Post Script… for Harry and hubby

Alistair and “the kids” enjoying the beauty of Montana last winter

In my self absorbed grief and sadness last week I didn’t put any pictures of Alistair and Harry on my blog.

I had meant to.

I had uploaded several.

It was an oversight rather than a conscious act.

Grief can do that to a person.

In thinking about it I also realized that I didn’t highlight Alistair’s unique relationship with Harry and the other dogs.

Harry and his Dad

When I used to work full time and Alistair came here for his 2 week stretches, he often would hike, snowshoe or go horseback riding with the dogs.

Harry would silently sneak up on Dad on the trail and follow or herd him (if he wasn’t watching after UB or Casey).

The 2 of them developed this “man” thing that I never could appreciate… for obvious reasons.

“Its a guy-thing, Mummy”

Alistair would stop for a pee break and Harry would come up right next to him.

He would look up at Alistair and then down at the ground.

Up.

Then down.

Not seconds after Alistair finished, Harry would then ‘mark’ it himself.

None of the other dogs ever did this or showed any interest. I think Cleo, like me, was kind of confused by the whole ‘marking’ thing.

More Montana treks with the gang

That’s not the only type of bonding the 2 of them did.

I often caught Harry sneaking in for some one-on-one time with Alistair when nobody else was around.

And Alistair happily gave Harry every scritch he had time for before Casey would come bounding up to mow them both over.

The pack, last fall

So its getting easier each day as all of us make sense of Harry not being here.

I’ve received so many heartfelt comments and thoughts about our big boy.

Many of my veterinary classmates shared memories (usually of Harry spinning) as he was another member of the class way back in 3rd year.

Instead of crying this time I’m smiling as I write this thinking of the wonderful years we had after I brought him home from school.

Harry and Mouse earlier this winter

And thankful that all of these fascinating spirits got to meet Harry and know him for his Woo Woos and his marking and his spinning and his inability to be house-trained and his little kisses and his trust and his inability to understand what ‘fetch’ was and his flopping over so you could scritch him and his harmonizing with the wolves and his gentle, quiet, big, kind ways.

Happy Fyfe Dogs last winter

Alistair, in particular.

2 special boys

Harry

Lies, Truths and Love

I’ve been lying.

To Facebook Friends, blog readers and anyone who has asked me how I’ve been doing lately.

Just a few mornings ago

I’ve been lying because it was a whole lot easier to not face the truth.

I’ve been hiding behind a smiley face and snowy pictures and happy-happy joy-joy comments while slowly a large part of my heart was dying on the inside.

I had to lie.

If I told the truth then I would have to actually say the words.

Words that hurt so much and made tears come to my eyes and fall down my cheeks.

If I wrote the words down on a post or a blog then that would make them real.

That Harry was dying.

Beautiful Harry

I didn’t want to face this ugly truth for so many reasons.

Obvious reasons, like he’s one of the coolest dogs I’ve ever known and we share a special relationship that is just plain different and fabulous and he protects me when we hike or snowshoe and he protects UB and Cleo and even Casey and he plays with the barn kitty, Mouse and he always wants to be with me even if I’m splitting wood or shoveling snow and I just love our Husky fur-ball so much.

My snowshoe buddy

And less obvious reasons, like the fact I have been preparing myself mentally and emotionally for the loss of our aging animal companions but Harry wasn’t even on that list.

Casey. Boomer. Maybe even Loki.

They are all older (we think) or they have health concerns that could conceivably take them from us at any time.

Happy Husky!

But not Harry.

When he began to have episodes of weakness and collapse after exercise a few weeks ago I was suspicious.

His gums would get alarmingly pale during these episodes.

But after several minutes of me sitting with him and talking with him he would slowly get to his feet.

Enjoying his favorite season a few winters ago

There are few diseases that cause this in older dogs.

I feared… no, I knew it was probably hemangiosarcoma- a fairly aggressive, blood-filled cancer that grows on spleens and then spreads via the bloodstream to other organs.

It isn’t necessarily a painful disease so it seems to creep up on animals until one day a tumor ruptures and the animal starts to bleed internally.

That’s when they get weak and pale and often collapse.

More forest fun with Harry last winter

With time, smaller tumors can clot off and the dogs seem normal again.

Like Harry did.

Until his next episode a couple of weeks later.

Autumn hikes with “the kids”

And then the worst one just earlier this week when he couldn’t stand and wouldn’t eat his kibble.

I sat with him and cried and told him everything that needed to be said because I wasn’t sure if he would survive the night or if I would have the strength to do what might have needed to be done.

Alistair, who is in Bismarck, asked me to hold off.

He wanted a definitive diagnosis because he’s a human doctor and they like that sort of thing.

He also didn’t want to lose our Harry.

Harry wasn’t suffering or in any distress- he just was too weak to stand or eat.

Early this winter

I set out blankets for him and cried some more and when I went out first thing the next morning both Cleo and Casey were laying on either side of him, right next to him.

Dogs know when something is up.

Our dog pack is pretty tight.

Those 3 have been together since Cleo joined us almost 10 years ago. She has never known a world without Harry.

Cleopatra and Harry, great buddies!

But Harry rallied slowly that morning and I was fortunate to have him with me for a few more days.

We didn’t hike or do anything extravagant; Harry really didn’t have all of his energy back.

But he followed Casey around and he followed me around and he laid with Cleo and he ate his kibble with newly-added canned food and he slowly spun or walked his circles to the left and he watched me split wood and shovel snow and he occasionally threw in a “Woo-Woo” and he wanted his chew treats and he ate them like always with Cleo and Casey.

Eating chew treats a few days ago. Just part of the routine.

And yesterday morning was a very good morning.

He spun his circles, he shouted his “Woo-Woo’s” and he devoured his breakfast.

He had good energy following me when I went to get water for them all and I was looking forward to having them with me when I would be splitting wood in the afternoon.

I had a book event to go to but was only gone a couple of hours.

Harry’s turn being the spokes-dog and T-shirt model at the 2011 Dog Days of Summer

When I got home, though, my heart sank.

Harry was down.

Really pale.

Really cold in his paws and limbs telling me he had been down awhile.

Really breathing slowly.

I laid with him in our barn and put blankets on him.

Cleo and Casey came in and out but I eventually left them goofing around in the snow outside and shut the barn door.

A better morning a few days ago… checking to see if I got the 5 feet of snow out of the kennel, perhaps.

I told him that he was brave and that I loved him.

That Whitney, Lynn, Jessi, Loki, UB, Cleo and Casey loved him.

That his daddy loved him and had hoped to see him again but that was okay because he would have memories of his running-around, Woo-Woo-ing, UB-protecting, wolf-howling, lefty-spinning, pee-on-Cleo’s-head or Loki and everything in sight, fastest furry friend in the world.

And that he brought such joy and fun to our family and that everyone thought he was so handsome and amazing and wolf-like and that I always felt so safe when he was hiking behind me.

And I looked at him and we both knew it was time.

Harry wasn’t having any fun anymore.

Its time to go, Mum

He deserved better, so I gave him better. One final act of kindness and love.

As he sedated peacefully, Mouse, the barn kitty nuzzled against both him and I.

I don’t know how I found a vein through my tears or how I held my hands still while I sobbed.

But I did.

And Harry is gone.

And my heart is broken.

And Cleo and Casey seem a bit confused.

Cleo & Harry last week

Even though I’m a veterinarian I’m still just like you.

I don’t want to talk about my pets’ terminal diseases because that just makes it real.

I would rather not have written this (and cried much of the time) but its important to understand that everyone has a different idea of when its “time”.

That even veterinarians struggle with this final act for our own companions and that every pet and every disease is different.

That sometimes people are smiling but you never truly know what personal Hell they might be enduring.

We are lucky to have loved Harry and privileged to have shared so many wonderful years with him. And I am lucky to have had these last few extra days.

Rest in Peace, Harold Fyfe. xo

I love you, Harry

Running to Stand Still

Gee, I wonder what I’ll be doing today?

The title is a line from an old U2 song.

Its an obscure song with a bit of a dark, haunted sound to it but I absolutely love it. Not that I really know what they’re talking about with some of the imagery but I get the point of running to stand still.

I’ve done this so many times in my life its not even funny. In fact, I kind of live that way.

I work my ass off doing a million-billion things (all with a perfectionist’s attitude, of course) all day or all week or all month long so that I can have that ‘ahhhh’ moment somewhere down the road.

Enjoying that ‘ahhhh’ moment at our wintery ranch

I sometimes find it difficult to completely relax when there are things that need to be done.

When you live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of animals there are a lot of things that aren’t negotiable.

It doesn’t matter that the snow is up to my mid-thigh this afternoon and that they are calling for another foot or 2 through tomorrow.

Winter is here!

It doesn’t matter that I shoveled the deck yesterday and that my shoulders are a bit sore because the snow that’s laying on our already-bowed decks is heavy and it needs to come off.

I swear, I shoveled this baby bare yesterday.

It doesn’t matter that Big Red is buried and that the controls for the blade are getting a bit finicky and that the wipers keep getting iced up and I have to stop to de-ice them and the door isn’t shutting very well and I’m only plowing today to make plowing easier for ltomorrow.

Big Red. My 1996 companion who saves my ass every winter.

I love that truck.

He got all pimped out a few years ago with a cd-player, stereo and seat covers, the blade and a fix to the power steering.

Sometimes I tune in to Jack Johnson while I plow using Big Red… just for the irony of it all.

Lately, though, its Coldplay and Mylo Xyloto.

Para… para… paradise…

Because this is Paradise.

One of the peaks of the Swan range just north of us.

And if I want to stand still and take some time to enjoy it, I have to work my ass off now.

Our annual friend, The Icicle as he is forming. He goes through many adaptations each winter and he’s got a good start already this year.

There is wood to split, wood to haul, fires to keep lit, roads to plow, decks to shovel, roof tops to rake, snow from the roof to shovel, paths to carve out for little blind dogs, paths to carve out to feed horses, and ice to break open so the horses can drink fresh water.

The path to re-make through the stallion pen to open up the water

Horses don’t get enough water from licking snow. Yes, there are old ranchers who think that’s acceptable but our stallion, Dash is getting older and he gave us a colic scare this year already so I’d like to make sure he has ample access to water.

Or even just a little bit.

Dash, surveying my work as I take a selfie break from hacking away at the ice and snow.

I’m sure Dash appreciates my effort.

Trudging through the thigh-deep snow with a shovel and a huge mallet in my hands.

Heaving that damned mallet up in the air only to slam it back down again over and over, hoping the entire time that the ice I’m standing on doesn’t give way.

Shoveling an area for him and taking it down bit by bit so that he can actually reach the bubbling, gurgling, fresh open water.

And then feeding him about 20 shovels full of water because he still didn’t want to go to the creek.

“I think you can take some more of this snow down….”

Its just stuff that needs to be done.

Like the hay in the summer.

All these things must be done and nobody else is going to do it if I don’t.

Unless Alistair is here- he gets a LOT done around this place.

Alistair likes using the big boy toys!

But he is in Bismarck treating the 100s of sick folks who flock to the Walk-In clinic sneezing and coughing in his face for 14 days straight.

His own version of running to stand still.

He works his own butt off so we can continue to have the wonderful life we have.

Its the good life!

So we can enjoy the Paradise we call home as well as our other favorite Paradise half-way across the Pacific Ocean now and then.

November on Hawaii Island

I even feel a teensy bit guilty right now taking time to write this blog when I could be splitting wood.

I have worked on that guilt. I’m sure many writers have it.

I’ve worked on believing that what I write has meaning and that its my contribution to things right now.

Along with plowing, shoveling and clearing piddle zones for blind companions.

Loki, checking out today’s freshly cleared paths

Don’t get me wrong- I’m not complaining one bit. I love the exercise and being outdoors and the fact that I truly am contributing to our greater good.

And we laugh and joke when we work outside together and I let the big dogs out and they romp and play in the snow and everything gets done and my meal tastes better and my sleep is often deeper because of the hard work.

Because I’ve been running.

Or shoveling, as it were.

To stand still.

Cleo and Harry helping me shovel.

“You missed a spot over in the corner, Mummy.”

Canine Musings

Casey Fyfe… wondering just when that cookie is going to end up in his mouth

I’ve been thinking about our dogs a lot lately.

Not for any particular reason.

Other than the fact I haven’t slept well in a few days thanks to a pathetic cold so I’ve been up a lot during the night.

And the fact that Harry seems a bit ‘off’ and Casey almost turned blue on our walk in the cold yesterday.

Dogs with Laryngeal Paralysis usually do much better in the cool temps, and that has been the case with Casey but he was just too hopped up yesterday.

Casey kiss a few years ago… do not try this at home. These are professionally trained Casey-handlers!

And when he’s excited and goofy and hopped up there is no calming him down.

Because he’s Casey.

Casey

And also because he’s a Labrador Retriever.

Which got me thinking some more.

Many dog breeds are so unique in their traits its astounding. And many are bred for very specific purposes.

Fabulous experience riding the sled with Dona driving and Lynn riding up front!

Not that every husky will want to pull a sled, or every German Shorthair will be a marvel with the ducks, or every Jack Russell Terrier will outsmart their owner and take off on them at high speeds, or every Chihuahua will shiver and tremble and quake as they cling to your arms 23 out of 24 hours every day.

Okay, no, wait… every Chihuahua will do that.

So I’ve been thinking about breed traits and where the Fyfe Canines fit into all of this.

Campfire Casey a couple of summers ago

Like most Retrievers, Casey is kind and loyal. He’s the only dog who wanted to take on a Grizzly bear a few years ago to protect his Dad.

He is energetic, always hungry, easily excited, a great swimmer, an obsessed master at retrieving tennis balls, good with every other dog he’s met, a fantastic shed-hunter and goofy to a fault.

And sometimes he does things that are just bat-shit crazy.

Yeah… Casey’s hole.

Like the hole he dug 2 summers ago.

And then I think, well, I’ve certainly done crazy things in my life.

Why did I think it was important to steal a stop sign with friends one time?

Why did I drive to Banff in the middle of the night to look for summer work?

Why on Earth did I buy a Fiero?????

Sometimes I wonder why I do the things I do…

Sometimes there are no answers.

Alistair and Casey getting psyched up for their first Agility Trials at a Dog Days of Summer

We just want Casey to be happy.

Maybe a little less excited to see us because one time he could get so worked up that his flopping laryngeal fold won’t open and he won’t be able to breathe.

But how do you suppress a Retriever’s happiness to see you?

Or a Springer Spaniel’s competitive intensity coupled with her need to be a princess?

The Princess a few years ago

I admire Cleo’s competitive nature. She tries harder than anyone to get that damned tennis ball but Casey’s intuitive natural ability usually leads him to it first.

And if Cleo does get it its game over because she usually runs off and lays on top of it.

Like many spaniels, Cleo is friendly with other dogs but she also is independent.

They will all take off with us on hikes together but she is often on her own- digging a hole or playing in the creek.

I get that.

I like visiting with people but I’m totally fine being on my own up at our ranch in the middle of nowhere.

I respect her Spaniel stick-to-it-ness, like when she came to my clinic to be put down years ago.

She maybe started whipping out the fancy tricks because she probably perceived that most of us were sad and/or crying. Many spaniels are very in tune with their humans.

One of Cleo’s many tricks, standing and sometimes walking on her hind limbs. It saved her bacon many years ago…

And I respect our husky’s wariness.

And his trust.

And his need to follow closely behind me when we hike or snowshoe. An in-bred instinct to herd, or know where the herd is at all times.

Harry keeping close tabs on his Mummy

He has an intensity about him, like many huskies do, that makes him seem stand-off-ish to some but once you get a moment alone with him and he can sniff you up and down you will see his soft, sweet side come out.

Like many working breeds Harry is very stoic.

He made the tiniest of barely-audible whimpers when my neighbors helped release him from a leg-hold trap that had pinned him down a few years ago.

He never complained during his year as a Medical Exercise dog at my vet school- he was poked, prodded, shaved, injected, palpated, all by inexperienced hands.

And he doesn’t complain now with 2 fairly weak knees and arthritic joints and maybe something else going on.

Harry the husky, preferring more winter naps than romps these days

I’d like to say I see some of that in myself.

When I leapt off my runaway horse on one of my first riding dates with Alistair and broke a chunk off of my collar bone (not to mention the bleeding nose & cuts to my face), I got my ass back on that horse and rode the 2 hour ride back to the farm.

Yes, it may have been because his ex-wife and her new boyfriend were along on this ride and my terrier-like stubbornness and pride were present but after my initial tears I wasn’t going to let anyone hear me complaining.

Which, in the end, was kind of funny and I like being funny.

Being funny is a large part of what UB, our mixed breed is all about.

What? Did somebody say, ‘kibbies?’

He’s the only dog we have actually done a DNA test on and he is part Boston Terrier and part Cocker Spaniel.

He has spaniel independence and terrier seriousness.

But he also has a light-hearted, energetic, athletic, happy approach to life.

If the butterfly is there, you should chase it.

If the Mummy’s lap is empty, you should sit in it.

Campfire UB

If the blind dog needs someone to lay with her, you should do it.

Loki and UB this summer, cuddle buddies all the way

His approach to everything- elk herding, running, attacking Casey, sleeping, eating, barking at badgers or Grizzly Bears, chasing kitty cats, making fun of Subarus- is done at full tilt. There is nothing half-assed about this boy and sometimes his recklessness gets the best of him.

Like mine has with me over the years.

Climbing the 3rd tallest Ferris Wheel in the world in the middle of the night in Japan was a great idea!

Until we got up there…

And the one dog who is for certain a pure bred has her own characteristics that are true to the Boston Terrier breed.

Our stubborn, defiant, charming, loving, bossy-pants Boston Terrier, Loki

Blind, with a luxating patella and knobby dew claw, Loki still tries to run the show around here.

She is the one dog who gave Casey a serious run for his money with that tennis ball when she could see.

She is bossy and set in her ways.

She growled at Gampy the other morning because he dared to take her from her warm, comfy slumberland to go outside for piddles in the snow.

She tosses her empty food dish towards us, as if we don’t notice that it is empty.

And yet she always wants to be with us, right next to us, on top of us, under the covers with us.

Loki “helping” Gampy at crib

I have a bit of a stubborn streak in me so I appreciate her in-charge attitude.

I play nicely with the other kids but I like it to be my game.

Like the whole Dog Days of Summer thing… I only did it because the local hospital board said I couldn’t do a canine walkathon at their annual medical open house.

I, like Loki, am not someone who does well with the words, “you can’t.”

Dog Days of Summer, the early days

So I created an annual event of my own that turned out to be an enormous success and had amazing attendance each year, which the medical clinic couldn’t even compete with.

A variety of breeds bred for different things, competing at the Dog Days of Summer Dog Show a couple of years ago.

There are so many different dog breeds out there and they all have some special capabilities and strengths.

And different owners have different expectations and their own talents for training and sharing.

We can learn a lot from our barking, tail-wagging, slobbery, snoring, farting, hoop-jumping, happy, forgiving, ball-chasing, duck-hunting, sled-pulling, keg-wearing, shivering companions.

And different breeds can do different things.

I’m not saying you should train your ShihTsu to pull a sled or that Min Pins will make excellent therapy dogs or that an Akita should run Flyball, but each dog, like each of us, is an individual.

With no expectations and just the request that everyone get along (and donate reproductive organs at the door) the Fyfe misfits will continue to make me smile.

And think.

And giggle.

And reflect.

Loki, helping with laundry

The Princess, crippled by the booties and lovely tartan jacket Lynnie put on her… poor thing was paralyzed until she was able to tear the jacket off!

Ball-chasing with Whitney back in the day, before UB moved in and when Loki still had vision

UB: “Are you coming, Mummy?”

Anyone seen UB?

UB Fyfe… surveying the farm

UB Fyfe.

UB Pickles Napolean Jumping Jack Flash Moves Like Jagger Savard-Spinorama Tight Buns Fyfe.

This little guy is a character.

UB joined our family about 5 years ago.

Just a little fella back then!

The economy had tanked, our town had few jobs and the young couple who owned him just turfed him onto the street when they packed up and moved to Missoula.

He had been born in Seattle and a sister of the “breeder” took him and brought him here.

Then they ditched him.

He found his way to the local animal rescue/shelter that was located in our town back then.

They brought him to my clinic where I thought he was the most peculiar looking little guy! His outstanding underbite is hard to miss but his big dark brown eyes just envelope you and you can’t help but fall in love. The day I neutered him was a slow day and he sat on my lap most of the afternoon. We bonded.

Coming in for landing… air traffic control….

I told Alistair about him and we did that “what’s 5 dogs when you have 4” thing but we still weren’t sure. Until a bit of a farm tragedy occurred.

Our beloved Hissy Phitt

2 young mountain lions were wrecking havoc on our neighborhood and in the space of 2 days we lost 2 of our special barn kitties, Hissy Phitt and little Jinxie. We were both pretty devastated but then we remembered that the cute little black dog with the underbite was still at the shelter.

Jinxie in one of her many hiding places in the back of my vet truck

We got him that afternoon.

It didn’t bring my cuddly kitties back but UB went a long way towards filling that gap and now he’s practically taken over both of our hearts.

Granted, the first thing he did inside the house was take an enormous dump in our living room but, for the most part, he has fit in just fine.

That’s not to say he isn’t mischievous or sometimes a bit naughty but its so hard to stay mad at him for very long.

C’mon… just look at those eyes!

There was no other name that suited him besides UB (‘you be’). For his underbite.

And its easy to do his voice- just jut your lower jaw out, get a serious look on your face, sound authoritative and you’ve nailed it!

UB is in charge of the forest behind us which is why we are often saying, “Anyone seen UB?”

This statement is usually followed by the silent realization by both of us that the other 4 dogs are around and UB is nowhere to be seen.

UB loves his ‘smoking jacket’ and riding shotgun in our Ranger, “Steve”

One time we came around the front of the house to look and we were captivated by a large herd of elk running the entire width of our field.

But then we saw that half the herd was held back.

Then they would run to join the others. It was quite the spectacle.

Until we saw the little black dot in the midst of everything… like he was directing traffic.

“YOU, elk… run that way. FAST.”
“YOU, elk, stand back and wait.”
“Ok, now you can go but run FAST….. oh, wait, is that my Mummy calling?”

UB and Mummy…. post bobcat experience

Another time he disappeared we heard him shriek in the trees and then yelp… while moving very quickly.

It was a strange sound… a moving sound… a frantic sound.

About 30 minutes later he came home, tail between his legs, limping, with a wound the shape of a paw on his side.

Kind of hard to see but the poor guy definitely got swatted!

I’m sure he pissed off some sleeping bobcat probably trying to lick his ear hair like he does to Mouse and Mulder. Oscar used to let him suck on his pointy little ears but now UB has to be creative. And careful!

The worst trouble he got himself (and Daddy) into was when he was still pretty new and was out back barking. Barking and barking. And barking some more.

“I’m pretty dashing, aren’t I?”

Alistair (in flip flops) went out to see if there was a poor squirrel or porcupine trapped by our ferocious hunter.

He froze when he saw the enormous grizzly bear standing 2 feet from our barking boy, just staring at him.

Enter growling, hissing, spitting, frothing, hackles-up, who-the-Hell-are-you-never-seen-this-kind-of-aggression-from-you Casey and that’s when the bear looked up.

At Alistair.

Without bear spray.

In flip flops.

The bear stood up and Alistair thought, “This could be bad.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Maybe the bear wasn’t up to a confrontation with the rabid-looking Labrador and the annoying little barking thing.

Alistair and the bear both slowly backed away from the scene, which got UB’s attention.

UB, Casey and Harry (who was probably spinning circles a few feet away) were right behind Daddy when he felt it was safe to turn and run.

I’m sure in UB’s head that was just another grand adventure!

Another way to exercise and maintain those tight buns he’s so proud of.

Tight buns enable you to leap higher than a tall building in a single bound!

His voice pops into our heads as Spirit of UB no matter where we are.

If we’re on the treadmill its, “Come on, lets go, those buns aren’t going to tighten themselves!”
“You can do it, Mummy, run faster!”
“Come on, Daddy, my buns are still tighter! Do you want to see? C’mon, you can bounce a quarter off of these things!”

UB helping Mummy at work on Hallowe’en

If we’re outside with all of the other dogs its, “Is Casey really that stupid? He just walked into the tractor blade.”
“I know, I know, I’m not supposed to chase the cats but the rules change if they run away!”
“Can I chase those elk? No?”

On the golf course we hear, “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Do you want me to go get that?”
“That would have been awesome if you had actually hit the ball, Mummy!”

“10 and 2 in my Subaru, you dreadlocked, patchouli smelling, bra burning hippie!”

Or, lately, “Oh, GREAT… a SUBARU just drove by….”

With all of the miles Alistair and UB or Spirit of UB drive every month, they have figured out 2 things:

1. There are a staggering number of Subarus in the Missoula and Seeley Lake area; and,

2. Almost all of them are driving ridiculously slow. Leading a pack of semis and old trucks pulling boats and moving vans. Old Subaru is right out in front.

Once I started to pay attention, I realized there was some truth there.

So UB has started shouting out comments from the passenger seat.

“HIPPIE!”
“BUM!”
“DRAFT DODGER!”
“GATABOUT!”
“DREADLOCKS!”
“TREE HUGGER!” (this one is particularly hilarious if you’ve seen the recent Subaru commercial with the little girl…)

Discussing the merits of Subarus with my bar buddy, UB

UB appreciates that there are exceptions, like Aunty Dona.

But then Aunty Dona and Uncle Gary bought him this.

Somebody is SO impressed with his new bandana… thanks, Aunty Dona & Uncle Gary…. can’t wait to pee on your Subaru’s tires next time you’re here…

So that’s the story of our strange little mixed breed stray (DNA blood testing says he is a 50/50 mix of Boston Terrier and Cocker Spaniel. We’ve decided he is a Bostonocker Sperrier.)

Shelter dogs all have their own stories and they often make fabulous companions.

He adores everyone he meets, usually preferring humans to dogs if given the choice.

UB just basically helps himself to anyone’s lap, including Uncle Pete with Cleo right there for cuddles

Visiting Aunty Angel up in Canada this summer

He does take his job as Loki’s seeing eye dog very seriously and has been quite concerned about her injured left eye.

The eye is maybe starting to heal but her new heart murmur is a bit alarming and her probable zero thyroid is also something new.

UB, making sure Loki had someone to cuddle up to under the covers

Our merry band of misfits fits right in on the Fyfe Farm. They love and we love and its kind of like another Happiest Place on Earth.

With tight buns.

And grizzly bears.

And an underbite.

And a bizarre dislike of Subarus.

By the way… has anyone seen UB?

“Why drive a Subaru when you can drive a snowmobile? I’m an excellent driver, right, Daddy?”

Harry-a-woo-woo

Harry goofing around

Harry is our Alaskan Husky. We think.

I mean, its quite obvious he is mostly a husky but there could be something else in there.

Something that makes him wary of people and shy around boisterous children.

Something that causes him to be stand-offish or run back into the dog kennel when there are loud noises or strange situations.

Something that makes him bend his head and move in the most unusual of canine ways.

Something that allows him to harmonize with the wolves who used to freely run the forest behind our house.

Like, maybe he’s got a bit of wolf in him?

maybe just a little bit of wolf?

Whatever he is, he is part of our family thanks to a telephone call from one of the technicians at vet school at the very end of third year. I had the truck packed, the cats in their crates and was just about to embark on the 8 hour journey back to Bismarck when I answered the phone.

“Tanya…. its Robyn. Harry is scheduled to be euthanized at 11 o’clock this morning…”

I paused for a second.

“Can you change that to a neuter?”

“YES, YES, I’ll do everything I can. Give us until about 1 o’clock and you can come get him!”

All of the technicians and third year students knew Harry and 3 other dogs because they were our Medical Exercise dogs.

Which means we practiced on them.

Harry and Mummy hiking the mountains of Montana

Not surgeries or painful things but generally every joint site was shaved and they all had circles on bare skin patches where allergy testing was done.

You can certainly have your opinions on live-animal labs and I’m not saying it was ideal. These Med Ex dogs had it a lot better than some of the animals used for study purposes. We could choose to be conscientious observers and not handle particular animals for particular learning purposes. Lets just say the only hands-on lab I skipped was the chicken one where things didn’t end well for the chickens.

The Med Ex dogs did serve us all well, though. It is one thing to read about hitting a pulsating vein on a moving, fuzzy, warm target versus a plastic model.

I wouldn’t want to say to my first few clients, “yeah, I should be able to do this… I read about it a few times.”

Our beautiful boy

How on Earth could I justify leaving Harry to be put to sleep after he gave us a year of his veins, his joints, his skin, his retinae, his ears, and pretty much every other body part you can imagine?

These Med Ex dogs were generally culled sled dogs… meaning their sled dog breeders didn’t want them. The school was somehow connected with some northern Canadian sled dog peeps and at the beginning of 3rd year, every year, a few students would head to the Greyhound station (how ironic) and wait for whatever and whoever to be unloaded in kennels.

Harry was one of ours that year.

The idea was that, out of 72 students, 4 would fall in love with the dogs and they would all be adopted out and live with their student owners, even by Christmas.

Lightning was lucky. So was Thelma. But Harry?

Not so much.

Harry in his favorite environment- the Montana winterscape

It certainly wasn’t his looks. Harry is a gorgeous Husky with perky ears, kind eyes and a stunning, full coat.

It was more his… quirks.

His unwillingness to be house-trained.

His incessant “woo woo’s” that can be deafening when he really wants to get your attention.

And his spinning.

Harry most likely was tethered at his sled dog kennel, which isn’t a bad thing. The dogs can get in and out of the dog boxes, on top of the boxes, and can run in full circles in their pen area.

Some huskies, like Harry, can be a bit neurotic about it and they will only spin in one direction.

In Harry’s case, its to the left.

Always.

Taking a break from circling

It doesn’t matter if he is walking on a leash or squatting to take a poop, the boy has to circle to his left while doing it.

He even runs around the house to the left.

Once. Once he spun one circle to the right when he first moved to Montana. I figured he was trying to unwind but as soon as he did it he stopped and looked so terribly confused that I was relieved when he went back to pulling Louies.

He may not be a very good house dog but he’s an excellent hiking and snow-shoeing companion.

Snow shoeing with the dogs- Harry loves wintertime!

He will follow little UB off on trails when UB needs some extra protection and he often will hike immediately behind me.

I always feel safe when he’s there. I don’t know if he’s doing it to watch me or herd me or if he just needs to know where I am.

If Casey isn’t around then he’s up for some individual loving.

Harry getting some 1 on 1 loving from Dad

He will slowly walk up to us and close his eyes at half-mast as he leans in for some scritches and kisses.

These times with our old friend are pretty magical.

In the winter his warm coat is so nice to lean into and he looks at us with such loving, dewey eyes that our hearts just melt.

Private cuddles with Mummy

Its a special feeling knowing that this maybe-part-wolf has allowed himself to be cuddly and sweet with us.

Its a strange feeling when he is howling with his brethren in the backcountry.

We don’t hear them much anymore but for the first several years I would hear Harry harmonizing with an incredible howl as he faced the forest.

Casey sits there and says ‘woof’ once or twice.

Cleo barks every now and then and then looks at Casey, as if to say, “What the heck are they saying to each other?”

More cuddles in the mountains with Harry

Adding to the fact he is ‘different’, Harry is the only one who got caught in a leg-hold trap that was set illegally too close to our home a couple of winters ago.

It belonged to a neighbor who seemed to feel pretty bad about it.

I didn’t make a big deal about it because I got my big boy home. Casey, Cleo and UB all told me something was up, barking at me and then running to the trees… then racing back to bark at me some more and running to the trees again…and again… I was splitting wood when I finally realized they were trying to tell me something. And Harry wasn’t there.

Hiking in snow past my knees I called to Harry and he called back. He called me to him.

I found him lying still (thank goodness) with his forelimb caught in a trap.

My stomach fell.

We’re lovers, not fighters and I don’t know the first thing about traps. I don’t, personally think much of trapping and I think hunting would be more fair if you gave the deer a gun but its Montana and I don’t make waves unless I have to.

Harry, Cleo and Mummy… hiking again

The only neighbors who were home rapidly came to Harry’s rescue (thank-you Sharon and Randy!) and our good boy didn’t struggle or resist at any time. He didn’t break anything and he has no lasting wounds. Luckily the other dogs alerted me and luckily we found him. Or, he told me where to find him.

Harry is getting older like the rest of us on the Fyfe Farm.

His knees aren’t so great but then neither are his Dad’s. Alistair has to have his torn medial meniscus taken care of next week.

I think we are privileged that this wolf-dog with strange mannerisms and a loud, non-stop WOO WOO that begins the minute he sees us and his circles to the left and his shedding and his inability to live indoors and his affection for Casey even though Casey mows him over half the time chooses to stay with us. Even with relatives so close by.

I worry hunters will think he’s a wolf. That’s difficult stuff to talk about in these parts. So Harry wears bright collars and thankfully doesn’t stray.

It was lucky for Harry when Robyn called me that morning before I left Saskatoon.

I think we are even luckier to be able to share his world…. and his Woo Woo’s.

Harry having a bit of a chuckle with Dad in the sunshine

Cleopatra Cassiopeia Carrie Bradshaw Houdini Diamond Fyfe

The Princess

We weren’t in the market for a new dog. It was 2005, I had finished vet school and was working full-time at a clinic in Bismarck.

And, Casey and Harry were really enough of a canine handful back in their youth.

But we usually aren’t looking for a new pet when another addition arrives.

Cleo trying to look like Mummy, with their similar dark curly locks and a cute hat

The clinic I worked at had the unfortunate contract with Animal Control to put down the dogs deemed unadoptable.

Aggressive, ferocious dogs.

Dogs with injuries so severe it was inhumane to keep them alive without an owner claiming them.

And sometimes, dogs who had just overstayed their welcome.

I was there that morning when the Animal Control officers came in the back door with this bouncing, tail-wagging, eager, fluffy black and white female spaniel.

Cleo, this winter in Montana

“She’s aggressive. They’ll never find her a home. She might have Springer Rage,” was all he said.

But I caught the eye of the female officer hanging back and there were tears there.

“How long has she been there,” asked my boss, with the spaniel standing up on her back legs, reaching to him with her front paws.

“3 days,” said Animal Control. “But this morning when I approached her cage she growled at me and you know, we’re full right now.”

The spaniel continued to run around the treatment area greeting the other veterinarians and technicians who had gathered. Another vet and I started to do a basic exam.

She was in good shape with clean teeth and ears and toe nails that weren’t too long. She was super friendly and started whipping out her tricks, like flopping over on her side, standing up and walking a little on her back legs towards us and sitting when asked to. No collar. No microchip.

My boss signed the intake form but as soon as the door shut behind the officers he put his face down to the spaniel’s and said, “we can’t put her down, she’s lovely.”

Winter Cleo

Surprise and relief washed over me because this is the same boss who once told me I had to toughen-up when it came to euthanasias.

I had to start to do the drop-off ones where I didn’t even know if the person dropping the animal off was its owner.

Pets I had never met before.

Pets whose histories I was supposed to ignore as I watched the light leave their eyes.

The same boss who once told me I couldn’t save every animal.

I had responded with, “I can try.”

So the friendly black and white love bug got to live in our isolation ward at the clinic for a week, making sure she didn’t break out in full Cujo mode. She never once growled at any of us and she was handled by the entire staff.

I started visiting her a bit more and told Alistair about her.

He came to visit and left with a dog. He named her Cleopatra.

Cleopatra and Daddy in 2006 in Bismarck

She went home with him and immediately leapt up into the cab of the tractor, never leaving his side.

There’s that one rule: donate your reproductive organs at the door and get along. And she did and she does.

She never chased the cats and she was perfectly house trained.

Cleo immediately bonded with her Daddy.

Riding Steve, the Ranger, with Daddy, one of Cleo’s favorite activities

But she slowly bonded with me as well and I will admit, it was fun having a dog inside the house again. Maybe not the hairs, but she fit into our household just perfectly.

With a bit of time Cleo started to develop her looks and affectations.

You know when she is rolling her eyes at you. She usually sighs when she is doing it.

The Look… by Cleopatra Fyfe

Her voice is a southern drawl… think Blanche Dubois, with a slight lisp.

When we moved to Montana all 3 of the dogs thrived. There is something about having a forest for your backyard.

The boys chased deer but Cleo was never into that.

She must have been trained by someone because she suddenly stood on perfect point one time my husband had a sports channel on and they were doing bird calls with their kazoo thingies. She pointed beautifully at the TV and remained there like a statue, almost in a trance. Her hunting skills are wasted on us- we’re lovers not fighters.

Cleopatra’s hunting skills are much more advanced than ours

Her middle names have come from her quirky behaviors.

And her freckles.

Her adorable face is speckled with black dots. Her entire body is when she’s shaved but generally you only see the nose.

I have a bunch of freckles on my arms and we joke that one looks like the constellation Cassiopeia.

Cleo liked that name so its now one of hers.

Well-groomed Cleo with Mummy… what you can’t see is the ribbon she tore out of the other side of her head

The Carrie Bradshaw thing… if she’s in bed with you, shoes or slippers will somehow be there when you wake up. Or if you’re visiting in the living room, shoes will be brought forth. How can you not love a girl with that kind of passion for shoes?!

As for Houdini, I came home from work one winter night to have Cleo greet me on the driveway. The boys were still inside the locked kennel.

It didn’t take long to figure it out once I saw the snow load and the bare roof.

“Mummy, are you up for some shoveling?”

Diamond… well, she picked that one herself because diamonds are beautiful, rare and special. Just like Cleo.

Two clever and classy gals, my Nan and Cleopatra at the Dog Days of Summer (photo by Gary Kyrouac)

And she is clever.

One of the times when Alistair was trying to get UB to stop barking at a grizzly bear a few feet away the other dogs all came charging in.

Its the only time we’ve seen ferocity out of Casey, with his hackles up, foaming at the mouth.

Harry was somewhere, spinning circles in the distance, making his woo-woo sounds even though Alistair doesn’t remember actually seeing him.

Cleo was probably back at the house thinking, “I’m not getting involved in that. That’s stupid. I’m going to call Mummy at her clinic. Now, where is that telephone?”

Cleo loved being the shop dog over the past few years when I brought her to work.

Lynnie and Cleo… bath time again!

Sometimes she got the spa treatment from her best friend, Lynnie.

Sometimes she would have special visitors come to chat and they’d end up petting her the entire time.

Fireman Frank has an unworldly love of dogs and Cleo had him wrapped around her furry paws.

Cleo and one of her BFFs, Fireman Frank

Other times she would just play with Mummy and Lynnie.

I love you, Lynnie! Shhhh… don’t tell Mummy about the treat with the Easy Cheese on it!

She was wonderful with other dogs and was fine when we had to crate her when it was time for surgeries or appointments with dogs or cats who maybe didn’t want to see her. She adored a box full of Schipperke puppies who were just a week old. Mind you, she claims that her uterus was “ripped untimely” from her body so maybe there was some maternal instinct there.

Cleo wanted to have a special cap just like Mummy at the clinic

On extra special days at the clinic, though, she would see Matt, the UPS driver.

It wasn’t the biscuits because she doesn’t go ape with our farm delivery UPS guy.

Matt was different. Cleo even leapt up into the cab and the back of his truck on several occasions.

“I love you, Matt!”

So there’s our aggressive, needs-to-be-euthanized dog. Doing her thing standing up on her legs, which is one of the tricks that saved her life. We don’t know how old she is but she hasn’t started to slow down at all. She likes to sleep and snuggle with me when Alistair is gone as part of the Usual Suspects (Loki, UB, Cleo, Mulder and Sport).

Cleo likes to help finish my scrambled eggs if I accidentally make too much.

She likes to watch me clean and feed the guinea pigs in the mornings, her ears perking when they whistle and tweet.

But she also likes sleeping outside with Casey and Harry and I think the 3 of them are a fun unit, even if she only occasionally plays with them outside. She’s usually off looking for a good spot to dig a hole, or a creek to romp in, or horse poop to eat, or someone to stand up against.

Cleo and her boys with something extra special to sniff

Aggression isn’t always aggression. Dogs growl for all sorts of reasons and I’m pretty sure Cleo was scared and lonely. She was obviously well-trained in many ways and I’m certain she was loved.

It saddens me only to think that a little girl or a cute older couple were her original owners but I would hope they believe she went to loving arms with loving hearts with a huge back yard and buddies of all species.

And lots of shoes.

Snowshoeing with Daddy in Montana

Standing up against the snow walls with Mummy after the heavy snow this past winter

The only Fyfe who has brought home a trout in Montana. Granted, it was frozen but you have to give her credit!

As Good As We Can, by Step Gammy

When the snow disappears and the bright sun offers a bit more warmth as it hangs around the sky a little longer each day, we notice how our dogs adapt to the new season.

Cleopatra gets to dig her holes.

Casey gets to eat the grass (and immediately hack it back up).

UB gets to chase deer and butterflies.

Harry starts blowing his thick coat like only a Husky can.

And Loki.

Well, Loki gets some freedom back.

My step-grand-dog is blind because of hypermature cataracts in both eyes.

With the brighter days, though, Loki looks more and more confidant. I think she can see shapes and shadows because of how she moves outside, seeming to enjoy sniffing things and visiting with the other dogs more.

She even boldly goes on little running bursts, (which means I usually go on little running bursts behind her.)

She came to live with us a few years ago when her Mum, Whitney, realized she couldn’t spend enough time with her little love-bug of a Boston Terrier in Vancouver.

Loki has stayed with us many times over the years, pretty much growing up with Casey when they were youngsters so it was a natural fit for all of us.

Her Mum visits as much as she can and Loki lives the life of a full-fledged spoiled Fyfe dog.

We took her to a veterinary ophthalmologist to see about cataract surgery because she wasn’t completely blind when she first moved in.

Alistair (Gampy, as Loki calls him) and Loki hit the road and spent the night before their appointment in a hotel by the university in Spokane. He took her for a walk before bed where she decided to bark and growl at a rambling schizophrenic who was walking towards them. Luckily, Alistair got them out of there in a hurry. All they needed was for the guy to think Jesus was yelling at him through Loki.

The ophthalmologists didn’t want to touch her eyes. Loki isn’t a good surgical candidate with narrow filtration angles, “floaters” in both eyes and a high risk of developing glaucoma.

What vision she had back then has gradually disappeared and the silver in her eyes has gradually taken over.

And yet her quality of life is terrific.

She has her seeing-eye-dog, UB, who is very attentive to her needs (especially when she wants to cuddle.)

She has her memory, which is amazing when you watch her navigate furniture, sometimes within a few centimeters.

She has the cats, who she bonks into with a fair amount of regularity. (I kind of think she does that on purpose, though… cheeky little thing.) They see her coming and generally get out of her way now instead of swatting at her with each ‘bonk’.

She has us; we use words to help guide her, like “step”, “no”, and “damnit, Loki, where are you?”

When the sky is bright and the ground is dry, Loki likes to go on ‘walkabout’.

I don’t like ‘walkabout’. Especially if she’s heading for the stallion pen. Or the creek. Or the driveway. Or the pasture when the grass is tall.

She was out on walkabout when Gampy forgot about her a couple of summers ago when he was driving back and forth getting hay bales from a nearby farm. He called me at work and I will admit to having a little sob session as I mopped my clinic floors.

I worried she would fall in the creek. I worried a big eagle would get her. I worried she would be injured and hurting and scared and shivering and that I wouldn’t see her again.

Somehow, this muscular little 13-pound snorty, bossy, piddles-in-the-house-when-she-doesn’t-want-to-go-out-in-the-snow dog has burrowed her way deep into my heart.

I honestly can not imagine life without her.

Who would bark at the coffee bean grinder or the hand-held vacuum if she was gone? Who would squeeze up against me under the covers at night, snoring her little heart out? Who would chuck her empty food dish around the kitchen when she’s hungry?

Who would take care of gimpy, crampy, grumpy Gampy if he breaks himself into pieces again?

Somehow that sunny afternoon two summers ago, Alistair found her, way off in one of our pastures. She was soaking wet and she coughed for days.

Boston Terriers are tough little farts.

Loki’s harelip and attitude have given her a personality and unmistakable voice on the Fyfe Farm. It has changed through the years, too. Initially she ‘spoke’ like Billy Bob Thornton in that movie, Sling Blade with a classic “mmm-hmmmm”.

When she came to live with us that was hard on our vocal cords so it has become a gravelly, attitude-laden, sassy voice that changes words to suit her needs.

Like “chiddy pats” and “bull chit”. Or “Joo Bee” and “Dimadil”.

A relative house-sat for us one time and said, ‘we don’t do anything with that one… she’s sick’.

That was his take on Loki’s blindness.

Granted, we don’t hike up to the falls at Holland Lake with her anymore and she can’t chase balls competitively with Casey but she has a wonderful quality of life.

I’ve had clients ask me to euthanize pets because they were going or were already blind. Why do we humans put such tremendous value on vision? I love to see as much as the next person but I wouldn’t say my life was over if I went blind.

Or I lost a limb. Or my hearing.

It never ceases to amaze me what people will consider as the end-point for wanting to care for their animals.

Which is why we have shared our home with so many animals over the years- I won’t euthanize healthy pets.

Being blind doesn’t mean Loki isn’t healthy. Larger health concerns are the occasional ‘reverse sneeze’ episode she breaks into now and then, her luxating patella and a knob of bone where some dimwit did a crappy job of removing a dew claw when she was a pup.

Meds for arthritis, illness, kidney disease, laryngeal paralysis, fights with bobcats, or heartworm prevention; carts and physical therapy when a pelvis broke and rear legs didn’t work; special care when tumors develop; special care and hand-feeding when a ferret ripped an eyeball out; special food for senior cats, dental health and bad allergies; and never moving the furniture around because they’re blind… we’ll make sure everyone gets what they need.

And they give us their unconditional love in return. Joyful leaps and barks and wagging tails when we come home. Head butts and purrs from the kitties when we pet them. Whistles and tweets from the guinea pigs as I walk past their bathroom. Cuddles and games of ‘chase’ from the ferrets when we play.

As good as we can for as long as we can.

That’s my promise.

We’ll even provide a seeing-eye dog.

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