julierichmond

When I was lying on the sofa this morning, reading the paper, sipping coffee, I glanced up at the ceiling. A hook hangs there that Sheldon, my husband, used to hang our dog Sophia’s lactated ringers, bags that hold fluids for people and animals that are dehydrated. Every other day, he would slip the solution on the metal hook and thread an iv into Sophie’s shoulder. When we started to give her fluids at home whenever she saw the bag and the tubes, I would have to herd her to the couch, and lift her up, her body dead weight in my arms while Sheldon set up the medication. Towards, the end, she was on the couch most of the time.

She suffered from liver and kidney failure. The fluids and appetite stimulants helped her live four years after our vet suggested she had about two months left.

Mostly, she was fine. She’d roll in the grass, swim at Houghton’s, stand by the fence and bark at whoever strolled by our yard. She was fierce- a snarling and growling menace to all that approached, but if a brave soul offered her a cookie, she’d pause, eat the cookie, then go back to the business of barking.

When it became hard for her to walk down the stairs, I started a tradition so that she’d join us at bedtime. It consisted of me bringing treats down to the bedroom, while she watched, and then calling to her “Sophie, cookie party!”

Sophie liked snacks. Sometimes it took a few minutes, but after a minute or three, I’d hear her toenails on the stairs. Most of the time, she’d find the strength to jump on the bed.

(Reading this, I’m a bit horrified; I made my sick dog stagger down the stairs for treats because I slept better with her sweetly snoring at the foot of the bed? In my mind, I was convinced that was where she wanted to be, too, but in retrospect, maybe I should have let her rest. I will say that in the morning, or in the middle of the night, if she needed to go outside, Sheldon, my husband, always carried her back up the stairs.)

One night, about a year before she died, it was clear it would be unkind to make her climb down, and we had our cookie party on the landing at the top of the stairs. She gobbled peanut butter bones from my hand before sighing, and turning, to walk back to her bed by the fireplace. I texted my mother Sophie and I had just had the “last cookie party”. I barely slept.

The next morning, she was fine, and life resumed as normal until it wasn’t. In the period of a week, she faded fast and died, with her head resting on the back of my hand, while I stroked her back.

I miss her. I think she looks down at the house today, and figures she left us just in time.

We have three dogs now. The first is Chanel. My son brought her home to keep him company while on house arrest. Sophie tolerated her, and she learned from Sophia that every person who passes our fence is a potential threat and must be warned, loudly, to move along. Nelly looks like a combination of Winston Churchill and my mother-in law. Her favorite room in the house is Colin’s bedroom, even though he lives elsewhere. When life becomes too hectic, she curls up on the bed and chews on his comforter. She is fiercely determined- she loves to fetch a tennis ball but refuses to give it back. She comes when called, and will move over when I’m trying to get into bed, but in her own time. She likes to keep everyone waiting and is well aware she is worth waiting for.

Bernadette is the middle child. She is a french bulldog, short haired, bulbous eyes, huge pointy ears- she looks a bit like Yoda but less attractive. She is restless and nervous, happy to join in with Chanel to protect our home from all the dangerous babies, walkers, and other dogs who pass by. Sometimes, if I’m watching television, she’ll jump on my chest to lean over and kiss/bite my nose. Just once. She then returns to her business, which is terrorizing Chanel, the cat, Sheldon, a piece of cardboard, whatever has landed on her radar. Balloons, her own reflection, other dogs outside the car window, and the blender, all send her into hysterical fits of barking to the point where I am afraid she’s going to have convulsions. But it passes. We no longer allow balloons in the house, though.

Last, definitely last, there is Jack. He is only five months old, so I’m still getting to know him. He doesn’t follow Chanel and Bernadette outside every time a bird flies by or someone gets out the car across the street. He feels they are doing a fine job protecting our home. He’s happiest napping, in his crate, in front of the television, or in my lap on the way to work. Like all puppies, he likes to chew things, but when I say “Jack, give it back, ” he returns whatever his current object to my feet, unless it’s food or something he considers food, which could be Q-tip or a cereal box. Then, it’s a bit of a challenge, and sometimes he wins. This exchange is quite taxing for the little guy, so most of the time, after I’ve confiscated something, he goes to sleep. His disinterest in exercise and incredible appetite are probably why he looks more like a meatloaf every day.

All three of them sleep with us, though arrangements become complicated in the middle of the night, when Chanel decides it’s too warm under the covers or Jack takes an interest in chewing on Bernadette’s tail.

Before we turn out the light, as soon as everyone, human and canine, has found their spot, we have our cookie party. I’m trying to teach them tricks, but I’ve found bedtime isn’t the right time for training.

It’s a party, after all. Right, Sophie?