji comfortable and that my family would be in at 4:30 to say goodbye.

I called my wife and shared the devastatingly sad news with her. The last thing I wanted to do was to upset her and especially at work. She needed to know. After sharing tears we hung up as she needed to go to a meeting. In a perverted way, I was jealous that she had something to possibly take her mind off Fuji’s impending death. I sat in my chair completely numb. Completely numb with tears running down my cheeks and onto my shirt. I needed to talk to someone and called my mother to let her know we wouldn’t be making our customary Friday evening call to her due to the tremendous sadness we were facing.

I completely lost it and started to hyperventilate. My mother, God bless her, did her best to verbally wrap me in her arms and comfort me. I hung up and felt terrible for putting my mother in a bad situation because she is 2,000 miles away and no matter how badly she wanted to ease my pain, she couldn’t. Alone again. Sitting alone in my house. Weeping. My cerebral neurons firing. Pulling memories from deep within me.

The many memories I have of Fuji began to flash through my mind. These memories form a timeline of my life and my family’s as well. They also serve as a reminder that time keeps marching on and refuses to yield. I am getting older. My wife is getting older. My daughter is getting older and soon will be out forging her own life independent of my wife and I. I sat there lost. I was pulled back to reality when the phone rang.

It was the vet calling to let me know that Fuji had taken a significant turn for the worse and she suggested that we get there as soon as we could. I called my wife and shared the latest news. Again, I felt so bad for causing her to became upset. She had sort of reconciled the fact that at 4:30 we would be saying goodbye. Now I had unfairly and without warning shifted the time on her and now the dreaded event would occur much sooner. Not to mention that the time shift indicated that Fuji was in very bad condition and potentially suffering.

I was standing on the front porch as her car flew into the driveway. She came out crying and asked if Fuji had already died. “No, not that I am aware”, I replied in a monotone. We headed to the vet’s office and they had a room set up for us and Fuji.

A vet tech carried Fuji in and laid her down. We spent a few precious minutes with her saying our goodbyes, stroking her soft fur, and trying to fight back a torrent of emotion. The vet asked if were ready and I found myself incapable of uttering any words. I eventually was able to get a simple “Yes” to force its way from my unwilling voice box. The meds were administered and Fuji was gone. It was quick. So quick that my wife was shocked. I was shocked and saddened that the previous 14 years and 7 months of Fuji’s life were so rapidly concluded.

Not sad that it took such a short time for Fuji to go after the last med was injected. I was relieved and thankful for that. I couldn’t and still can’t comprehend how things went so bad so quick. I knew Fuji’s time on Earth was coming to an end sooner rather than later. I just didn’t know or even suspect it would be so soon. No matter how prepared you think you are, you never are.

When my daughter got home from school, I told her that Fuji was gone. She shed tears but outwardly seemed to take the news much better than I thought she would. It wasn’t because she didn’t care as much as my wife or I did. It also wasn’t because she didn’t love Fuji. Fuji was loved by all of us immensely. We all grieve in our own way. Perhaps it was easier for her because she wasn’t at the vet’s office when Fuji was euthanized.

I know there are people who will read this and say to themselves, “Why all the emotion and drama? It’s only a dog”. If that line of thinking works for you, good for you. I love my pets tremendously and they are certainly part of my family. Fuji was a big part of my family. She was a trusted and nonjudgmental companion for many years. She made me laugh. She made me smile. And in the end, her death makes me cry.

Until next time,

Mark

As you trudge through your daily life, do you ever slow down long enough to notice the people and things around you? I know I never used to when I lived in Northern Virginia. If I ever did, life would surely have run me over. I have described life in and near Washington, D.C. as that of a microwave society. I want it now, or if not now, as soon as is humanly possible. Nobody takes any real time to look around, enjoy what they have, or even to spend a few minutes chatting with a new acquaintance.

I was very much like that when I relocated to Nebraska. If anyone wanted to chat me up, I suspected they wanted to steal my wallet or my car. It took a little while to get used to the Midwest ways and the people. Much more laid back and kinder than the East Coast folk ever were. I have met and had conversations with many people in my years in Nebraska. Some you talk to once or twice and they don’t leave a lasting impression, so you really don’t remember them. Others you talk to once and that one encounter lingers in your mind or heart as it was a conversation that evoked emotion or brought back memories for you.

And once in a while, you offer up a hello and a smile to someone, they reciprocate and a situational friendship ensues. What I mean by situational is that the friendship exists only in a particular environment. I had such a friendship, as did my daughter and wife, with a lady that worked at the HyVee grocery store near my house.

I remember the first time I saw her. She worked as someone who handed out samples for the store. She worked behind her little mobile cart cooking steak, pork chops or any number of items. I passed by her cart and inquired as to what she was sampling. I took a sample of steak, ate it and thanked her. My daughter did the same. The little old lady looked at both of us like we had two heads because we actually spoke to her. I purchased some of the steak and off my daughter and I went. This routine occurred almost every time I went to HyVee.

One day I introduced my daughter and I to her and she said her name was Joanie. It got to be that I always stopped to chat with Joanie and have a sample of whatever it was she was cooking that day. I even stopped when I was short on time and in a hurry. There was something about talking with her that always made me feel good. Maybe in some odd way talking to her reminded me of my mother.

My daughter and wife also got to know Joanie and over the years we all grew familiar with one another’s family and would ask how everyone was doing. Whenever I was shopping by myself, Joanie always asked about my wife and daughter and said to give them her best. I would always tell her to say hello to her husband, Bill. Strange thing was that I did not meet Bill until I had known Joanie for several years. I liked Bill and it was great to finally meet him one day when my family went to HyVee to have dinner and do some shopping.

I heard about Joanie’s children, her in-laws, and about her grandchildren. She shared many stories about them and I felt like I had known them my entire life. Joanie shared good stories, bad stories, happy stories and even the stories that made her sad. I don’t know if she shared her stories with everyone, or if I was one of a select few. Either way, I felt honored that she was comfortable enough to open up to me. I occasionally shared a story or two from my life.

Most conversations with Joanie were very pleasant and filled with laughter. Some were very sad and left me wanting to cry right there in HyVee. I remember as if it were 5 minutes ago when she shared that one of her sons had died on the operating table while having “routine surgery”. I saw how sad she was and I wished I could have given her a hug, but I felt that she would have shied away from that. One short month after her son died, to the very day, she devastatingly lost her husband Bill.

I had not seen Joanie for several days and one of the ladies that works the meat counter pulled me aside and broke the news to me. I felt like crying that day also. My heart ached for her. Imagine losing two of your loved ones in just one month. I knew Joanie was very sad and I didn’t know how I would act or what I would say when I next saw her. I have to admit that I shied away from seeing her because of it. I avoided my usual Hyvee and even went to another grocery store chain for a few weeks.

I knew I couldn’t hide forever so I started going back to my regular HyVee. A month or so went by and I never saw Joanie so I asked where she was. I was told she had taken a fall and was recuperating but that she had been into the store and was in pretty good shape, especially considering that she lost the love of her life and her son so recently. I always hoped to see Joanie every time I went to the store. Time and time again, I was disappointed.

Earlier today (Tues. December 27) I was in the store and having not seen Joanie in about three months, I asked if anyone knew how she was doing. I was given an update.

Joanie died on November 20, 2011.

I stood there stunned. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach and knocked the wind out of me. After the initial shock wore off, I once again felt like crying in HyVee. I regret not seeing her and expressing my condolences to her regarding the loss of her husband.

The thing that sticks in my mind the most about Joanie is how few people ever said “thank you” to her or even acknowledged her as she did her job. People would walk up to her sampling area, grab any number of samples and walk away without even making eye contact with her. I knew it bothered her but she did her best to let it go.

I ask anyone who reads my words to make a better effort to at least say “hi” to people you pass by in life. It may just make them feel happy. You may even get to know someone and that might make you happy.

Rest in peace, Joanie.

Until next time,

Mark