SAYING GOODBYE TO A PET

I had to say ‘Goodbye’ to my beloved little pooch a couple weeks ago.

It is difficult to see them go, and it is made geometrically more difficult as the result of the process by which most of our pets leave us. Rather than allow them to walk across the so-called ‘Rainbow Bridge’ in their own time and of their own accord, (like the majority of human beings do), the vast majority of our pets are ‘helped across.’

Of course, a purposeful decision on the part of the owner to ‘dispatch’ their precious pooch or kitty naturally lends itself to the emotion we refer to as guilt, no matter how old or infirmed the bless-ed creature might be.

I have only had to ‘help’ one of four of my pet pooches across the Rainbow Bridge. Princess left us over sixty years ago. She was playing tag with a dump truck. (The dump truck won). Buddy walked across the proverbial bridge a decade and a half ago. She didn’t need any help. Several years ago, Lucy found her way across with the assistance of some dear in-laws, and an accommodating vet. However, this time I took it on myself to ‘do the deed.’

Queenie, a beloved little Shih Tzu, was nearing 18, had lost much of her eyesight, and displayed some significant symptoms of dementia. There could not be any putting it off any longer. And while I considered deputizing my brother in law, and sister in law once again, I just didn’t have the heart to deprive my Queenie of my presence during the final moments of her life.

I will spare you most of the details, as I have written at length about it in the past. However, there is a particular facet of the ordeal I wish to share with you.

Pt. 2

Queenie had visited this vet several times in the past, and he never failed to administer one or two shots. As a result, she was (or wasn’t as the case may be) prepared for the inevitable. As the doctor got ready to give her the initial sedative, Queenie struggled to avoid the pinprick.

‘Dr. Mikel’ spoke.

“You’re going to have to hold her neck and head, or I will have to muzzle her.”

Well, Queenie had NEVER been muzzled, and no one was going to begin the practice now. I leaned over slightly and placed one hand on her head and one hand under her neck. With this she settled down, and allowed the vet to do what a vet does best, (or worst, as the case may be).

Queenie whimpered slightly as the needle was inserted into one of her back legs. I told her that it was going to be okay, and that I would see her again in a few years. Although the doctor had informed me that she would fall asleep within three to five minutes, slumber seemed to overcome her in the course of a minute. I watched as her good eye closed slightly, and slumber overwhelmed her.

As I reflected on the first stage of Queenie’s ‘homegoing’ process later, it occurred to me that once I placed my left hand on her head, and my right hand under her neck, she no longer protested the vet’s agenda. It was as if she purposely invested whatever faith she could muster in the one who loved her best, and desired what was best for her.

Of course, the foregoing is another of several reasons I might have walked out of the building with a load of guilt on my shoulders, as if my precious pooch had invested her trust in someone who was altogether untrustworthy, and who had betrayed her when it counted the most.

Now Dr. Mikel picked up the second needle, and a pair of electric shears. Turning Queenie towards himself, He began to cut away a swath of fur on her right front leg. With this, he unceremoniously inserted the ‘Rainbow needle,’ …and slowly pushed the plunger.

Afterward

There is just something about participating in the demise of your pet that, regardless of how badly they need to ‘go on,’ it can feel like betrayal.

There is a scene in the movie, “Marley & Me” in which the main human character and Marley, the dog, are seated in what appears to be a wheat field. The sun is low on the horizon by this time.

Suddenly, ‘John’ looks down at Marley and says,

“Old fella, you have lived a good life. You tell me when it’s time.”

I found myself saying the same thing to Queenie on several occasions over the past few months. I think she told me.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

The counseling association to which I belonged at the time, The American Association of Christian Counselors, was co-sponsoring a week-long conference along with Focus on the Family in Denver, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity.

Our hotel was no more than a couple of blocks from the convention hall, and while I attended various workshops during the day, my wife toured the local sites, such as the Denver Mint, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The week passed quickly, and the event was everything I might have hoped for, or expected. Dr. James Dobson, founder and then president of Focus on the Family, spoke to the audience on the closing night of the conference. Afterwards, he invited anyone who would to chat with him, pose for photos, (and no doubt, he got writer’s cramp with all the autographs he gave out that evening.)

It so happened that I was somewhere near the middle of a line of people which stretched from one end of the auditorium to the other, and I decided to “bail out.” Leaving the line, I walked to an exit door, and prepared to head back to the hotel. But then

… I changed my mind, and walked back from whence I’d come. I was going to talk to this man. After all, I’d traveled 1500 miles to be here, and I doubted the opportunity would ever repeat itself. Well, since I’d walked away, I was now forced to take my place at the end of the line.

Slowly, but surely the line moved forward, (with the emphasis on “slowly.”) Dr. Dobson must have had the patience of Job, since he would pose for photos, and sometimes summon family members to stand with their loved one. As I neared the imminent psychologist, I heard Shirley Dobson utter a quiet complaint.

“Jim, we really need to go home. It’s getting so late.”

I looked over at her, and was surprised to see the “First Lady of Focus on the Family” standing there barefoot, and holding her sandals in one hand.

By this time, I was no more than a few feet from Dr. Dobson, and he was speaking to his last two or three participants of the event. And it was obvious that he planned to attend to everyone in line, whether his wife was tired, hungry, or just plain ready to go home. But to his credit, he did not say, “Well, darn Shirley. Why did you bother to come with me, if you can’t hang loose, and let me do my job?”

But it was finally my turn, and Dr. Dobson smiled, and he looked my way.

“Well, how are you doing? I’m James Dobson.” (But he may have been thinking, “Man, oh man. I’m glad this guy is the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ and I know Shirley is gladder than I ever thought about being. She’s really gonna pound my head!”)

I introduced myself, got his autograph, and asked my question.

“Dr. Dobson, what one recommendation would you suggest to a pastoral counselor?”

He put his imminent demise out of his head, and replied,

“Well, if I had more time, perhaps I’d come up with something wiser, or more interesting, but I’d encourage you to be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.”

I thanked him, and stepped away; content that this was very good advice. It was time to make that five minute walk back to the hotel.

But in the meantime, time had slipped away from me, and it was approaching “the bewitching hour.” My wife had long since begun wondering what had become of me, (since she knew the meeting would have ended two hours ago,) and she had spoken to the hotel security guard.

“Well ma’am, perhaps he’s gone to a bar to get a couple of drinks.”

To which my wife responded,

“No. No way. He’s not like that. You don’t know him. He doesn’t drink.”

And they agreed that he’d go looking for me if I didn’t appear within 5 minutes.

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

Of course, I apologized, and told her that time had gotten away from me, and that I’d been talking with Dr. Dobson.

While the psychologist with the initials “J.D.” might have slept on the sofa that night, thankfully my wife was almost as big a fan as I am of “the man,” and the matter was soon forgotten.

by William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

NOT ALL THAT FAR AWAY

 

Every month Martín’s parents took a trip to see Grandma and came home on the same train the next day.

One day the child said to his parents:

′′I'm already grown up.

Can I go to my grandma's alone?"

After a brief discussion, his parents accepted.

They stood with him as he waited for the train to exit.

They said goodbye to their son and gave him some tips through the window.

Martin repeated to them:

′′I know. I've been told this more than a thousand times."

As the train was about to leave, his father murmured in his ear:

′′Son if you feel bad or insecure, this is for you!"

And he put something in his pocket.

Now Martin was alone,

sitting on the train as he had wanted,

without his parents for the first time.

He was admiring the landscape out the window.

Around him some unknowns pushed themselves in.

They made a lot of noise.

They got in and out of the train car.

The conductor made some comments about him being alone.

One person looked at him with eyes of sadness.

Martin was feeling more uneasy with

every minute that passed.

And now he was scared.

He felt cornered and alone.

He put his head down, and

with tears in his eyes,

He remembered his dad had

Put something in his pocket.

Trembling, he searched for what his father had given him.

Upon finding the piece of paper he read it:

′′Son, I'm in the last train car!".

That's how life is,

We must let our kids go

We must let them try new things.

But we always like to be

In the last car, watching,

in case they are afraid

or in case they find obstacles and don’t know what to do.

We want to be close to them.

as long as we are still alive.

(Adapted from Unknown author)

GRIEVING HIS LITTLE FRIEND

I have previously written about Queenie’s trip across the Rainbow Bridge, and my participation in her homegoing exercise. And as I inferred in that particular blog, our other dog, Toby, (along with us) has experienced some pretty raw emotions as a result.

I honestly didn’t expect our little black and white Papillon to exhibit any particular response when I brought Queenie home for the final time. Of course, I had some mixed feelings about showing the latter to the former. However, since I had several mementoes to put in her little cardboard container, I set it on the floor, and took the lid off the box. Even before I pulled the top off, Toby began sniffing around the perimeter. And during the minute and a half which elapsed, as I was laying Queenie’s beloved ball, a meal bone and a red rose in the box, Toby was “all eyes.”

I suppose I should not have been surprised that he would display such a visceral reaction to my beloved pooch’s passing. After all, the two of them had lived with our daughter for a year before Queenie was returned to our home, and Kristy had transferred Toby to our care a few months ago. And in spite of his status as what I describe as a ‘eunuch,’ Toby had ‘engaged’ Queenie numerous times, especially when our (at the time) fifteen year old dog went into heat. They did everything together.

They ate together. I would retrieve a pot of chicken and rice from the fridge 3x a day, make up a plate of the stuff for each dog, and set Queenie’s food on the left of their water bowl and Toby’s on the right.

They slept together. At least when they resorted to their floor pillows during the daytime. We often took pictures after they found their way to their makeshift doggie beds, and laid hardly a foot apart.

They ‘went’ together. If and when Queenie cooperated in that twice a day exercise, she would ‘go’ where Toby had previously ‘gone.’

Pt. 2

And while Queenie and Toby were, for the most part, somewhat oblivious of one another, (or at least it seemed that way to me) Kristy reminded me that they were nothing less than partners in life.

The past six days it has been apparent to me how much he loved her.

Toby immediately began doing things which were not ‘normal’ for him. He has always eaten his food on the right side of our floor to ceiling kitchen closet. If I ever put his plate on the left side, he would simply not eat. This past week, (as if the memories of that little 3x2 foot space were simply too much to bear) I could not cox him to eat there at all. However, when I moved his paper plate to a throw rug in the living room, he would immediately eat some or all of his food.

Toby has been spending a great deal of time in bed during daylight hours, as if he is depressed. And whereas, he never retired for the night until my wife or I did, now he disappears into the bedroom just after the sun goes down.

Toby has exhibited another strange, but equally poignant behavior pattern. Since his own collar is a bit tight and difficult to snap, we have put Queenie’s old collar on him prior to taking him outside for his liquid constitutional. As a result, when we walk into the front yard, an animal that has always been (literally) “Johnny on the spot” refuses to ‘go,’ but, rather, lays down on his back.

Now and then, I have let Queenie’s name slip, and when I have there is a noticeable reaction. Without fail, Toby turns his head towards me and it is like he grimaces slightly, as if he is thinking,

“Can she really be gone?”

As a pastoral counselor I have often mused that,

“I would have made a more lucrative yearly income as a dog psychologist” (and) “After all, I could have said anything I wanted to the dog, and could have reported that he ‘told’ me what amounted to a load of malarkey, and the owner wouldn’t have known any better.”

All this to say I have had a very unique experience with Toby this week, something which I have never experienced in my 71 years on this planet, (much less in my 30 years as a pastoral counselor).

It is like I can sense his pain, almost as though his sadness, disillusionment and confusion are exuding through his body. Sitting next to him I can feel the emptiness of his present world, and his longing for Queenie to, if it were possible, suddenly materialize before him, or at least walk back through the front door. And his eyes reveal such a present absence of ‘there there.’ Those beady black pupils are simply blank and unblinking. And I cannot sit next to him without feeling an overwhelming sadness, and wish that I could make it all better. The best I can do is say,

“I know you miss her. I miss her too. But we will see her again one day.”

Afterward

I readily admit it. During the course of my seven plus decades, I have never spent time around a grieving pet. This past week has been an enlightening experience, to say the least.

This experience has caused me to be more sensitive towards the grieving pets of the world. May God bless, help and encourage them, as He also has the human beings who have lost the precious canines and felines in their care; little friends which they have known and loved for so long.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

LIVING A LIFE OF SIGNIFICANCE

I saw a little video segment the other day in which people expressed their concerns about the entirety and finality of their lives, and when asked what about death he feared most, one man responded,

"The thing I fear most is living a life of insignificance."

However, there is nothing insignificant about someone who consistently brings a bit of joy into others' lives, and offers words of encouragement when others need it most.

As believers we need not go to our grave without the existence of significance in our lives. I’m convinced that God never meant any of His children to die without impacting those whom He sets in their pathway, and I’m equally convinced that Father, Son and Holy Spirit dreamed a singular plan for each of us…before He made the worlds.

I believe that our Lord is so concerned that we fulfill our mission here that He is not only willing, but quite capable of revealing His will to each of us, and I think there are two primary variables by which He reveals Himself to us.

The interests and abilities He instills within us, and the opportunities (or open doors) that He makes available to us during the course of our lifetime.

God grant that I use the talents and abilities wherewith He has blessed me, and walk through the doors which swing open before me.

by William McDonald, PhD

QUEENIE'S JOURNEY

My precious little Queenie, a white and auburn Shih Tzu, was, as far as we know, about 18 years of age. But first things first.

Queenie came to live with us in May of 2013. She had wandered up in the yard of the son of a friend, and our friend, Ann, spoke to me, and asked if I had any interest in adopting her. Well, I can tell you it took me all of 23 seconds to make a decision. You see, our little Buddy, another white and auburn Shih Tzu, wandered up in our yard almost twenty years earlier, and went on to her reward well over a decade ago. And like the changing of the guard, our then thirteen year old tan Corgi crossed the Rainbow bridge a few weeks later.

In the past few years Queenie not only lost every tooth in her mouth, but a cataract clouded one eye. And then in the past few months the dear little thing began displaying symptoms of Canine Cognitive Disorder, or what we as humans refer to as Dementia. She would stare at the ceiling or the walls for minutes on end. She would walk into another room and began barking. She would walk into closed doors. She would wander into the bathroom, close the door behind her, and bark ‘til someone let her out. She would exhibit unexpected aggression.

And while I knew the end was not far off, I did my best to postpone it as long as possible. It was one of those Scarlet O’Hara, “I’ll just have to think about that tomorrow” kinda things and it was “the gorilla in the living room.”

However, Queenie’s symptoms only grew worse, and there came a day when there was no thinking about it tomorrow. I was forced to think about it today.

Pt. 2

And thus, on such and such a day I took out my trusty flip phone and dialed Queenie’s former veterinarian. I say “former” because due to her advanced age, I hadn’t bothered taking her to the doctor for a couple of years. I just saw no reason to invest money in the inevitable. In human terms Queenie was already past the century mark.

When I explained Queenie’s status quo to the vet’s office manager, she informed me that it would be a week before “Dr. Mikel” would be able to “do the deed.” And while I was disappointed that we couldn’t just “get it over with,” I was secretly relieved that I had been granted the grace of one more blessed week with my precious pooch.

The days ticked by more quickly than I might have liked, and I found myself pampering Queenie in ways that I hadn’t in the past. Ever since Buddy left us, I hadn’t allowed Lucy, and subsequently Queenie in my bed. Not only had their bare paws stepped in all kind of stuff on the nearby dog path, but the latter of the two had the dubious tendency of squatting and doing her liquid routine half on and half off the street. As a result, some of the said yellow liquid oozed beneath her feet.

However, given the quickly approaching proximity of my dear Queenie’s demise, over the course of that last week I allowed her to sleep next to me at night. She obviously enjoyed her newfound privilege, as she would lay close against my hip and find herself in la-la land in short order.

And while I had previously brushed out Queenie’s fur a couple of times a month, I easily brushed her out ten times over the course of her final week. And while I had practiced the same infrequency when it came to bathing my precious pooch, during that last week, I bathed her twice.

Her final bath occurred the day before, well, you know. As I lifted her up, placed her in the tub, and turned the faucet, I spontaneously said to her,

“Queenie, we’ve gotta get you clean for Jesus.”

And get her clean for Jesus, I proceeded to do.

Pt. 3

I had asked Jean to prepare a special “last supper” for Queenie. Over the past several months we had begun to feed her a steady diet of chicken and rice. However, her final two meals, including breakfast on the day of her “promotion” was comprised of roast beef and potatoes and carrots.

Several times throughout her final week I reminded my Queenie that Jesus loved her and that He was looking forward to seeing her soon. And rather than speak in the dark tones of death, I chose to express what lay before my beloved pooch as a journey and an adventure, and now and then I would sing her the first line of an old Christian favorite.

“Queenie girl, ‘You’re gonna take a trip on that good old Gospel ship!’”

A friend of mine, a young lady named Melodi, had been especially supportive throughout the homegoing of Buddy and Lucy, and she offered me a great deal of encouragement as Queenie was preparing to exchange this world for the next. (I had been similarly supportive as her Angelo prepared to meet his Creator).

Following is one of Melodi’s recent messages.

“Queenie is getting ready to experience what we have lived our entire life for!!! She will be running in meadows, smelling flowers and waiting until the day she sees you again!!! She will suddenly look up and know you are there and you will forever be with her and never have to leave her side again!!! Love you and know this is ‘see you soon’ and not ‘goodbye!!!’”

I have previously written about some “strange going’s on” which occurred immediately after my dear Buddy crossed the proverbial Rainbow Bridge, and some similar happenings in the years since she left us in ’06.

I simply cannot get rid of her. (Not that I want to). Whereas, Harry Houdini promised to make his presence known after he left this mortal strand, he failed to keep his promise. However, my little Buddy has apparently found a way to “do a Houdini”… again and again and again.

Pt. 4

Suffice it to say that the next night after Buddy’s passing, as I retired to my rectangular couch and attempted to sleep, I sensed a sudden weight against my right shoulder, and the seeming respiration, in and out, in and out, of that invisible creature next to me.

A couple weeks later, after the sun went down, I was walking in my subdivision, and something small and white crossed my pathway, and vanished into my neighbor’s yard. Years later, I was seated at a table in a group home in which I was a staff member, when suddenly I felt what seemed to be two little paws against my right leg. Melodi and I have conjectured that Buddy was notifying me of Angelo’s upcoming journey, and her enthusiasm about meeting him.

All the foregoing to say that the day before Queenie ceased to live and move and breathe on this earth, I was seated where I am currently typing out this reminiscence when I heard something in the living room, like a dog shaking off water after a bath. Buddy had found a way to acknowledge her realization that her little sissy was about to join her in the land where the roses never fade, and no tears dim the eyes.

As cute as they are, (the cutest dog of them all in my humble opinion) Shih Tzu’s are not the most social creatures in the world. They tend to linger six or eight feet away from their humans as a rule, and won’t go out of their way to sit in your lap. But in the past couple of months, when I picked up my little Queenie, she would lay her head against my shoulder, as if she knew what lay ahead of her, and she needed a wee bit of comfort. A few days before my Buddy passed away, she began shivering. It only lasted a couple of minutes, but I am convinced she experienced some sort of premonition of her upcoming journey across the Rainbow Bridge.

Pt. 5

A couple of hours before Queenie was scheduled to meet the Lord, I loaded her into the car, and took her for a short drive. I had some things to say to her, as I had previously said to Lucy and Buddy. As I drove down the highway, I shared the following words with her.

“Queenie, you are a very good dog. You are the best! We have loved you so much, and you have brought so much joy into our lives.”

And then I repeated something I had told her throughout the week.

“You’re about to go on a journey, and experience a wonderful adventure. And you will see my parents, and your little sisters, and Angelo, and his granddaddy, my friend Bob.”

(and)

“I will see you again in a few years, and we will never be separated again. Just remember how much we loved you. In just a couple hours you will see Jesus. He loves you more than I ever could. You will be safe with Him.”

(and)

“Queenie, the doctor is going to get you started on your journey. I need you to be good to him.”

A few minutes after Queenie and I arrived back home it was time to get ready to leave. I dreaded what lay ahead of us, but I was determined to do something I had never done before.

I realized it wasn’t about me. It was about her. And this gave me the wherewithal to join her in an examination room which she knew all too well. However, this time around the purpose of our visit had nothing to do with her health. She would not walk out of that room alive.

Pt. 6

Our daughter, Kristy, gave us one of her dogs a couple months ago, and now I offered Toby the opportunity to say “Goodbye” to Queenie. The two of them mostly seemed oblivious of one another’s presence in the house. And when I set Queenie down next to Toby yesterday it was much the same. He paused a moment, and walked away.

The vet’s office manager had previously told me that they no longer provided a burial box, and that we would have to bring a cardboard container with us. Jean suggested a bank box which she had used to store tax forms and other documents. I had already stretched a measuring tape from Queenie’s snout to her tail, and determined she was 20 inches in length. And though the bank box was closer to 15 inches across, I realized I could turn her into a fetal position; which was common to her method of slumber.

It was time to make our way to the vet’s office, and picking Queenie up I walked out of the house and got in the passenger’s side of our car. Getting into the driver’s seat, Jean started the engine, and we were off.

Arriving at the doctor’s office we discovered a sign on the door which required us to call first, and they would open the door for us. The Covid-19 Pandemic has changed so much in this old world. My wife made the call, and she was informed that someone would prepare the exam room, and that we could just wait in the car ‘til we received a follow up call.

After about ten minutes transpired Jean’s phone rang, and she was informed that the room was ready, and that a staff person would open the door for us. Having walked through the door, we were escorted into Exam Room 2, a tiny 6x8 foot cubicle hardly worthy of being referred to by this semi-prestigious title.

As I laid Queenie on the dual exam and weigh table, I noticed the scale registered 13.1 lbs. I had allowed her hair to grow out the past few months, and based on her appearance I had assumed she was closer to 18 or 20 pounds. I assumed wrong. I had previously taken a small cutting of that hair, and put it in an Altoids container; in which I kept some similar mementoes from my Buddy and Lucy.

Pt. 7

The slightly obese, balding doctor was dressed in a typical white med shirt and a pair of khaki pants. Having refreshed my memory of him, I pulled up his website which informed me that he has been in the field for just short of half a century, having at one time been an Air Force veterinarian.

Dr. Mikel held an hypodermic needle in his left hand, and informed me that he was about to administer the first of a two drug cocktail; (a duo of liquids which is also used in the execution of condemned criminals).

As the aging doctor placed his right hand on Queenie’s hip, she pulled away from him, and growled slightly. She remembered the sting of the shots she had received in this very room. With this the vet said,

“You’re going to have to hold her neck and head, or I will have to muzzle her.”

Well, Queenie had NEVER been muzzled, and no one was going to begin the practice now. I leaned over slightly and placed one hand on her head and one hand under her neck. With this she settled down, and allowed the vet to do what a vet does best, (or worst, as the case may be).

Queenie whimpered slightly as the needle was inserted into one of her back legs. I told her that it was going to be okay, and that I would see her again in a few years. Although the vet had informed me that she would fall asleep within three to five minutes, slumber seemed to overcome her in the course of a minute. I watched as her good eye closed slightly, and slumber overwhelmed her.

Now Dr. Mikel retrieved the follow up needle, and a pair of electric shears. Turning Queenie towards himself, He began to cut away a swath of fur on her right front leg. With this, he unceremoniously inserted the needle, and slowly pushed the plunger.

“I’ve given her enough for a 30 pound dog, so it won’t take long.”

Pt. 8

Now the mournful event took a turn for the worse. The doctor said something that was totally unnecessary, and from my way of thinking reprehensible given the solemnity of the occasion.

“I believe you signed a form for my receptionist, but just to be sure. Florida law requires you to follow certain requirements when burying your pet. In the past people have had their animals euthanized, and thrown them out on the side of the road on their way home, or put them in their garbage bin. Well, vultures, eagles and raccoons have eaten the carcasses, and they have died as the result of the poison in the dogs’ bodies.”

And I thought,

“You could have told me that after Queenie ‘left the building.’ Here she is in the middle of meeting her Maker, and you had to share that lovely bit of information with me?”

I chose to let his comments go unanswered, except for a slight nod.

Less than two minutes after the second needle was inserted I asked him,

“How much longer will it be?”

To which the vet responded,

“She’s already gone.”

Aside from Dr. Mikel’s unwarranted, uninvited comments, above, things had fallen together pretty much as I expected, though it had taken less than half the time I had previously conjectured.

Before walking out of the room, the vet provided us some final instructions.

“You can take your time. But when you’re ready you can put her in the box which you brought with you.”

After stroking her head a moment, and whispering in her ear, I lifted Queenie from the exam table, placed her gently in the box, and covered her with its lid.

Pt. 9

Placing Queenie’s makeshift casket in the backseat of the car, I resumed my place in the passenger seat, and we made our way home. Having arrived home, I opened the back door of the car, and walked her into the house.

I debated looking at her a final time, but thought about lifting the lid slightly, and dropping a couple of her favorite items into the box. However, as I sat the little cardboard casket on the floor Toby ran up to us, and began sniffing the outside of it.

I decided to take the lid off the box, and Toby immediately looked inside. I spoke to him.

“Toby, Queenie has gone to meet Jesus. We will see her again one day.”

I have previously written about the seeming aloofness which existed between Toby and Queenie. However, my daughter just reminded me of what one might express as their “actual relationship.”

“You know they had sexual relations.”

(and)

“I never saw Toby do that with any other dog.”

(and)

“They were partners.”

Of course, I was aware of these things, but I had never put it in that particular context. Queenie was almost 18. Toby is 6. (I guess he fell for an old lady).

At this point I laid my precious pooch’s purple rubber ball and a meal bone in one corner of the box. (It occurred to me what little a dog or cat really have in this life, except the love they receive from their owners). 

And realizing Queenie’s head was partially buried in the blue crochet cover on which she lay, and which we used to cover her every night of her life with us, I adjusted her head so that I could see one eye and her tiny snout.

Pt. 10

There was just one more thing to be done.

The day before Queenie left us, when I was shopping at Dollar General, I picked up a single red rose for my wife. However, when I returned home, Jean suggested I place it in Queenie’s little casket.

Now I followed through with her suggestion. Bending over I laid the scarlet rose across her body. Having finished my momentary business, I placed the lid back on the box, and taped it shut. There was just one more thing to do before we committed her dear little body to the earth. I retrieved a blue permanent marker from a nearby jar and wrote the following words on the lid of the box.

“See You in the Morning, Queenie.”

(and)

“You were a very good dog.”

(and)

“We Loved You.”

It was time to place my precious pooch under the old oak tree where I had previously buried Buddy and Lucy.

My wife and I walked the thirty steps down a fern strewn pathway which separated us from the gravesites of two members of our family, and the little pet cemetery which was about to receive a third.

Placing the makeshift casket in the hole I spoke the following words.

“Queenie, you were the best. You were a precious pooch, and we will always remember you. We will see you again soon, my little friend.”

To which my wife offered an “Amen.”

Afterward

Our little Queenie is, even now, looking into the face of Jesus, a face that all of creation longs to see.

My wife and I are doing well under the circumstances, but our precious pooch is doing better. Once again, she has perfect vision and a full set of teeth. And best of all her mind and emotions have, if anything, been sharpened and perfected. She no longer stares incessantly at the ceiling or the wall, nor barks at invisible phantoms in the other room. The momentary comfort I was able to provide her when she laid her head on my shoulder has been supplanted by the everlasting comforts of her Creator and the heavenly host.

I still find myself looking at the clock, and thinking I need to take my precious Queenie out for a walk at sunrise, and at four in the afternoon. As I prepare Toby’s breakfast and dinner, I break the chicken into tiny pieces as I had done hundreds of times, knowing that Toby could have cared less, but that it was nothing less than crucial for Queenie since she had long since lost all her teeth.

Speaking of Toby, last night he found his way to my wife’s bed well before she retired for the night; something he has rarely ever done. This morning he refused to eat, but managed to eat something later in the day. I believe he knows Queenie has left our little home and has no intention or wherewithal to return.

I am at peace knowing that Queenie is healthier and happier now than she has ever been, and that I will most definitely see her again.

by William McDonald, PhD.  Copyright pending

                                                 A Loan From God

God promised at the birth of time, a special friend to give,
Her time on earth is short, he said, so love her while she lives.


It may be six or seven years, or twelve or perhaps sixteen,
but will you, till I call her back, take care of her for me?


A wagging tail and cold wet nose, and silken velvet ears,
a heart as big as all outdoors, to love you through the years.


Her puppy ways will gladden you, and antics bring a smile,
as guardian or friend she will, be loyal all the while.


She'll bring her charms to grace your life, and though her stay be brief,
when she's gone the memories, are solace for your grief.


I cannot promise she will stay, since all from earth return,
but lessons only a dog can teach, I want you each to learn.


Whatever love you give to her, returns in triple measure,
follow her lead and gain a life, brim full of simple pleasure.


Enjoy each day as it comes, allow your heart to guide,
be loyal and steadfast in love, as the dog there by your side.


Now will you give her all your love, nor think the labor vain,
nor hate me when I come to call, to take her back again?


I fancy each of us would say, "Dear Lord, thy will be done,
for all the joy this day shall bring, the risk of grief we'll run."


"We'll shelter her with tenderness, we'll love her while we may,
and for the happiness we've known, forever grateful stay."


"But shall the angels call for her, much sooner than we've planned,
we'll brave the bitter grief that comes, and try to understand."

GOING HOME

As I write these words, my little Queenie has just 30 hours to live and move and breathe on this good earth. Our precious little Shih Tzu came to us seven years ago, and she has, as you might imagine, been such an integral member of our family.

In the past year, our 18 year old pooch has developed a cataract in one eye, and is quickly losing the sight in the other. Bad enough that she is close to being blind, but over the past few months Queenie has displayed significant symptoms of Canine Cognitive Disorder, or in human terms, Dementia.

My brother in law and sister in law have volunteered to take her to the veterinarian for me to, well, you know. They did this same thing once before when our dear Lucy was close to departing the proverbial premises.

A few years ago my Queenie was scheduled for her annual checkup,  and I made an appointment with my local vet to examine her. And on a given day I put her in the car, and we drove the five miles which lay between my house and the clinic.

And as I pulled into the empty clinic parking lot, and parked in front of the building, I compared the sign in the window and the time on my watch, and realized neither the vet, nor his staff had arrived for the day. At least, I thought, we will be the first in line.

However, the passage of sixty seconds challenged my persuasion since now a late model sedan pulled in beside my car. Glancing to my right, I noticed a young lady of perhaps thirty, and a somewhat scrawny, non-descript brown hound in the seat beside her.

And in the course of a few moments, I noticed a tear roll down her left cheek, and then it seemed she stifled a sob. Well, if you even remotely know me, I am incapable of watching another human being (or animal, for that matter) suffer, and not do something about it.

Pt. 2

Leaving Queenie in the passenger seat, I opened my car door, walked around the automobile, and now stood next to the young lady’s half open window.

Brushing away her tears, the surprised stranger looked up and me, and, no doubt, wondered if I had an ulterior motive.

I spoke first.

“I don’t mean to startle you, Miss, but I noticed you were upset, and wondered if I could help in some way.”

To which the young lady replied,

“Oh, hi. My little Webster is very sick. He developed Parvo and I brought him here, and Dr. Myers gave him antibiotics. However, whatever he prescribed for him didn’t touch the Parvo. He has only gotten sicker, and he has lost a lot of weight. The doctor told me that there is nothing more he can do for him. He is going to euthanize Webster today.”

I could not help myself. As my own eyes welled up with tears, I took the liberty of placing my hand on the young lady’s shoulder. I did not remove it immediately, but offered my condolences.

“I am SO very sorry. God bless you and your dear Webster.”

“Margaret” turned her tear-stained face towards me now, and uttered a few more words.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

And with this, I nodded, stepped away from her car door, and got back into the driver’s side of my own car.

Afterward

I have often thought about that young lady, and how difficult it must have been to watch her precious pooch suffer, and not be able to do anything about it. And I have reflected on how hard it must have been to watch her dear Webster close his eyes for the last time.

There is a scene in the movie, “Marley & Me” in which the latter takes the former to the veterinarian, and lingers beside him as the doctor administers the lethal cocktail of drugs. And having watched the simulated euthanization, I swore to myself that I would, at all costs, avoid a room like that throughout the course of my natural life.

You may think it strange, but as I “put pen to paper” in the wee hours of this morning, somehow my resolve has been strengthened to do what I swore I would never do. They say the more you familiarize yourself with something, the less fearful the proposition becomes.

I don’t know if it is so much the foregoing possibility, or whether that young lady to whom I have previously alluded has loaned me a bit of her courage. Be that as it may, I think I am ready to do what I had decided I would never do.

It just isn’t about me. It is about that precious little member of our family who stands on the threshold of eternity. I think it is the least I can do for her. After all, if it were my homegoing, I have no doubt she would be there for me.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

THUMBING A RIDE TO FREDERICKSBURG

Laine, a dear social media friend who hails from Australia, (and a connoisseur of my multitudinous blogs) encouraged me to write one relating to the stark contrast between the insignificant things about which we complain vs. the God-awful stuff with which some people contend.

Even as I write these words, I am listening to my favorite 24/7/365 radio/internet broadcast, “Night Sounds” with the late Bill Pearce; a program I began listening to over a quarter century ago. (www.nightsoundsradio.org).

Speaking of my friend’s encouragement, it seems ironic that today’s radio broadcast is entitled, “Gripe Sessions.”

I mean, at various junctures in our lives, we’ve all experienced ‘stuff’ which provided plenty of fodder about which we might have complained, but which given enough “water under the bridge” can only be recounted with a “wink and a grin,” (or perhaps peals of uproarious laughter)!

The following account is an example from my own life.

When my first wife and I lived in Virginia, I was employed as a Civil Service clerk at the U.S. Army Records Center in Alexandria; just outside of Washington, D.C. It was a 30-40 mile drive, and I expended a total of well over an hour per day in my commute. And it may be helpful to you to know that Stafford County was, at least at that time, very rural in nature, and more susceptible to contingences of the weather than the D.C. area.

It was the winter of 1973, possibly 1974, and our television weatherman was predicting 8-10 inches of snow in and about Stafford County. And true to his prediction, we woke up to an impressive blanket of white surrounding our mobile home, and the hundred or so other aging mobile homes which lined the streets of our trailer park.

And I suddenly realized how woefully unprepared I was. Not only did I lack snow tires (and/or chains), but our mobile home park was absolutely snowed in, and no arrangements had been made this winter, (nor any winters preceding it) for a snow plow.

Pt. 2

Well, as you might imagine, as soon as 9am rolled around, I called my supervisor, Miss Elizabeth Brown, and made her aware of my inability to report to work that day. No doubt, she questioned my lack of preparation, but dear reader, I could only report what I just reported to you.

However, since no additional snow was scheduled for the next couple of days, I surmised that the accumulation of white stuff would soon melt, and I would be able to make it to my job the following morning. (Can we say, “Below average temperatures?” Can we say, “No such luck?” Can we say, “Fat chance”)?

Well, my dear friends, not only did the snow fail to melt that day, but when I awoke the following morning, the level of the white stuff against the picket fence which bordered my mobile home seemed not to have decreased one iota. And as I had done the day before, I spun the dial of my rotary phone, (for cell phones were still only a twinkle) and anxiously awaited the subsequent “Army Records Center. Corps of Engineers. This is Miss Betty Brown” greeting of my immediate supervisor.

Her matronly greeting was not long coming.

To say the elderly lady was displeased with my inability to report to work two days in succession would be “next door” to saying she was disappointed with having lost her right foot to gangrene. I mean, she was ‘ticked.’

“What do you mean, Bill? The streets are clear here. I simply don’t understand. I hope you can make it to work tomorrow!”

I realized I was left with only one option. I set off on foot, and soon found myself walking down Route 1, South towards the quaint Civil War town of Fredericksburg; approximately ten miles distant. Having walked a short distance, I stuck out my thumb, and hoped some passerby would take pity on me.

Pt. 3

Sadly, (at least for me) I cannot tell you I received an immediate lift, nor can I report that anyone so much as slowed down to look at me during the course of the first hour. Eventually, however, an old Chevy pickup truck pulled off the road, and I jogged the 15 or 20 yards which separated my person from the vehicle. Arriving alongside the truck I threw open the passenger door, stepped in, and thanked my earthly savior for the courtesy he had chosen to extend towards me.

No doubt, as the miles accumulated, (much faster than they had done when I was on foot) my momentary friend and I chatted about the historic snow storm just past, and the reason behind my journey. As we passed through Falmouth, and crossed the Potomac River, I asked my ‘chauffeur’ to drop me off at a car parts store. Exiting the vehicle, I thanked the man, and went in and asked the clerk whether his fine establishment carried snow chains; to which I received an affirmative response. Of course, he inquired about the make and model of my vehicle, and before much time elapsed, I walked out of the store with the requisite hardware.

At this point, my journey continued in reverse. For whatever reason the trip forward has proven to be more memorable than the trip backwards, but I surmise I walked an interminable distance, and eventually someone responded to my right thumb. Whatever the case, by the time I walked through the entrance of the (illustrious) “Stafford Mobile Home Park” the sun was low on the horizon.

And it was then I realized, how utterly different the landscape now appeared in contrast to its appearance when I began my southward trek. I was almost disappointed to realize that the lovely blanket of virgin white snow was all but gone now, and the black asphalt of “Virginia Drive” and its muddy parallel shoulders had, by now, risen up to greet my return.

Given the karma which seemed to pursue me on this particular day, I thought it not strange that the hard-won snow chains which I so valiantly labored to retrieve

…were the wrong size!

(I am happy to report I made it to work the next day).

Afterward

Did I mention that at various times and seasons in our lives, we’ve all experienced ‘stuff’ which provided plenty of fodder about which we might have complained, (and probably did) but which, given enough “water under the bridge” can only be recounted with a “wink and a grin,” …(or perhaps peals of uproarious laughter)?

Well, the foregoing illustration from my own life is a good example.

Considering all the hideous things going on in the world today,

…I am blessed. Yes, I am blessed. 

by William McDonald, PhD