Morning Mischief Managed

Perhaps because I never saw my basket of yarn as anything other than benevolent until it turned on me and almost destroyed my dog, I now look at every object I own with a suspicious eye. What if the couch––solid and immovable––were to suddenly tip under the soft weight of Winnie and fall back and crush the children in one, quick blow? What if I left the stove on and cooked every animal and beloved object not only in my apartment but the entire building? Or what if I didn't make the bed and the cats crawled under the covers and, trapped by a maze of twisted blankets and a wall of pillows, suffocated, their plaintive cries unheard by the only person who could save them? It's absurd (and more than a bit of an exaggeration, I might add!) but after the skein of red yarn I bought for a scarf intended for my sister ended up in Duncan's intestines, let's just say I'm cautious.

That's why every morning, after making my tea and preparing my five fruit breakfast, I take all of Duncan's toys––Percy, his penguin, the Bah-Bah, the Birdy, Buddy and the Baby, and perch them atop my DVD shelf where he can't get to them, rip them open and choke on their fluffy innards. He doesn't like it one bit and upon my arrival home in the evening,  insists emphatically that they all immediately be returned to the ground where he can play with and terrorize them. I leave only the tennis balls for him to play with, while I'm gone and perhaps, if he's very sly, a stray kiwi.

This morning after tending to my rituals I went in search of the toys and discovered that Duncan had taken action while I showered, spending that valuable time hiding his little, armless and legless, and sometimes faceless friends, all over the apartment. Percy was tucked away on his pillow, nestled down between the blanket Chelsea gave him for Christmas and the throw mom knitted for him. If it hadn't been for Percy's bright yellow beak I may not have noticed him at all. The blue bone was concealed in Winnie's fort, an old shoe box I keep under an end table where she hides for hours, peeking up slowly and carefully so that just the green of her big eyes are visible. Buddy was stashed between the bed and the window, down among the blankets where it would've been all too easy to miss him. After a careful search of the entire apartment I'd rounded everyone up except Bah-Bah, who remained unaccounted for. Duncan ate his breakfast, indifferent to my search, or so it seemed, until I returned to the bedroom to find him curled up on the bed, the mangled lamb tucked under one paw while he received a very attentive and thorough bath.

He was not happy when I took him away and placed him up on the tower with the rest of them. He sighed loudly, harumphed and wouldn't look at me when I left. I'll make it up to him and stop by Hero's for a bully stick before I come home.

It's the time away from home that alarms me. He and the cats have all day to plot and plan and I'm beginning to doubt I'm smart enough to keep up with them.

Grapes and Raisins

I'm sure most of you know how deadly grapes and raisins can be to your animal companion, but just in case I wanted to remind you again. Not only should you not feed your dog either of these things but you should be ever vigilant and mindful of any products you keep in your home which may contain them. Most of us are very attentive to our pets but accidents happen to the best of us, as I can attest after the nearly fatal Great Yarn Crisis of 2006.

Recently my friend Traci, a former professional dog walker and devoted companion to two Beagles, Murphy and Chloe, suffered a scare when Murphy got into a bag of raisin bread. Luckily Traci was home when it happened and was able to quickly induce vomiting, which probably saved Murphy's life. She rushed him to the ER, where he was given two charcoal treatments and had fluids administered. Traci made eight different trips to the vet in three days and had to learn to give poor Murphy subcutaneous injections after his IV was removed. Needless to say it was a difficult week for both of them and even though it looks as though Murphy will be fine Traci has been blaming herself for the entire incident. She shouldn't, of course, because none of us can anticipate what our pets will do or try or get into. All we can do is learn from others and make small adjustments in our own homes.

Traci urged me to remind everyone that danger lurks in the most unlikely places (raisin bread is a double whammy because of the raisins and the sugars, which can cause pancreatitis) and adamantly insists, "The earlier treatment begins the greater the chances are for a complete recovery. Don't wait for symptoms to begin. It can take 48 to 72 hours for the kidneys to show signs of toxicity. By that time, it may be too late." Make sure you know where to locate the closest animal ER in your area and keep your vet's contact information where it will be handy (mine is programmed into both my cell phone and land line).

If you have any questions about what not to feed the dogs in your life a simple internet search will turn up a wealth of information, or you can click here for a quick list of things to avoid giving your animal friends.

Retreat

Duncan has never given up on a walk. Not once. Even when he was sick after eating 500 feet of yarn, when he was hunched up on the grass puking up an endless line of bright red fluff which had been meant for a scarf, he wanted to walk. I was in a frenzy, uncertain what to do, but there was Roo, a trooper through and through, a length of yarn caught in his stomach and hanging out of his mouth dragging on the ground beside him, gagging and whining around it while still attempting to make the rounds. Last winter, when snow would ball up under his sweet paws, causing him to limp, he wanted to do another lap around the lake, maybe head down Leawood and see what was shaking on the elementary school ball field where he likes to run. There where frozen nights, tall and cloudless with a moon whiter than exposed bone, when I had to drag him home and carry him across the parking lot because his feet hurt so bad. He has never given up.

Until tonight.

I'd come home, found him curled up on the bed, or rather in it. Somehow or another he decided the bed would be more comfortable if he swirled the sheets around himself and propped his head under one of the pillow, a single back paw and his tail the only sign of him protruding from under the comforter. He snorted when I sat next to him and plucked his paw up into my hand. We attempted our welcome-home routine, which entails a lot of rolling around and pawing and huffing, all of which took place tonight under the covers. When he did finally emerge he grabbed my wrist in his mouth and trotted us down the hall, through the dining and living rooms to the front door where he wiggled his bum and chirped like a bird until I leashed him up and pulled on my cap.

Duncan is an eager walker and pulls hard on his leash when we first leave, only calming down once we cross Bowles, where he sits nicely, smiling up at me while we wait for the traffic to clear before crossing. He did all of that, and once we reached the lower soccer field he traipsed and gallivanted, head held high after discovering someone's discarded soccer sock, which he carried proudly, like a shot duck, in his mouth. We played chase for quite awhile until he suddenly stopped and looked north toward the big queen willow. A soft whine came to his throat, and although he didn't release the sock he stared nervously and kept looking over his shoulder at me. Finally he began a slow walk back up the hill, keeping his eyes trained on the tree and the tall reeds which crowd her base, and moved across the larger field, a nearly inaudible whine rising up from his chest as we went. He led me back across the park to Bowles, where he plopped his rear down in the cold grass and waited to cross, never looking away from the willow. There was no reluctance as we entered the parking lot and headed toward home. By the time we reached the door he was practically running, dragging me behind.

It was only an hour later, sitting on the patio watching two bright southern stars rise up over the trees that I heard the yipping of the coyotes over the grind of the traffic and understood why he wanted to come home.

Rainbow Bridge

I'm sad to report that Joey, companion to my friend Sally and her husband Mel, crossed the Rainbow Bridge last night. His vitals were good and strong but after numerous surgeries and no clear diagnosis, Joey made the decision for Sally and her husband, who had struggled with it the past several days. Shortly after they arrived, they each gave him a farewell kiss and held him as he took his final breath. The family is understandably saddened by the loss of their courageous little companion. The people at work, who have been offering their support and encouragement to Sally, were also sad to learn of Joey's passing.

Having endured Duncan's Great Yarn Crisis of 2006, a portion of which was spent at Alameda East, where Joey fought most of his battle, I know that caring for a pet under these circumstances can be quite expensive. I was lucky in that Team Duncan was able to offer financial support when Ken and I were unable to manage the cost of his medical bills on our own. Without their help, Duncan would not be with us today and the stories and thoughts I have shared with you for nearly a year on this blog would not have been possible. I am in debt to their generosity and compassion.

I know that these are difficult times we live in and that with the rising cost of gas and food it's hard to find any extra money, but I spoke with Lisa at Alameda East and learned that Joey's medical bills are considerable, especially since Sally and her husband are on a fixed income. It is my hope that with even the smallest of donations we can help them, even if only a little, to offset these expenses and give them time to grieve their loss rather than worry about money. If you'd like to donate (even $10 or $20 will help!), you can do so by credit card or check. Credit card contributions can be made by calling the hospital at 303-366-2639 or you can send a check to:

VCA Alameda East Veterinary Hospital
9770 East Alameda Avenue
Denver, Colorado 80247

Please mention Joey's name, as well as the name of his companions, Sally and Mel Almendares. Their client ID number, which I'm told will expedite the process, is 121374.

If you're unable to contribute but know of any organizations that help provide relief for families on fixed incomes who have suffered the loss of an animal companion and the high veterinary bills, please share those with me as well so that I can pass them along to Sally and her family.

Thank you for your support and kindness.

More Precious Than Breath

Sally, a woman I work with, has had a difficult time with Joey, her Pomeranian, the last few weeks and what seemed relatively minor only a few days ago has left him on the verge of the death this afternoon, with his family considering euthanasia. Luckily his doctor doesn't think they've quite reached that point and so Joey's troops are rallying to his side, praying and sending all their good thoughts in his direction. Sally was obviously quite emotional about his condition for most of the day and even though we tried to offer what little we could in the way of sympathy and consolation, it was not enough. We could only watch her and reach out our arms to offer hugs and strength. Sally spent much of the day crying and in sitting with her and listening to her talk through her fear and grief, several members of the staff, myself included, were moved to tears as well.

Duncan was very much on my mind all day and I could not think of much else aside from coming home, taking him outside where he could lead the way and then finally, at the end of our walk, under the shade of the big cottonwoods, wrap my arms around him and kiss his precious red head. Duncan was quite lucky to have made it through The Great Yarn Crisis of 2006 as well as he did, but I can still recall how weak he was and the pitiful little whimpers he made as he laid on his belly in front of the fireplace, wrapped in one of my t-shirts and a blanket. Seeing him in that condition and being unable to explain to him what was happening or how I was trying to help heal him was one of the most frustrating experiences of my life. But the not-knowing was even worse. I can not imagine how frightened Sally is at the prospect of losing her boy, the one who only ten days ago was the picture of good health.

And so we walked, Duncan and I, and I watched his back as he pulled against the leash. I watched his shadow prance along beside him, lifting its leg and stopping to scratch behind its ear right along with him. I watched him watch the kids play kickball, his ears high and his body tense as he prepared to dive right into the game with them. I have said it before and I will say it many more times for the rest of my life, but I am blessed to have shared these three years with him at my side. He has been the most devoted of companions, tireless in his loyalty and love for me and I can not thank the universe enough for his presence in my life. If it were a choice between Duncan and the smell of Russian Olives, or the sight of the blossoms in the trees each Spring, or the magic of Christmas, I would forsake them all for the love of my best, bestest friend.

He is more precious to me than breath.

His Belly

I don't know if it's just my anxiety, The Great Yarn Crisis of 2006 or simply a matter of an upset belly, but every time Duncan doesn't feel well I get sick with worry. Aside from being entirely too selfish, this is why I would not make a good parent. I would never sleep, would spend my nights laying awake listening to the breathing of my child, resting my hand on their chest to measure the reassuring rise and fall of each breath they took. I would never let them leave the house without me there to hold their hand, ready to protect them from each and every thing that could do them harm. I would stand anxiously on the perimeter of whatever space they occupied––a playground, a street corner, a college common yard––ready to step in and save them from whatever dangerous intrusion the world has to offer up. Their spouse would quickly grow tired of me, their shrink––and oh, there would be a shrink, a fleet most likely––would encourage them to establish boundaries, and their neighbors would file restraining orders. No, I would not make a good parent.

I am entirely too paranoid and far too susceptible to imagine the worst things possible. I just don't like to hear Duncan gulp the way he does when he's on the verge of vomiting. It terrifies me to stand idly by while he sniffs for clean grass and gulps it down once he's found it. I don't like the way my mind makes the leap from simple upset stomach to the end of the world. And so I make rice, stir in hard boiled eggs and mix it with a fresh batch of homemade yogurt, watching while he eats. I imagine sleepless nights and the stink of animal clinics and those pitying faces of the vets at Alameda East. I do not want to go down that path again and every hiccup and burp makes me wince like it happened only yesterday.

We'll cuddle on the couch tonight. I'll rest my hand on his side while he leans his head against my hip. I'll listen to every sound he makes ready to jump up and take him outside if necessary. I'll sleep with one eye open.

This is the only thing I know to do.

For the Boy

I may feel better, and even Jonah has managed to hold down his food, but Duncan has been bitten by the bug. I came home to find him under the bed rather than dancing and chirping at the door, his usual routine. His refusal to come out was alarming, even with the promise of treats and a walk. At first I thought he was feeling guilty, perhaps there'd been an accident, but after inspecting the apartment and finding nothing I crawled halfway under the bed, held his paw and talked to him, coaxing him out slowly and gently. He wanted the walk but would not look at anything but me the entire time we were at the park. He pooped twice, the first was nice and solid and quite typical, but the second was not so lucky so we returned home where I gave him some rice and plain Yo-Curt, my homemade yogurt. He ate most of it and even drank some water but he's spent most of the night curled up in a very quiet ball at my feet. Right now he's under the desk, a place he knows he's not allowed, but I've let him stay because it's obvious he feels so bad. He looks a bit wilted, like a wet dog without the wet. I can't help but feel anxious about it because the last time I saw him this way was during The Great Yarn Crisis of 2006.

The rest of my night will be spent with him, cuddling and holding his paw. Think good, get-well thoughts for him, the same you all sent to me during last week's blahs. Duncan was there for me and now I'm going to be there for him.

Spa

After a lovely day of sunshine and a walk around the lake, naps on the couch, cups of warm tea and leftover pasta from dinner with Lisa last night, there is no finer way to unwind than with a good bath. I get one every night, usually close to bedtime, but tonight Duncan decided I needed one early.


I've told people about my nightly Duncan baths and a few have even seen them (some with grimaces of awe and barely concealed disgust, but let me tell you, I'd much rather be licked to death by my dog than watch a toddler eat breakfast. Now that's revolting!), but until you've had it done you can't fully appreciate how wonderful it is. It's like having my own spa, and, with the exception of The Great Yarn Crisis of 2006, far cheaper.

If only I could teach him to do foot rubs!

Award Night

Last night Duncan and I were awarded the I Love You This Much Award from my friend over at the Property of Kelly blog. I can't take all the credit since this blog is, after all, not titled, "While Walking Myself." I'm merely the scribe, the toadie for the star, the guy who keeps his pockets stuffed with Grandma Lucy Treats and doggy poop bags, the guy who does the tossing of toys, as well as their retrieving should they roll under the couch. I'm the guy who readily gives up his spot in bed at night, doesn't mind being pushed off the couch and has a hard time wearing black because of all the fur. I'm a nobody in the process and have made my peace with that. Still, it's nice to get some recognition for my efforts.

Kelly and I have been friends since way back in 1985 when we were young and "Hungry Like the Wolf." While she was a Miami Vice kind of girl, I aspired to be like the people on Dynasty. She's the one responsible for talking me into joining the blog world and is one of the people who joined Team Duncan when we needed support during The Great Yarn Crisis of 2006. She's an amazing person, a terrific artist who is trying to start a freelance business and all 'round great friend. Check out Property of Kelly, find a card you like and send it to me!

She's also the person responsible for my banners and took great pains to remove the man- boobs the current one originally sported. Three cheers to Kelly!

In the tradition of The Award, I'm required to pass it on to someone whose work I enjoy. And so it brings me great joy to give it to Lori over at Fermented Fur. She's a funny woman based out of Minnesota, who writes a heckuva blog and is a regular reader of this one. Thanks for making me laugh, Lori! Duncan and I love you!

And because we've received this highly prestigious honor, Duncan and I are taking the night off and focusing our attention on the couch, the television and the pasta that is just about ready to serve. The noodles are all mine, but Duncan will get a little something extra in his bowl, perhaps some Merrick Harvest Moon duck, pheasant and quail served in sweet potatoes, green beans and Minnesota wild rice. I kid you not, he eats better than Ken and me, but he's a star, after all, and deserves to be pampered.

Rewind (Part 4): The Storm & Beyond

We did not go to the park tonight. Instead we crossed Pierce and walked down Leawood. The night was big and clear and warm, the first such night we've had since last week's snow. Duncan was anxious to get out and gallop, especially now that he sees the snow retreating, pulling back from around the trunks of the trees, leaving yellow and green circles of grass in its place, slush piling up in mounds along the curbs and the edges of the sidewalks. He is not a casual admirer of snow, my dog.

I was thinking of the storm that hit Denver a year ago tonight. It had been kind enough to provide an appetizer of sorts that Monday afternoon, and by five o'clock the main course was on its way and I was in hurry, driving down Santa Fe to 6th, where I headed east to pick up Duncan from Firehouse Animal Center.

Before the storm had moved in Ken had been lucky enough to pick him up from Alameda East, where his last night had been uneventful. He'd hurried him to our vets where he was rushed through an x-ray which determined that yes, there was a blockage and yes, it should have been removed 24 hours earlier. As comforting as surgery would've been that terrible Sunday, Ken and I felt infinitely more confident with people we knew and trusted. Alameda East was good to him, although not quite as good to us. I could tell you that perhaps their priorities are not in the right place and that they seemed much more concerned with maintaining the image they'd cultivated on their Animal Planet television show, but I won't. Instead I'll tell you that eventually–nearly a month later–the Board did finally get around to approving the grant I'd applied for to prevent financial euthanasia.

Doctor McCarty performed Duncan's surgery almost immediately after the x-rays came back, and throughout the day the staff was kind enough to call and keep me updated as to his progress. But then late in the afternoon, when news of the coming snow began to whisper down from important places, they called and urged me to get there soon in order to take him home where I could keep my eye on him throughout the night. They feared, and rightfully so, that they wouldn't be able to make it to work the next morning and didn't want Duncan left without care.

I raced to pick him and once there hugged everyone: tall, happy Dr. Rogers, who seemed surprised, the mannish tech in the the back room who was tending to Dunc, and the tall, gay guy who presides over the telephone at the front desk. I cried when they took me in back to see him. He was on his side in a cage, needles and tubes sticking out of his foreleg. His eyes were closed, but the lids were open just enough so that I could see the rolling whites under them. He smelled terrible, like medicine and antiseptic. His belly, which had been shaved, was a shade of pink I did not know existed outside of Disneyland. A large raw wound ran down the middle of his abdomen, the stitches black and clotted with small balls of dried blood. His leg and shoulder had also been shaved, for his IV and the pain patch that they'd given him. He hardly seemed to register what was going on.

I knelt down next to him, put my hand on his warm shoulder and whispered in his ear, "These are my favorite parts of The Duncan: the ears," which I kissed and stroked. "The cheeks," which I smoothed with the back of my fingers. "And the paws," which I squeezed reassuringly. When he heard my voice and smelled me, he lurched awkwardly and tried to rise but couldn't without groaning. I cried again while the techs cleaned him up, removed the needles, unhooked the tubes. Doctor Rogers spent extra time with me explaining the medicine, explaining how I should feed him, when to give him his antibiotics and pain killers, how to help him outside when he had to pee, what to expect. Doctor McCarty was in another emergency surgery but I was allowed to peek my head in and thank him. The staff helped me load my weak, barely coherent dog into my car and wished me well, reminding me that he had to be back at seven o'clock the following morning.

It took me nearly an hour to drive home through the falling snow. The sky was filled to capacity with clouds and the flakes were growing larger and falling harder. Cars parked on the sides of the street began to vanish, trees sagged under the weight and the street lamps were little more than glowing orange balls way up high, the light hardly reaching the ground. Slowly we went, navigating the hills, sliding through stop signs on blessedly empty roads. Finally we reached home and I coaxed Duncan inside where I arranged his pillow and a blanket next to the fireplace. It would be the place he'd lay for the next three days, getting up only to stagger outside every couple of hours to squat or hunch up, his legs shaking beneath him. The snow buried our yard and overrode the brick wall surrounding our patio. We did not have a shovel so I spent an hour pacing back and forth in a square spot I'd carved out by the repeated tromping of my feet. I mashed the snow down tight and created a path for Duncan when he needed to come outside. And because it was important to keep his stitched dry, I put him in one of my t-shirts, tying the loose end up on his back to keep him from tripping on it. We brought his food and water to him and practically laughed as we watched him eat ravenously. I spent much of that first time laying next to him, my arm draped carefully over his body. He slept heavily but moaned lightly, little more than a thin, transparent whine that did not wake him but haunted me. When Ken got home late that night he found me sleeping on the floor next to my dog.

It snowed all night and by the time I had loaded Duncan into the car for his return to Firehouse, school had been canceled, as had Ken's flight out of Denver. It took me nearly an hour and a half to get back to the clinic and no sooner had I returned home–two hours later–than they called and urged me to come back; they were closing early because of the storm. I spent much of that day driving on roads that no one should have driven on, except in plows and sanders. And when school and flights out of Denver were canceled for the rest of the week, Ken and I had to figure out how to get Duncan to Idaho to spend the holiday with my family. We weren't even sure the doctors would let him travel, which meant our adventure had not quite seen it's final days.

* * * *

Leawood was dark and the south side of the street had turned to slush which had then frozen into a treacherous path which alternated between crags and ruts and smooth, polished glass. I'd hoped the houses would be warmly lit and decorated. It's a neighborhood I like because the homes remind me of the neighborhood of my youth. But very few of them were lit up, aside from the obligatory tree in the window. It was a dark and difficult walk but as we moved slowly down the hill toward the elementary school I thought back to that night one year ago when the dog who was now dragging me couldn't stand on his own feet, couldn't hold his head up, but was never allowed to forgot which parts of him were his papa's favorite.

Rewind (Part 3): Team Duncan

In the three years Duncan has been with us, we have only been apart five nights, three when I was in Atlanta when I first got sick, and the two he spent at Alameda East. Ken came home late that Saturday and we both went back to the hospital to take him for a walk and let him know we had not forgotten him. After an hour or so, sitting with him, cradling his tired head on my lap, talking with his doctor, Ken returned to Thornton and I spent the night laying awake in bed, Winnie curled on my hip, Pip rolled up in a ball on my chest, Olive on the pillow above my head. I was exhausted having spent much of the previous night standing in the cold watching my dog vomit into the bushes. I spent most of the night on my back watching the orange glow of the street lamps peek through the curtains and between the slats of the blinds. I missed the way he rolls over me as I climb under the covers, snorting and and rubbing his head against my arm. I missed his weight at my feet. He always stays with us until we fall asleep and then he jumps down and shuffles under the mattress where he snores softly. It was a long night and as warm and protective as the cats were, Duncan's absence weighed heavily on my mind.

Ken came home the next morning and we went to Alameda East once again. His condition hadn't changed and although subsequent x-rays had yet to determine what was happening in his stomach the doctor was still encouraging immediate surgery. Do it now! He could go septic at any moment! You don't have time to think! While figuring out what we could do I applied for a grant the hospital's board of directors offer, which is used to prevent economic euthanasia. They wouldn't meet until Monday morning, which could be too late but it was worth a try. Obviously we wanted the surgery but our finances were such that we couldn't afford it on our own which was the most horrible feeling in the world.

It was at that point that I went home and called everyone I knew and begged for money. It was not a pleasant experience and each time I made a new call I found myself sobbing all over again. Ken watched helplessly as I snotted over the phone, pacing back and forth and pulling my hair out, but by the end of the afternoon I'd finally raised the money we needed with the help of my mother, Ruth, Kelly, David and his mother, Cee Cee, and eventually my father. This generous group became known as Team Duncan and it's to them that Duncan, Ken and I owe every memory we've made together over the course of the past year.

I quickly called the hospital and gave them the go-ahead. "Do it now," I practically screamed. But this is where things became confusing. The doctor said no, she wanted to wait and see what would happen. The radiologist had looked at the x-rays and wasn't sure surgery was necessary at that point.

"But you've been telling us his intestinal wall could perforate at any moment, that he could go septic and that if that happens the only viable option would be to put him to sleep." I was near sobbing again.

But she held firm; she wanted to keep him on the fluids, keep monitoring his x-rays and hold off on surgery until they knew exactly what was going on. Reluctantly and with an enormous amount of fear we agreed. Ken decided we'd hold off and try to get him to our vets, Dr. Rogers and Dr. McCarty at Fire House. They knew Duncan, they knew us (Ken had worked for Dr. Rogers and we occasionally socialized with him) and we trusted them completely. Until then, all we could do was wait and hope nothing happened in the meantime.

Rewind (Part 2): Two Pictures

I thought the worst of it was behind us, that all the yarn had come up–albeit it slightly bleached and in long, gloopy strands–but I thought Duncan was in the clear. Hours later, however, it was obvious he was not. He still enjoyed laying outside at the end of our walk, his eyes pointed toward the geese which had herded up across the street at the tennis courts, but he stopped eating and drinking, a sure sign that all was not well. Ever vigilant he was never out of my sight and when it was obvious he was an unhappy puppy, I did the first thing any responsible person would do: I went into denial. Whenever he began to look wilted and lethargic I simply popped on his leash and took him for a walk, which always revived him. On those walks that cold Friday night he was his old self, which seemed to say, "Nothing wrong here, Chief. Full steam ahead!" It was when we returned home and he collapsed onto the floor in an exhausted heap, uninterested in any of his toys, or even treats, that it became apparent he did not feel well, that we were not only not out of the woods but perhaps only just heading into them.

By ten o'clock I was in a panic. He hadn't eaten a thing, had begun retching up the water I practically forced him to drink. He hardly moved, just laid there, barely lifting his head even when I spoke his name. I called Ken, who was training in Thornton, and asked him to come home and take a look at Dunc. Ken is a certified vet tech–which was the reason we originally moved to Denver–and I assumed he'd know what we should do.

"He's not eating, at all," I told him. "And everything he drinks comes right back up. He won't play with his Baby or his Buddy and the only time he shows any sign of life is while we're walking. I'm worried." On his advice I scrambled some eggs, prepared some rice and had them ready to go right when Ken walked in the door.

And that's when the little poop pulled a fast one on me. The second the door opened Duncan sprang to life, jumped up on Ken, kissed him and licked his hands, ran and got his toys, turned in joyful circles. I stood there dumbfounded; the dog playing with Ken was not the dog I had been sitting with all night. His ears perked up, his tongue lolled out, his back end shook almost violently with the wagging of his tail. Ken arched his eyebrows and looked at me in that way of his that says, "Clearly you've been exaggerating again." I stuttered and explained that Duncan was faking it, that the minute Ken put the eggs and rice down my point would be made: Duncan would sniff it, maybe even take a polite lick, but he wouldn't eat. As Ken set the bowl down, Duncan practically leapt at the food, inhaling it in one, maybe two big bites. Almost immediately he turned to his water dish and downed everything, his tail wagging the entire time. I shook my head and stammered about how bad it had been, how this strange animal in front of me was the not the dog he'd been only moments before Ken had opened the door.

"Just keep your eye on him," Ken told me, gathering his things. "As long as he's eating and drinking he should be fine. The yarn probably just upset his belly." He scratched Duncan behind the ear, grabbed his stuff and left. He was home for all of ten minutes, and no sooner had he left the property than Duncan stood up, faced me and yacked all over the carpet. All that water, all those eggs, each and every grain of rice, spread out in a nice yellow puddle at my feet. I opened the door, led him outside and rubbed his back while he heaved for the next ten minutes, knee deep in the snow.

It continued for the rest of the night. Saturday morning dawned for me at roughly 3 AM. Following are the text messages I sent Ken:

2:59 AM: The eggs are back. He's puked 7 times all over the apartment.

4:59 AM: And we're up puking again. He's a sad puppy!

5:06 AM: Now he's drinking lots if only to have something in his belly to puke. He looks terrible.

5:09 AM: Call me when you're up, 'kay?

7:34 AM: We're up again, but he drank some more.

7:55 AM: And we're puking again.

9:38 AM: Outside puking. He's so tired. And you'd definitely notice he's sick if you were home now!

On and on it went. It seemed he'd eaten an infinite number of eggs and an unending supply of rice. They just kept emerging. By that afternoon I was scared so I called Ken and told him I had to do something, that he needed to see a doctor immediately. Our vet had just closed and the only place available was Alameda East, which was less than five minutes away. Ken consented and we were out the door.

I don't know what I expected, maybe that they'd give him something that would make him puke any remaining yarn, that he was dehydrated and they'd put him on fluids, that there would be a pill that would make him better. I certainly didn't expect what they told us: that the yarn was still in his stomach, possibly his intestines, that there was a blockage and that if it didn't pass soon we ran the risk of his intestinal walls tearing and resulting his body going septic, which would cause his death. I was floored, couldn't speak, didn't know what to say or do. They left me alone to think and talk with Ken, decide what we needed to do, what we could afford.

I think that was the most shocking thing, that his entire life hung on our already precarious finances. How could something like this happen and the deciding factor come down to money? He was only two years old! It wasn't his fault I'd been careless and left the yarn out. And now his fate would be decided by whether or not we could pay to save him. This was the dog who had saved me during my anxiety attacks, the one who'd comforted me when no one else had been able to and this was how it would end?

The x-rays came back inconclusive (yarn absorbs the dye they use so catching a clear image is almost impossible). They kept telling me we needed to do surgery immediately or he'd die. Immediately! Now! You don't have time to think about it! But they wouldn't do it without payment up front and we didn't have the $5000 they had quoted us. My mind swam. They did want to keep him overnight for observation and to get his fluids up, which meant I had to leave him.

I asked for a moment alone with him. We curled up on the floor in the office. He rested his sad, little head in my lap.

"These are my favorite parts of The Duncan," I told him. "The ears," I said, squeezing them softly, running my fingers though the long hair that grows there. "The cheeks," I said, pulling on his jowls which hang slightly lower than his mouth. "And the paws," I said, rubbing his feet, rolling my fingers between his pads and the blond hair between them. "These are my favorite parts of The Duncan and I won't do without them." He sighed and his eyebrows did that thing they do which tells me he understands. "Papa is going to leave you here but he'll be back. I promise. Your job is to get better."

As they took him away I took two picture:

one of my limp little dog

and one of me

because I never want to forget how afraid I was for him.

Rewind (Part 1): The Great Yarn Crisis of 2006

I'm a knitter. Not a good one, or even a consistent one, but on occasion I have been observed knitting. I can handle a scarf with minimal problems, and last year I even undertook my biggest adventure to date, a baby blanket for Jonah, Kevi and Mike's youngest son. I know very little about the craft but the repetition is good for me in moments of stress. One of my favorite things to do is put on The Music Man and knit while singing along. Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, cheep cheep, cheep, talk a lot pick a little more. It's the gayest thing I do, but it's comforting and I'm not at all ashamed. My knitting had never resulted in any trouble, that is, until a year ago tonight.

I was thinking about it while walking Duncan this evening in the park. I decided to retrace last night's meandering path through the snow. I wanted to see if anyone had followed it and was surprised to see that someone actually had, at least until the second curly-q through the trees, at which point their path diverged sharply with ours and we were on our own again.

I was thinking about that morning a year ago when I woke up to discover what I thought were several tall piles of bloody vomit littering the floor of our apartment. Ken was out of town for training and I was on my own. If you've never woken up at 5:30 AM to piles of bright red puke, let me tell you, there are better ways to begin the day. My heart pounded in my chest, my vision blurred and I began to panic. It was worse for Dunc, though, by a long shot. The poor guy was hiding under the bed and refused to come out. I literally had to pull him out to get a look at him to see what the problem was. There was no blood on his face and he looked fine, although a little wilted, and once he saw I wasn't angry he perked right up. I gave him lots of love, coaxed him outside and prepared myself for the gruesome task looming ahead of me.

After grabbing pounds of paper towel, a moist rag, the carpet cleaner, a sponge and a scrub brush, I reached for my first handful and discovered it remarkably manageable, and only a little warm. It's the warmth that bothers me most, but the pile had cooled and I didn't gag at all. In fact, the whole thing seemed to lift off the carpet in one easy scoop, with none of the smearing or sliding familiar to anyone who's cleaned up after a pet mess. It was only when I picked it up that I discovered it wasn't blood at all but a huge wad of yarn, the bright red wool I'd purchased for a scarf only the day before. Apparently Duncan liked it just as much as I had, although for entirely different reasons.

Needless to say, the clean-up was quick and painless and I was in the shower and off to work without a second thought. Duncan was fine, he'd only tried to eat some yarn. It had come right back up and there were no problems. Never mind that nearly a third of one of the balls was missing, or that I'd carelessly left the yarn sitting in the same basket it had always sat in, right there in a corner of the living room where anyone, or thing, could get it. Again.

I quickly learned the error of my ways upon returning home nine hours later. While I was gone Duncan decided to sample some of the other year: a bit of the heavy black wool, which he left in a moist little pile right in the doorway, a bit more of the red, but the one that struck his fancy the most was the ugly brown ball with the metallic gold thread woven into it. That he'd consumed rabidly. And puked up with just as much fervor as I imagined he'd downed it. There were several large piles scattered throughout the apartment, with a single long strand running between them, connecting them and which formed one enormous, continuous piece when I cleaned it up. He didn't look too happy with himself but became even unhappier while on our walk when he began puking again. At one point when the yarn seemed caught I actually had to pull on it gently and guide it out of his stomach. We left another enormous pile on the grass at The Breakers, which would be re-discovered on another walk five months later when the snow finally melted. I took him home, made some rice–which he picked at only half-heartedly–and sat on the couch knitting one of the endless scarves I still had to knit prior to Christmas. Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, cheep cheep, cheep, talk a lot pick a little more.

The adventure seemed over, but the next day I'd learn it had only just begun.