Mo Daley of Illinois is our host today at http://www.ethicalela.com for Day 5 of the July Open Write. She inspires us to write dodoitsu poems. Mo writes, “I was looking for poetic forms that I was unfamiliar with and stumbled upon the dodoitsu. It’s a four-lined Japanese form with no set rhyme scheme. Its syllabic structure is 7-7-7-5. The dodoitsu is usually comical and usually concerns love or work. Include a title if you wish.”
Mo notes that some consider the dodoitsu the Japanese limerick. It reminded me of our schnauzer, Fitz, who has CUPS disease and has had most of his teeth removed and is scheduled for the rest. He may have lost his teeth, but he hasn’t lost his ranking order.
We learned a couple of years ago that our more-Schnauzery-miniature-Schnoodle, Fitz, has Chronic Ulcerative Paradental Stomatitis (CUPS), a painful condition in which the plaque builds up on his teeth and causes painful mouth ulcers. We knew something was wrong when my sweet lap dog who was never anywhere else took to the underbed and began whining odd-sounding noises. It prompted a vet visit, which turned up the diagnosis.
We have to have his teeth cleaned regularly, and with each cleaning we have had to return for extractions to alleviate his condition by removing teeth. He’s down to practically goat status, and after eleven teeth the first time, 8 teeth the second time, and now a projected additional 8 teeth, I’m inclined to go ahead with extracting all of them and resort to soft foods just to end his pain once and for all and give him some quality days in his senior years. There’ll be enough other aging crap to suffer, so this will put the skids on one condition.
This is the downside of rescuing a dog in poor health (Fitz came to us with a severely broken leg, among other things), but it’s also the upside. I ask myself: if not us, then who?
We may not be able to love every needed rescue and save them all, but we can make a difference for this one.
And that matters. If you’re teetering on the verge of rescuing an aging dog, do it! Even though an aging dog sometimes costs a small fortune, the return is love as they gaze into your eyes and wish they could talk to tell you how much they appreciate all you do for them – – – and what’s more valuable than that?
Boo Radley sporting his Parti spotting shades of gray, more evident following a grooming.
Boo Radley gave us a scare this week. Our sevenish-year-old Parti Schnoodle who came into our lives as an abandoned, starving, severely matted rescue whose tangles were so horrible they nicknamed him Einstein, had a lump pop up over his left hip.
We went straight to the verge of panic, stopping short of it when the vet had a quick opening.
I dropped him off Thursday morning for some tests and left a skeptical, trembling Boo with the look of betrayal in his eyes in the caring hands of our veterinary clinic’s staff, who always greet us by name.
The call came during a state Zoom call when some of our students were presenting their projects on poverty to leaders across the state.
I shut off my camera and muted my microphone and took the call.
“Boo Radley is going to be fine,” the office assured me. “He has a lipoma, a benign tumor of fatty tissue.”
They’d performed a fine needle aspiration and examined the cells to be sure that they were not cancerous.
I picked him up after work, and as I was waiting for him to be brought up front, one of the veterinary technicians whispered, “I just want you to know how sweet your dog is. I was back there earlier, and I caught him looking at me with his big eyes, pleading with me to love on him. I opened his kennel and took him out and he showered me with kisses. He is one sweet boy!” This vet tech was a man, and Boo has always taken to men much more quickly than women. On the Schnoodle Facebook page, this seems to be a Schnoodle trait to prefer men.
He’d already forgiven me for leaving him by the time they handed him back to me. He caught a glimpse of the dog before him leaving, meandering with his family back to their car, and barked cuss words at them like a little banshee.
“This is ‘the other side’ of Boo Radley,” I pointed out. “Sweet boy can’t mind his own business. He has strong opinions and forces them on others.”
They chuckled and handed me the bill. I did not chuckle, and paid it.
As we neared the Johnson Funny Farm, I cracked the window so Boo could do his favorite thing – – sniff all the smells of the fauna and flora of the realm that is now his permanent place in the world – not a place of abandonment, but a place of love and belonging. The place where he will live out his full life, grow old, and cross the Rainbow Bridge someday. Just not today, thankfully.
#lovestoride #frontseatdog
I assured him when he got up this morning that he did not have to go back to the vet today. He went outside, did his business, and came in and had his blue jean time where he plays tug of war with the legs of my husband’s jeans for a moment, then had his treat. As I write at this very moment, Boo is snuggled by my right shoulder as he is each morning, snoozing in the comfort of the life he knows.
Boo Radley, listening for his dad’s truck at the top of the driveway
Boo Radley is the first of our three rescue Schnoodles. He was found by a landlord, abandoned in a duplex in a neighboring county by his family who had moved out two months prior to his discovery, there in a fly-infested apartment with very little food and water provisions remaining. This may explain his absolute panic mode with flies and any kind of ding or alarm. The rescuers named him Einstein; his hair was matted and went every whichaway. He’s the most human of our three boys, expressing emotion through his eyes, ears, and tail – to a much deeper soul-piercing level than our other two. We named him Boo Radley – – a character “behind the door” in a beloved American Novel, a character who rescued and is rescued in the novel.
And he wants both of his parents home at the end of the work day.
Not one of us.
Both of us.
His abandonment by his former family may explain why he runs for his dad’s truck every afternoon, to make the last little bit of the drive to the house in the driver’s seat with his soul human. He hears the tires a quarter mile down on the road before he ever hears the truck, and runs. His dad knows to watch for him – it’s the highlight of the day for both of them!
Boo Radley
he came with issues
we will never understand
neglected, abused
abandoned, alone
......trembling in a small kennel
we caught our first glimpse
through the matted mess
we fell in love with our boy
and made him our own
One of the reasons we bought a camper in 2020 was so we could enjoy weekend getaways without having to board our three schnoodles. We call them our four-legged sons. They have definite food preferences, and true to the Schnoodlehood, they are each loyal to their one chosen toy. Fitz has a green turtle he uses to self-soothe, Ollie has a pink Hartz ball he lives to chase, and Boo Radley has a Shrek blanket that of all the things in this world he gets most territorial over. It breaks my heart to have to board them when we take a non-camping trip, so much that I feel tears welling up just thinking about it.
Don’t get me wrong – – we love their kennel, they love their kennel, and they get to stay together in the same crate. They’ll have outdoor playtime with other dogs, but just like siblings, they’ll schnocker and schnortle around at each other in their play-fighting ways while at the same time bringing each other the reassurance of family togetherness while we parents are away.
They don’t dislike the kennel, but they whine and carry on and show their anxiety about leaving home unless they know we are pulling a camper. Fitz will whine like a baby once we get on Highway 362.
All. The. Way. There.
Fitz
Boo Radley will likely lose control of his bowels for one small half second somewhere in the floorboard – usually around the gas station, and it will be like dime-size hail but will smell across three states. It won’t matter if he’s already taken care of this business this morning – – this is his way of showing me – proving – that his anxiety is higher than the St. Louis Gateway Arch and he is protesting being left behind. And Ollie, the most easygoing dog ever, will root his way into my lap just to inhale my exhales as we make our way there.
Their food is individually measured, bagged, and labeled for the week ahead. Their toys are packed next to their treats, and their shot records are all updated and entered into the system at their kennel. While we’ll only be gone a week, there will be no one playing morning tug of war with Briar’s jeans legs, no one putting his warm little muzzle up to my face to greet me first thing in the morning, and no one barking at one of us to throw his ball down the hall so he can run for it again,…and again….and again. No one reminding us about treats. No one waiting for one of us to crush an empty K-cup box with our foot so he can come steal it away, whisk it off to the couch, and chew on it in the living room until we take it away.
They’ve seen the suitcases. They’re suspecting something’s up, but not yet knowing exactly what.
Is it too late to back out? My heart can’t take leaving my babies!
Common Threads 