THERE ARE SOME PHRASES we hope never to utter. We all have them, and since they are inutterable I won’t list them, nope, except this one, which I can now say aloud, head raised, even making eye contact with another human, after a sister-stranger saved me, liberated me, and made me hold my red head up high and say: I cook for my dog.
I do. At least I do now.
You might have noticed that things were a little quiet and not at all funny recently for me. That in part was the Thanksgiving rush, of course, but a major contributor to the hush was that somewhere around the beginning of November my dog got sick and entered the hospital, where he stayed for 12 days, during which time I actually signed the papers to put him down, including the receipt for cremation, only now to have him safely back home.
You’ve seen Otter. He is 3, having just successfully celebrated that very big birthday here at home, after nearly not celebrating it at all. None of this was Otter’s fault. He didn’t get a chicken bone. It wasn’t my fault. He didn’t get a chocolate or a piece of sugarless gum.
Climate change has brought along so very many alterations to our lives that the list of those things is too long to type, though high among those changes are pools of standing water in northern New York State that now harbor Leptospirosis where it was never seen before; ticks that carry Anaplasmosis; and dogs who get both illnesses and simply die.
Four dogs in my neighborhood keeled over in the same week with Anaplasmosis. I live in a place where we had no ticks until a few years ago. Now they blow in the wind and just yesterday, in the early part of December, I found one in my house.
As you may have read, I am a fool for my dogs, believing that they provide a sisterhood of sorts, no matter what their sex may be. I sing to my dog, consult with him on every aspect of our days together.
The first morning after his first night in the hospital, at home, I whipped off my nightgown, stuffed it into my purse and took it with me to visit him, sticking it under the head he could barely raise. My daughter’s shirt came too, making a pillow we hoped might remind him of what he had to live for. I crawled in the cage, cried on him as he refused to eat for 10 dreadful days, read him The New York Times, and promised to teach him to swim, all if he’d come back. And then his blood-test numbers were so bad that everyone agreed it was time to let him go. Except Otter. He did not agree, and even though the syringe was filled and the papers were signed, he leapt up from his spot on the floor and began to bark, and I called the whole thing off.
Slowly he got better, enough at least that the very good internal-medicine specialist at the hospital recommended I bring him home, and get him to eat, and we see where all this might go.
Cut to: A scared, tired, weepy woman in the aisles of a lovely, upscale cooking store.
Another woman comes out from behind the counter and approaches with something more on her mind than the usual “Can I help you?” attitude. I cannot imagine what I look like at this point. On my mind is the fact that Otter has lost 8 of his 77 pounds, and that his recovery will be in my hands.
I’ve read up. He needs a very special diet owing both to a remarkable panel of food allergies he has always possessed, and now, nearly failed kidneys. He will now need to eat small meals, many times each day. Oh, the things I’ve read.
I’m looking at kitchen scales, but the weight of this assignment is whirling in my tired head, and the lovely woman asks me simply, “What do you need to do with this?”
She explains that the high-priced scale has a digital readout that will allow me to assess the total calorie count of what’s being weighed.
“No, no. I don’t need to do that; no,” I say.
“What do you need?” she repeats.
And I don’t want to say it. It’s too weird or obsessive, though somehow it is now something I’ll do. And even though I’ve agreed to do it, I cannot say it, and I stumble, saying, “I never thought I’d say these words aloud. Never.”
“Yes?”
“I have to cook for my dog.”
“Oh,” she says. “Is he sick?”
And the story tumbles out, after which she simply touches my forearm and offers: “I have a dog. I’d do the same thing.”
What a kindness. What a great big sisterhood there is out there in the world, if only we can get out the words.
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Huge hugs, Marion. I feel your pain, and I imagine the joy your beloved Otter brings. My ducks and I are pulling for you both. Thanks for sharing.
From a fellow dog lover who also had my dog in the hospital last week, I’m so glad Otter is healing and is on his way to recovery! Paul McCartney said “You can judge a man’s true character by the way he treats his fellow animals.” Your blog shows what special beings the both of you are.
Hi, Ronn. Welcome to TSP, where we do love our dogs, as well as our friends who love dogs and cats and, of course, ducks. How kind of you to send good wishes to me and to Otter. Thank you. It was lovely working with you on the film. Can’t wait to see it. Please come back soon.
Hello, Clara. And welcome to TSP. What a wonderful quote, and how kind of you to share it. Thank you for the good thoughts for Otter. We both appreciate it. So sorry to hear that you, too, had a sick dog. Let the healing begin. Please come back soon for more.
When I read the line “I cook for my dog.” before I clicked to continue reading, before I realized the tale was serious, I laughed out loud. I laughed because I can tell through your writing that you are, of course, the kind of person who would cook for their dog, whatever the reason. And of course, Otter would come out of his near Lazarus experience because he loves his family and knows you would cook for him. :)
Ah, Tammy, that’s so lovely of you. Thank you. Really. That’s divine.
Oh, Marion – I’ll keep you and Otter in the light, as the Quakers say.
Thank you, Danielle. I love that expression, as I do all things Quaker. That’s lovely of you. We ‘re deeply grateful. Please come visit us again soon.
Marion – there are dog diet experts right here in Albany. My friend Mary is known by the the Cornell vets as the only woman in NYS who can keep little Maltese dogs alive who have kidney shunts. The Honest Weight Food Coop also has a new and very complete selection of frozen raw food for dogs. And the truth is, I’d cook for our “Lucky” dog.
Marion,
So glad to hear that Otter is feeling better. I had a huge scare this summer, one of my Jack Russell’s, Pansy had a bad case of pancreatitis. It was so awful to watch. She spent a week in the hospital and a long recovery.
I do cook for my dogs, I also feed Dr. Harvey’s a fab food.
I do not eat meat anymore, but that does not stop me cooking for my dogs. No day would be complete without them. Anything to make there life wonderful. I will keep good thoughts for Otter’s recovery.
Marion –
Paige will tell you that I, too, was a fool for my dog (she’s gone, now, after 3 years living with cancer). You made me laugh and cry on this rainy Los Angeles morning. It is easy to tell that you are a woman who does what is right for her friends and her family — and Otter is both. Furthermore, with that name, he deserves to learn how to swim.
My very best wishes,
Julie Lynn
A heartwarming story perfect for this season of good will toward all creatures. From the photo on, I couldn’t stop reading (even though I am a fool for cats instead). Climate change — what terrible unintended consequences!
As the sister of a dog mama who cooked for 2 dogs in her life that could eat nothing but chicken & rice due to various surgeries and ingested dangers, & a dog mama myself of a little guy who gets into fixes requiring lots of tending, I empathize. But there’s never shame in love! Lucky Buddy Jake and I wish you all healing and yummy dinners together.
Dear Elissa:
How kind. I didn’t know any of that. I will get right on it at the Honest Weight. Thank you so much. So good to read you here, particularly that you, too, would cook for your dog. How reassuring. Please come back soon.
Dear Susan. Oh, thank you. If a rational woman like you is cooking for her dogs, I’m thinking it’s okay to do it here, as well. So kind of you to tell me. How dreadful that you had such an ill dog. So glad it all came out alright. Otter is happily chowing down everything I cook him, and never looked better. Oh my, how deeply satisfying it is to see him doing so well. Thanks. We both thank you and we feel the love, I promise. Hope to hear from you again soon.
Hi, Julie Lynn. Oh, that’s so lovely of you to say that you, too, are a fool for your dog. I love that, as well as the kind words. Thank you. And Otter agrees that swimming is in his future. Thanks for the boost from the other coast. Please come back soon.
Hi, Therese, and thanks for coming by TSP. We re delighted to read you here. Glad you have cats. Such fabulous creature. I adore them, as well, but right now Otter has my heart, goofball that he is. We are so grateful to have him back and so grateful for this support. Thank you so much.
Hi there, Lynn. There is never shame in love, is there? What a marvelous thing to consider. Give Lucky Buddy Jake a good scratch for me, and tell him he’s got a fine mama who knows how to comfort a sister. Thank you. Hope to see you here again soon.
As I was reading this column, tears trickling down my face, Sebastian (my four-and-a-half year-old son, for those of you who don’t know him) came into the room, saw the picture of Otter’s big wet nose, and asked with alarm, “What’s wrong with that dog?” I quickly wiped the tears off my face, not because I don’t want him to experience sadness but because he would worry that something was really wrong. “The dog was sick but he’s all right now. He’s much better,” I said. Oh, Mare, you’re a brave soul. Yes, cook for him. My mother, with her kennel full of Afghans, Salukis and Irish Wolfhounds, always cooked for them — a huge daily undertaking, with assistance from her Galician kennelman Benito. There usually was a huge pot of something pungent bubbling on the stove in the kennel building — normally a stew of some sort, with meat, veggies and sometimes leftovers from the house — and they also got eggs, milk, grains, cereals and who knows what. When my mother would announce she was “going down to feed the dogs,” we knew she’d be gone for a while. From a distance, you’d hear the clattering of pots and tin dishes to the accompaniment of Shostakovich or Brahms or whoever was blasting from the old transistor radio she had in the kennel kitchen. Sometimes, of course, we’d be roped in to help, and I’d marvel at how my mother knew exactly whose dish was whose, depending on each dog’s special diet, which might include a pill or two, mashed into the grub. While the preparations were going on, the hounds would be outside in the big fenced-in pens, waiting impatiently, barking and howling. Once the cooking was complete, we’d open the doors and they’d charge in, each heading straight for his or her cage. The long ears of the Salukis and Afghans (show dogs all) had to be protected from their own crunching teeth as they bent down to the dishes, so we put hats over their heads to pin them back — the hats looked like big socks with the toes cut out. Then they’d get their the dish, the manna, the daily feast, which would usually vanish in a matter of seconds. The only part that was not fun, of course, was dealing with the approximately 30 dishes, which were all washed by hand!
To Otter’s mom–
Thanks for taking such good care of Otter. He and dogs like me need really good loving parents–the two legged kind. I had a tick this summer and my mommies got it off me quickly. But then, budget cuts meant the state didn’t mow our hill (where I poop) and I got really bad allergies. I’m just finishing prednisone and anti-biotics. I kept my mommies up late at night from the jingle/jangle of collar. I’m all better now and I’d love to play with Otter sometime soon.
Love,
Bailey
Dear Marion,
You really are a soul sister. I cook for Maggy, my fourth, and much more demanding” daughter”. Maggy is a 6 year apricot standard poodle, who I knew we were in for challenges, when at the the age of about five months, after having her since 8 weeks, she one day refused to eat her kibble. She’d just go to the bowl look up at me with those soulful eyes, not unlike your Otter, and my homemade chicken soup days began.
To this day we have to mix the food we eat with her mostly organic, expensive dog food. If not we get the pleading eye look, which now comes with a series of whines,
I guess we have succuumbed. Caesar Millan would definitely not approve. But hey, you have to find a sister wherever and Maggy is on par with any I know.
Oh, Nick: What a beautiful story this is, as well as a kind gift. Thank you. Yes, all except the kids having to wash out all those bowls. Oh, my. But really, what an amazing concept: Your mother and all those dogs. Please tell Sebastian that Otter can feel the love, and that he is feeling much, much better. Thank you. And please come back soon.
Hello, Bailey. And a merry woof! to you. Oh, those allergies. Oh, that state budget! A playdate for 2010 seems very much in order. Tell your mommies to come back soon, and that we love them. And you, of course.
Welcome, Augusta. No, Senor Milan would most definitely not approve, but we’re not looking for approval now are we, sister? We’re looking for our dogs to be healthy in this crazy world. Thanks for coming by, and please come back soon.
Big healing hugs to Otter and to all three humans in your house, Marion. What a terrible ordeal…. The syringe filled?????!!!!! oh, my. I am so glad he is back and getting well. And you, are you healing???
love-
maureen
Hiya, sister Maureen. Many thanks for the healing hugs. We feel them, cyber though they may be. And we appreciate them, we do. I’m healing my way, as well. Only a true sister would ask that question, of course, and I love you for it. Some walks, some gym time, some meditation. Oh yeah. Thanks for stopping by. Please do so again soon.
A little behind in my reading, and would have read it sooner if I had known the circumstances behind the title. I expected to feel a new form of mommy guilt, so I didn’t read the article right away. I confess I fed my kids baby food from a jar, and I feed my Jake lamb and rice formula from a bag, and I didn’t want to feel a new pang in my stomach as I try to “let go a little,” and not be so serious about the details in life. I didn’t want to feel guilt for not cooking for my devoted Dobie. I am so sorry Otter has been sick and hospitalized for so long. I am so happy he is home, and I hope by now, has gained some weight, and is up for some fun. The experience with the saleswoman, who must have felt your pain somehow, as she reached out to help, was so moving, and also, how you smuggled in the scent of love to help Otter. There is so much there, that so many can understand. It was a beautiful story. Thank you. (Not to take away from your experience, but to emphasize how much I understand, as we were going through something similar in Nov. to present with our Jake who at age 9, suddenly, could not get up. He did not want to be petted anymore or greet us at the door. He was unresponsive. The vet’s face was grave as he referred me to a specialist. Jake sees a doggy neurologist now, has responded to medications, is walking, and has life back in his eyes. He celebrated his 10th Birthday in Dec.. He has an infection now and is on heavy duty antibiotics, and yes, the receptionist said I would have too cook for him on these anti-biotics, since he needs a full stomach. ;-) His time here is a gift, and I hope to be filling his Christmas stocking with treats again next year.) Peace
Hi, Tracey. Welcome back to TSP. Yes, that saleswoman was such a catalyst for me. I’ve since gone back and thanked her. Thanks for the kind words about the story, as well as the lovely wishes for Otter and his family. We cook on. In fact, I’ll be writing about it again soon, so stay tuned.
Confessions are good for our soul. I think your admission out loud of ‘I cook for my dog’ has liberated a lot of ‘closet cookers’ out there who go above and beyond the call of duty to show love for our dogs and cats, etc. These furry critters are family and fill our lives with unconditional luv and so much more. As Cesar Milan (The Dog Whisperer) says: we’re often given the dog we need. So, I think how fortunate Otter is to have you and you have him. May you have many more precious days together…
Hello, Debra. That is so kind of you, and treasured, especially after having just come from making another huge batch of the food that sustains him. I love that quote by Milan, and think you’re very kind to offer it. And I agree: This is the dog that I need. Please come back soon.