escape from the death ray - for now. . . .

I am 'friends' with Henry VIII on facebook (really!), and during the worst of the drama with Luther he posted this picture meme:


I was too numb to "like" it that day on facebook, but it actually brought a smile to my face.

Here, a picture that I hope will bring a smile to your face!


February, the shortest month of the year, has this year been the longest. . . . But then suddenly, just as it seemed it would never end, it was over. The month was over, the trial was over or at least gone for now. Luther lived. We survived.

Luther still has heart trouble and liver trouble of unknown origin. But he's eating again (ok, so we haven't completely weaned him off the spaghetti-o's and animal crackers which were all that he would eat at first) and we're down to only 4 medicines. He seems very much like his old self.

Sometimes it's as if it never happened.

Some times. . . .

calling time. . . .

We knew when we got Luther that his life expectancy would be shorter than the average bear's, a mere 8 years on average. The end of this month it will be 5 years since Lux Luther came to live on this planet. That was on Leap Day, Feb 29, 2008.

Can you believe it?!

What we were not expecting was to have that time come any time sooner than eight years into this grand adventure. We were not expecting a life or death decision before his 5th birthday. We were not expecting what we've been through these past few weeks.

It started innocently enough. You know all about the trials and tribulations of what seemed to be Luther's allergies, requiring baths and vile-tasting medicines. Well, at some point, Luther stopped eating. Then, he stopped drinking.

I know that no one wants to hear the blow by blow description of what happened next. What IS it about medical catastrophes that make us want to rehearse each step, step by step, in linear fascination? I will try to resist. I'll try to sum up. I probably won't succeed. Apologies.


To date Luther's medical catastrophe has involved a cardiologist, echocardiograms, IV's, internists and a host of an ever-changing cast of medicines - all of which [medicines] had to go down his throat manually, as he still wasn't eating. That's us above, by the way, waiting to have the last test done. . . .

We'd put Luther on a diet this summer and had gotten him down to 136 pounds. That was about a month ago. He looked great. When he went into hospital the day after my birthday, he was 119 pounds. That was about a week ago. It's been heartbreaking.

Suddenly, it appeared we had a dog with advanced heart disease. That was Tuesday. Then, just as suddenly, it appeared that we also had a dog with serious liver disease. That was - what - the next Monday? I forget. Both can cause anorexia - and it was painfully obvious that we now had an anorexic dog. Suddenly, nothing was more important than getting food into him. We stopped almost all the medication and concentrated on food and water.

Day by day we offered anything and everything we could think of which might tempt him to eat. I cooked for him, only to have him gently turn away. He's eaten only two things of his own free will: two bites of a canned food our vet sent home (that was just about a week ago) and two bites of Carol's Canine Cookie Rolls, which you know he loves. That was about 3 days ago, but I couldn't tempt him to eat any more of them after the first 2 bites. We've gotten any number of fool-proof and guaranteed-to-make-him-eat suggestions. They've all failed. . . .

Good friends Jenny and Ray (who care for a host of animals of their own) gave us the idea of using a syringe to get not only the chicken broth I'd made for him into him, but also baby food. Thank you, God! We began measuring his intake of food first in tablespoons. Yesterday, one syringe at a time, we got over a cup of food into him. It's not enough to sustain him long-term, but at least he hadn't lost any more weight when he went in for what will likely be the last test we subject him to. We were shocked - but overjoyed - to see that he'd held at the weight he was when we took him home from hospital four days ago.

I've continued to learn so much from this beloved companion of ours. God's shown me that part of the preciousness of physical life lies in the physical fact that we all die. We lose the preciousness of life to the extent that we forget or manage to cover up the fact of death. Wouldn't it be ironic if the current spate of shootings nationwide was a perverted reaction to the relative cheapness of life that develops in a society that implies we can manage, protect and hold on to our lives forever by buying things, whether it's insurance, a safer car, better food or a magic cream to ward off wrinkles and cancer?

I've learned that you can't buy life. You can buy medical treatments and the time of medical experts who will tell all about how all the different systems work, and how this medicine causes that to happen, but yet another medicine can help regulate what-have-you but how, in the long run, there's not much to be done when the body starts to shut down. So we can't buy life, but does that mean that we have to impose death? We hate uncertainty, don't we?! Ah, but where do we get the idea that we get to decide when it's over? This is a thorny question in the case of an animal we have responsibility for - whose care is in our charge. Do we call time? When? I don't have the answers. We're living this, right now.

Some time ago I read about what additional turmoil we put ourselves through in our aging on account of our continued and often unthinking medical interventions. Of course, I can't find the article any more. I probably "liked" it on facebook, thinking that would keep it on hand for me, but it hasn't. . . . What struck me was the author's chagrin at having dodged a potentially fatal illness on the part of his aging father, only to discover that it made decisions so much harder down the road. Having intervened in one area, many other areas were also impacted. Those other areas also seemed to require intervention if only to avoid the guilt of realizing that the initial intervention had not saved his father's life after all, but only killed him in a different and ultimately more painful way, and in a way that the author was now actually directing. It was an eye-opening article.

I've also learned an awful lot on the spiritual level. Physically, if we won't eat or drink, we won't live. Medicine will not help. Life support is not real life and force-feeding works only short-term. The same thing is true, spiritually. I understand more and more what St. Paul said when he spoke of having to give milk instead of solid food to those he was teaching. 'You were not ready for solid food', he said, 'and you're still not ready!' The writer of Hebrews takes up the same idea, but with reproach: 'You ought to be teachers at this point - feeding others - but you still need to be fed milk like a baby!' It's all well and good to be fed milk if you are a baby; not so good if you're full grown.

I've been eating as much as I can, spiritually. I've been thanking God for the spiritual food I've hidden in my heart to keep me well and prospering, spiritually. And I've been drinking from the one who said "If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink." Who knew that, in the end, the question may not be is there food and water, but are you hungry and do you thirst?

Luther does apparently thirst now, if only as a palate-cleansing reaction to having had food syringed into his mouth. We hope that he will again hunger. . . . he hasn't, so far. We can keep this up only so long.

Meanwhile, we wait on the results of a test that will show us just how bad the liver function is and a sort of last ditch test to see if maybe all of this is the result of something called leptospirosis, which apparently causes (among other things) anorexia, dehydration, rapid and irregular heartbeat, and damage to the liver . . . . Check, check, check, check and check.

It is apparently treatable - although it may well leave us with a dog cured of leptospirosis, but one who eventually dies of heart and liver damage.

If Luther will not eat, we won't have much time in any event. Like I said, he is drinking for the moment, and the syringe-by-syringe feeding has kept him from sliding away altogether. But at some point, we'll have to call time. We just don't know yet when that will be. We keep hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. That maybe this afternoon he might decide to eat something. That perhaps we'll get a treatable diagnosis that will clear up all of this like waking up erases a bad nightmare we've been in. Two weeks ago, Luther was on a diet with a bit of a skin allergy. Today, he's in the equivalent of intensive care at home - with doctors on call - and really not knowing if he'll survive another day. It's been that way for the last nine days. Nine days of not knowing; nine days of deciding not to decide; nine days of just living and just hoping for another day, another tablespoon of food swallowed; nine days of alternating tears and quiet joy and even laughter; nine days of treasuring Lux Luther, the Leaping Laird of Light. My 'boy'. . . . my 'honey bear,' all the silly names we come up with in terms of endearment.

He's sleeping at the moment, covered by a blanket. He seems to take comfort being covered these days. Or maybe I just take comfort, covering him, I don't know. I hate to wake him, but it's time for the next feeding. The hours go quickly. At the moment, no news is good news. He sleeps, he wakes, he drinks, he endures 2 or 3 syringes of mush, he submits to a couple of pills, he changes scenery and moves to a different pillow. He sleeps. Occasionally, we go outside and he sniffs the air. He pees. He sniffs. He turns around to go back inside. Yesterday, it was 53 degrees and we put his bed out in the sun. He slept under a blanket for a good two hours. I refused to wake him.

Every day is a gift. Bittersweet. The first and last time we may be able to do this.

He's "only a dog" - I know. Some may feel offended that we do and feel so much for a pet, when others are going through so much with people, with their husband, wife, father or mother, or [God have mercy] a child. . . .

I make no apology. I don't seek to compete with anyone else's grief, trial or loss. Luther is our dog and we love him and one day - probably one day soon - we're losing him. It's hard to take on board. And yet it makes today the most important day of my life. I suspect that every day is supposed to be like this.

not your basic black

Anyone who knows me knows that I tend toward the sartorial basic black. The doctoral robe, I thought, would be right up my alley (namely 'basic black'), and a coloured hood is certainly acceptable, sort of like my usual coloured scarf.

You may imagine my surprise to be presented with a very brightly coloured doctoral gown.*

Red and yellow. [gold?] It could stop traffic.The hood is a little scary. . . . Check out the side view!


It looks like I've donned a pair of very bright trousers. Lovely.




But the doctoral hand-off is accomplished and attesting latin certificate borne away in triumph. . . . celebratis plenum ac perfectum Doctoratus In Philosophia. . . .Mission accomplished. After all these years.

Now what? Ah - still making it up as I go along.

___________________________________
*Fellow post-grad "A" calls it the McDonald's Robe. . . . an unfortunate - but apt - description.

moving days

It's hard to believe that this day has finally come. This morning, the vans arrived.Much paper rustling, cardboard-boxing, taping and sharpie-pen-marking ensued. They were gone by noon. That's because I - queenie - packed up all my books, all by myself! ha!

We're still in dispute over whether or not the books will fill the bookshelves. This oughta be interesting.

Anyway, next stop - day after tomorrow - the greenwood.
I can hardly wait. Funny thing: one of the guys on the moving crew asked if we were moving to a bigger house. "Not really." I said. "It's actually a little smaller. Sort of. Well. . . it's one bedroom. On one level. But bigger rooms. So - sort of smaller, but bigger. Sort of."

He was done with the conversation a whole lot sooner than I was. We're moving to a strange house that's smaller - but somehow bigger. Sort of. It's hard to explain.

not gonna happen

It's hard to put my finger on just what it was that caused everything else to sort of slow-down snowball, but after a sleepless night one night recently, we decided that a move-in this Friday was simply not gonna happen.

We postponed the movers.

We postponed the newly-cleaned carpet re-delivery.

We postponed phone/internet hook-up and "direct TV" (which didn't get the message and showed up, only to tell us that there are too many trees at the greenwood, and we won't be able to get "direct TV". So. No TV? Or a satellite dish atop the tower, perhaps. . . . [KIDDING!])

Meanwhile. . . . detail disasters continue.

Using the 'eyeball-it-once, cut, then-measure-many-times-and-fix-it-with-caulk' method, the countertop guys managed to cut the wrong inch off the biggest piece of countertop. They are replacing it.

That has held up the plumber, who also didn't realize he was in charge of supplying the sinks and a different toilet to his usual selection. We objected to paying him more than retail for those sinks and toilets, so purchased them elsewhere.


Which toilet would you pick - this one?






Or this one?




[Right. Just what I thought. sigh. Who cares?!]

Anyway, ditto the carpeting: price-wise, that is. The very nice carpet store just down the street apparently did not get the same memo about "incredibly increased prices all around" that the builder's carpet guy in the depressed looking back-lot warehouse was telling us all about. . . .

Then there's the towel racks. . . . but maybe we won't talk about the towel racks.

Steve tile-guy works in fits and starts, trying to put tile underneath whatever is slated to go in next. He's been allowed to grout the bathrooms (primarily because the plumber wanted to put those ugly toilets in) but now it's done and he can try and get the slate in under the kitchen island and maybe finish that off, and get the rest of the missing bits done, cleaned, sealed and grouted.

The electricians are hanging fixtures and discovering missing switches, which will necessitate wall patching later. (Although it appears that it is the security guy who was responsible for the eight [or was it ten? It was a LOT of] little cut-outs in the kitchen wall.)

The painters were here and stained probably 75% of the cedar trim - I can't figure out why they left what they left unpainted. It probably started raining or something.

Turns out the garage and studio doors were never ordered. . . . Add several weeks.

The wing walls are done but - with grade - are eight inches low.

I hear that my front garden was scraped down (to remove all the construction, brick, concrete and stucco debris) and backfilled with good top soil! Woo hoo!

There are piles of gravel to be spread on the driveway and courtyard.

It's coming together, but a move-in before the end of this month? Not gonna happen.

big slug and little-known facts

I suspected that these silvery, shimmery pathways on the screen were left by a snail. I've seen them before, you see.Ah ha! There he is! But this is a slug - I think - rather than a snail, although the faces look alike. No snail house atop his back, though. Dead give away.That is one big slug! Here's some context - see him checking out my glasses.
The "little-known fact"? When I was a little girl in Germany, I would take snails to school with me in my pockets. At recess, I would let them crawl on my palm. On my way home, I'd put them back on the wooden fence I'd taken them from.

This trip down memory lane brought to you in the spirit of not lingering over potential disasters brewing in the kitchen, where the granite people appear to have royally bungled the fabrication and installation of the otherwise beautiful soapstone I finally settled on. I am awaiting their next proposal for resolving the problem.

Pictures undoubtedly to come. . . .

pressure cooker

"I'm having a hard day with Luther."

"I can hear that. So can the rest of the neighborhood."

It's sad to think that perhaps the main reason I might appear nice is that there is nothing stressing me; nothing that is upsetting me. Put a large deerhound on top of our glass-topped porch dining table and that all evaporates. "OFF!!!!!!!"

In fact: expletive deletive ensued.

Follow that with several bashings of the screen by the same said deerhound - as I was momentarily outside and he, inside - and several more choice phrases (ok, the same one) erupted and "NO!!!!!!!"

Then have the dear deerhound commence attack runs and pogo-leapings, thinking we were starting a very fun new game, and I found myself furious, and not caring very much who else knew.

&**^)* &*()_#$
"NO BITING!!!!!"

I see how important it is that he be trained early and properly. . . . and I fear I'm already falling behind. For today, I had already learned that it is not enough that he know how to walk nicely on a lead when it's just me, he also needs practice walking on a lead when there is someone else with me.

[ooooh! fun!! play!!! leap!!!! twirl!!!!! pull. on. lead!!!!!!]

Then I learned that Luther is not worried about prosaic things like: Will this glass table top hold me if I leap up onto it? The quarry was apparently my coffee cup [blech!!] and our two red plaid napkins from the night before.

[yum!! smells like himself and herself. And white pizza. My favorite! I will CHEW THE NAPKINS. YUM!!!]

Luckily, I had not yet brought out my laptop.

Ah yes. Things are all fine and good when everything is good and fine. Add a 40 pound puppy and his highjinks and we'll talk.

sigh.

I feel pretty ashamed of myself at this point. And the whole neighborhood knows my shortcomings.

lotta happenings

The stone masons are back and have finished the stone arches and brick over the studio window and dining room door. I'm thinking only one more day and they'll be done with the rest of the stone. I'll miss seeing them. They have done such a splendid job.The well-diggers hit water at about 175 feet. It's a good aquifer, we're told. The picture below is of the well - not much to look at, but it should do the job!
Meanwhile, the replacement fireplace - to replace the one that arrived a few weeks ago, smashed - arrived.Bad news: it appears the replacement fireplace rolled off the forklift. . . .. . . and smashed.

OK then. Make way for fireplace number three!!! Let's hope the third time is the charm.

Inside, I discovered evidence that we won't be the first family to move into the tower. At least one family has already moved in, raised their young brood, and flown the coop.I admire their interior decorating: moss! A nice look - and comfy to boot.

The masons advise that there's a wasp's nest under construction over at the studio. . . .

Oh - and Jack's back!He oversaw a small crew of carpenters out back putting on the fascia and frieze board.

Pretty soon, however, there's gonna be a new dog in town. Blueboy.

He arrives tomorrow.

tower time-lapse

Jack brought a full crew today. He's taking it easy - as you can see - but the rest of the guys are hard at work.
Here's the tower. He's assured me the guys will shortly transform it.
Right. So here they go!
It's amazing how they walk around up there. Here, they're putting on the moisture barrier.
I'm liking it.

Almost done. . . .
Wow! That dog Jack's the best. Tomorrow, he thinks we'll actually have the shingles on, concrete slab poured, and - wait for it - maybe the cupola up.

Because the cupola's another story. . . .
Measure twice - cut once - measure again, consult owner, make more marks, decide to cut tomorrow. . . .

I like the little roof mock-up. We'll see what happens with the final cuts tomorrow.

Thanks, Jack! See you in the morning. Mwah! xoxoxo

monday, monday. . . .

Just a reminder of why we call it the greenwood, even in the winter. . . .












And here, look at this! So-far evergreen ferns! They stay pretty much evergreen through the winter down at the stream.

No clue what this week will hold. We're hoping to see CONCRETE, but we're still perplexed about the hole. . . .

The engineer has not yet responded as to what the final house dimension numbers were, and so we're waiting on that (and a copy of the final revised foundation plan). And at some point, I imagine Tom-builder will let us know what his plans are for the upcoming week.

As for us, we had a glorious Thanksgiving day - here's a picture of the little princess pea to prove it, taken on that day, outside, and she was not shivering at all in a short-sleeved party dress. Kissing a sugar maple leaf. . .

So - we shall see, shall we?

Here's hoping - and praying - for the best.


. . . ok. . . . ok! I want to hear it, too.


Here we go: the Mamas & the Papas.