Young At Heart

Like a lot of folks who blog, I am clearly not very consistent. It has been over a month since I last did this. That leaves lots of things I could talk about, but none that are life shattering, some changes but no shatters.

The past month has been a blur of birthday parties (ages 1 to 60), new knitting stitches, experimental crock pot dishes, and detailed job projects. I'll post on some of those later (I know y'all can't wait) but for today I just needed to talk about the little white dog.

The doctors at Auburn said that Roscoe probably had two to four weeks left. This weekend we crossed the four month mark. Anyway you look at it, that is wonderful news.  And all in all, Roscoe's doing ok - still defying the odds, still letting folks know that he is in charge, still manipulating me out of more treats than he should get. But in the past week, things have begun to change. Not the horrible seizures that I was warned about, thank goodness, but change none-the-less.

Link to Book

     This week a friend called me about an interview that was on NPR. Diane Rehm was interviewing Jessica Pierce about her book, The Last Walk: Reflections On Our Pets At the End of Their Lives. 

It was interesting timing for me, as her book was based on her experiences with an older dog and the last stages of his life. Next week Roscoe will be seven, which is when vets start to consider a dog to be a senior. I knew that, but anyone who has small or medium sized dogs knows that at seven your dog may need some dietary changes (maybe) but he still plays and guards and explores and does all of the things that a dog does so well.  For Roscoe, last week he grew old. I really don't know how better to describe it. He just went from a middle aged dog to an old dog.

The first thing I really noticed was the way he sat. When a young or middle age dog sits, there is an erectness to it. Even if they are not alert, there is a look of almost being at attention. Last week Roscoe jumped up on the ottoman (that was good) and sat down waiting for me to let him on the couch. His body kind of settled down in between his shoulders in the posture of an old dog who is too tired or too weak to stay upright. Just like when one of his legs has been in an awkward angle, I again felt the need to physically push his body back in the correct position. It never works for long, but it makes me feel better.

He has begun to have a lot of "accidents" when I leave him. Not being sure if it was because he couldn't hold, or forgot, or was just plain pissed off, I finally bought my first crate and started leaving him in it with Sam when I had to go out. Surprisingly, they both took to it with no issue, and there have been no more surprises waiting for me. Honestly, he seems more comfortable with the security of it. I wonder if the world gets too big and confusing for him now and the security of the crate takes some of that away.

His eyes still follow me every time I move, and when he looks at me it is still with the love and affection that he has always had, but there is now a dullness there - not a disconnect as much and just a tiredness.

I don't believe he is in pain. I promise I won't let that happen. But there was a study that showed that an MRI of an older dog's brain showed the same patterns of degeneration as those of a patient with Alzheimer's Disease. (Something with which I am all too familiar.) Add to that the fact that Roscoe's decline is caused by a brain disease and I guess it makes even more sense.

The last couple of days he is having trouble keeping down one of the meds. A call to the vet this morning means new meds that I have to pick up this afternoon. As always I'm hoping for the best, but trying to prepare for the time when I know there is no best.

So once again I am writing something that sounds all doomish and gloomish. But with each stage of this there has been a new lesson to learn and joys to appreciate. Watching Roscoe wrestle with Sam, or kick his back feet when he is telling some uninformed dog walker to stay out of his yard, or shoot across a room to steal Sam's bone ... the warmth of his little body when he curls up to nap in my lap, or the shock of his cold nose in my face when he want me to wake up at 2:00 in the morning to let him go out (ok, maybe not so much that one) - all daily joys for which I remain grateful.

His little body may be reacting as if he is old, but I know he is still young at heart.

Settling In

Things are finally beginning to settle from the move and routines are being developed. Roscoe and Sam are both doing fine (YAY!) for right now, boxes are unpacked, furniture is arranged, and it is time to go back to the things I like to do.

With Christmas coming and new babies scheduled soon, the knitting needles are out and clicking away.

My wonderful cousin, Susie, is expecting her first granddaughter next month. Babies are the best to knit for. They are too little to really care, so you get to just pick whatever you want to do. I decided on a baby blanket and made lots of store visits looking for the perfect yarn. I really thought I wanted something pink, with little flecks of white, but in Memory Hagler's Knit Happenz  I found and fell in love with this.

Florafil Super Soft Cotton Yarn

The color is Blue Flag Iris, which makes no sense for a little girl, but I fell in love with it. All of the colors just say baby girl to me. Anyway it was so pretty and so soft that I couldn't resist. I had picked out the Hoover baby blanket pattern, but the ladies at the shop made that "are you sure you really want to do that" face and brought out a simple pattern for a diagonal baby blanket instead. I was amazed at how quickly this worked up. 

This project was done on size 8 US needles with four skeins of yarn. Start by casting on three stitches. Knit one row. Then increase until you have seven stitches. Starting with the next row; knit 3, wrap the yarn over, and knit to the end. Repeat that until you are half way done. 

To start the decrease; you knit two, knit two together, yarn over, knit two together and knit to the end. Repeat that for each row until you get to seven stitches.

Once you are down to seven stitches, decrease to three stitches and bind off. Easy peasy. Pretty cute and done in a flash! I wish there was a way that you could touch it. It is so incredibly soft. I hope little Hadlee enjoys it as much as I have enjoyed doing it for her.

Once I finished the blanket, it was on to the next project. Probably a year ago I bought several skeins of different colors of Universal Yarn Classic Shades. The plan was to do scarves for the men in the family for Christmas. Like so many things in my life, I bit off a little more than I could chew and didn't get around to doing a single one. So this year, I'm determined. Happily I can say ... one down, two to go.

My nephew, Steve, is very, very blonde. A pale skinned, blue eyed, towhead ... this yarn seemed to be made for him. 

Universal Yarn Classic Shades Lake

A search of ravelry.com turned up the mariner's scarf. Thanks so much to Christmas at Sea A Volunteer Knitting Program of the Seaman's Church Institute for the free pattern.  I loved the texture  of the pattern, although I made mine about 60 inches long instead of the 39 inches that it recommended. I used two skeins of yard and size 8 US needles. 

Start by casting on 40 stitches and then knit 8 rows

Then start the following pattern

Rows 1-6  Knit two, (Knit six and Purl six), Repeat the part in parenthesis until the last two stitches, Knit two

Rows 7-8 Knit across

Rows 9 - 14 Knit two, (Purl six and Knit six), Repeat the part in parenthesis until the last two stitches, Knit two

Rows 15-16 Knit across

Repeat the pattern until it is the desired length, ending on row six or fourteen. Then knit eight rows to finish and bind off.

I took this shot outside to try to get a good image of the shading and textures. 

I really like the way the pattern and the shading came out. I think it will look great on Steve on one of those five days in winter that it is cold enough to wear a scarf in Alabama. 

One Christmas present down! I refuse to count how many to go.

Movin' On

Welcome to my new home. 

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of boxes and sore muscles and adjustments. Add to that a week of sales conference and a little more business travel and you've got a pretty clear picture of my life. The greatest joy is that Roscoe made the move with me .... and seems none the worse for wear. He is still doing the big four (eating, drinking, peeing and pooping) as well as playing, and sticking his nose in every place it doesn't belong, and barking at the people that he can now see through the chain link fence, and exploring a yard that is bigger than his entire world has ever been. Yeah, sometimes the stairs are a bit much for him and he has taken a few stumbles and tumbles, but we have passed the six week point and he is still all Roscoeish.

This morning he was sitting on the floor just watching me while I picked up and made up the bed and did my morning routine. For just a moment I forgot the lesson of living right now and not dwelling on what is going to happen. For a moment the knowledge of how short our time is hit hard. The sadness washed over me and the tears rolled. Then he and Sam caught one another's eye and that little "let's play" signal passed. I quickly moved from tears to chuckles as they bounced and postured and barked and growled and enjoyed life.

Ah ... my boys.

Now for Sam. My sweet Sam I Am.  After lots of emotional struggles on my part, I finally decided to go ahead and have the Cushing's test done for him. Alas, the results were pretty much undeniable. He was more than 10x the normal results. Now we move on to additional tests to determine if this is adrenal or pituitary and decide on the method of treatment. Lots of boring discussions on treatment options, that are way too uninteresting to post, finally brought me to an average survival time of 30 months. Clearly a better diagnosis than Roscoe's, but not one I wanted to hear. I haven't told Sam. I'm pretty sure that just like Roscoe, he won't care. He would just like another treat, please.

I feel like these posts sound like life here is all sadness and worry. That couldn't be further from the truth. Even though we are dealing with some tough issues, life is really busy and full of laughter. There's good wine and a comfortable home and quick pizza delivery. There are new neighbors and pretty walks and shopping nearby. And there are my boys. So there you have it.  Despite some bumps in the road, we are movin' on. Come see us!

"The Reports Of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated"

Although in serious need of a bath and a decent hair cut, Roscoe continues to defy the odds.

I've thought a lot about that this week. Roscoe clearly has no idea about the sentence that the doctors in Auburn gave him. He came home and life went on. Heck, for him, life got better.

He gets cheese twice a day. He could care less that there is medicine inside it. He gets peanut butter just because. (Note the peanut butter face.) He gets cuddled and coddled and not fussed at for behavior that used to get him in major trouble. How could life get better?

So here we are a month past diagnosis and Roscoe lives.  As a matter of fact, he lives quite well, thank you very much

He eats like he never has before. The dog is ALWAYS hungry.

When the bowl is empty he goes to lie next to it, just in case I haven't noticed.

He drives me crazy going to the back door and ringing the bell to go outside ... and then walking away when I get up to go open the door. (Who said dogs don't have a sense of humor ... he clearly thinks this is hilarious.)

He barks to get Sam to look away from the bone and grabs it.

Only two teeth left to chew with? Who cares?

He romps and postures and tumbles with Sam until they both poop out.

Don't get me wrong. I have the greatest admiration for doctors, but this got me thinking. How many times do we get a diagnosis and just accept it? How many times do we allow it to dictate how we then spend our lives and what we expect to happen? How often do we bring about the result, just by believing there is no alternative?

I don't know. I just know that Roscoe clearly is not interested in their estimates. He has his own plan ... and it includes more peanut butter.

He's Still Standing

Maybe not better than he ever did, but he's still on all four feet ... and sometimes on two. (Yes, I gave him a bad hair cut.)

We are now on week three after Roscoe's diagnosis. He's a little more subdued and quiet (unless there is a definite reason not to be). He has settled into his medicine routine, and let's me know when it is time for a pill stuffed in cheese. The prednisone is making him very hungry and he would gladly eat me out of house and home. So we have our peanut butter breaks (thanks for starting that Katie, he goes to the pantry every day begging for it), and he is getting more food than his chunky brother. Even with that he feels ... bony, too thin, fragile. But maybe that is me just being paranoid.

I find myself watching for issues, and I'm not sure what is real and what is my fear. In the last few days I have seen the legs on his right side struggle again to maintain balance. Definitely not as dramatically as before the meds, but there. His eyes look a little dull and it seems like sometimes he just zones out. I don't think I'm imagining that. He sleeps a lot. I know all dogs sleep a lot, but this is different.

But yesterday he decided to play with Sam. It didn't last long but for a minute or two they bounced and barked and postured and were adorable. Joy for them. Joy for me.

So that's the update. Three weeks and we are still standing.

A Tough Nut - Roscoe Update

As you can imagine, it has been an emotional roller coaster here at the Bailey house.

Roscoe got his crappy diagnosis June 27. On June 29 I pulled myself back on my feet enough to pick up a couple of his new medications from the vet and get him started. The last med came a few days later from a compounding pharmacy (a liquid designed to taste like peanut butter). During this couple of days, his control of his legs got less and less. I didn't have a lot of hope. The doctors all said that these meds might, maybe, could possibly slow down the progress of the disease. It hadn't been proven, but it couldn't hurt.

But so begins the new routine. Twice a day I grind up half a pill and funnel it into a straw to pour into his mouth. I split pills and break one down to teeny tiny quarters. (Lots of these meds are just not made for little dogs.) I put the liquid in a syringe and wake up an hour early in the morning to give it to him an hour before food and water.  Roscoe is a trouper. Whatever you give him he takes without complaint. It is really pretty amazing.

Thank heavens for the friends and family I have who gave me the right amount of loving support and space to break down. Some even spent the night.

The change after the meds was almost immediate. He's still a little lethargic and not quite as bossy as he used to be, but his control of his little body is dramatically improved. Some of it may be that he has slowed down so he keeps better control, but no more legs sliding out from under him while he is trying to eat. He can do stairs (although I still get nervous when he does) and he hasn't fallen down in days.

I'm sure it is the steroid that has him starving to death and drinking like crazy, but I love watching him eat and enjoy his food and treats. The steroid and the diuretic have him struggling a little sometimes to get outside, but ... I have wood floors, we can handle it. I worry a little about the cyclosporine, which is what they give transplant patients to suppress the immune system, but I have to remember ... this isn't really a long term situation.

Sometimes that is the hard part now. Don't get me wrong, my joy at the fact that he is doing so well is beyond measure. It makes me happy to watch him do everything. When he stands on his back legs to greet me when I come through the door (a definite no no before this) it makes me grin from ear to ear. But I have to not con myself that this is forever. And I know it isn't forever. But those folks who said that we needed to prepare for two weeks to a month .... they don't know my dog. He is one seriously tough nut.

So that's my update. Roscoe is eating me out of house and home... drinking the bowl dry as fast as I can fill it.... peeing and pooping and figuring out I don't fuss if accidents happen.... loving and cuddling and giving kisses .... letting company know in his loudest voice that he can see them... sitting for food and begging for treats... snuggling and sleeping the day away. In other words, Roscoe is doing all of the things that Roscoe does best. And I am enjoying every minute of them. That's what I'm learning from him right now. Today is the only day I have. Take pleasure from the little things that it brings.

Roscoe

I started to call this Necrotizing Meningoencephalitis. But that is too horrible a thing to attach to such a sweet angel.
Yeah, I'll call him an angel, although so much of his life he has been anything but. I have worked so hard to make him conform, fit into the mold that I thought the perfect dog should be. And he has fought me at every turn. Oh he might give a little just for my ego, but by in large he lives up to his name. He's a little Roscoe.
I thought about that so much over the last ... gee ... it hasn't even been 24 hours. I watched him as he trotted out in front of me, moving from side to side as we walked out of the hotel. That always drove me insane. I so wanted him to calmly walk beside me, taking his cues from me. You know ... what good dogs do. I never did win that one.
Last week I took Roscoe to the vet. I thought he had an inner ear infection, as his breed is prone. It seemed like his balance was off and that he was stumbling a lot. This is the dog that I compared to a cat. He could climb gates and walk on narrow ledges. Falling down is not something he did.
Dr Evans checked his ears and kept asking questions. Then she started doing some exams that I now know were testing for a neurological problem. Neurological ... my heart dropped into my stomach when I first heard that word. That was Friday.
By Monday he was definitely having trouble walking. Not that it bothered him. He would fall down and get right back up and keep going. Funny thing about dogs. Whatever happens they just keep going.
By Tuesday the neurologist at Auburn's Small Animal Hospital had called and could work us in. I threw some clothes in a bag and hit the road. Dr Evans had already given me some info on what to expect so I was prepared to hang around for a couple of days. We met Dr Redmond who gave me the drill. Blood tests and work up today. (Bless their hearts, my friend Amy and cousin Bob showed up to hold me hand during this.) Then I could take him for the night. Back the next morning for more extensive x-rays, MRI and a spinal tap.
I know it is crazy, but there is still this part of me that thought, oh .... this is my goofy dog. He has survived having all his teeth removed. He's survived a dog fight with a 75 pound dog. He'll be fine. We'll figure it out and fix it.
I dropped him at 7:30 and went back to the hotel to wait for the report. At 1:00 Dr Redmond called. For some reason he thought I had driven back to Birmingham. (silly man... not without my dog) He said I know it is a long drive back from Birmingham, but I would really rather than you came in for us to tell you what we found. I think my brain started shutting down at that point. I didn't ask any questions. I just said sure and made an appointment for 4:00.
I got there at 4:15. I'm never late for that kind of thing. Not this time.
I wonder if there is class that doctors, both human and animal doctors, take on breaking bad news. Clearly Dr Redmond had a method of delivering his information. He started by telling me the things that they had ruled out. Unfortunately, those were the least scary things on the list. Then he put up an MRI image for me to see. Even not knowing what it meant, I could see that that little brain looked ... wrong. Thats the first time I heard necrotizing meningoencephalitis. That wasn't even on the list.
Turns out that the left side of my baby's brain was rapidly melting. Soon it would spread to the right. No magic pill. No miracle surgery. No hope.
They let me bring him home then. No need to keep him overnight after all. He and I went back to the hotel.
People saw the shaved patch on his back and on his front leg. They petted his head and asked how he was. I told them the truth. He is fine. As far as he is concerned, he is fine.
Now I'm waiting for the folks at Auburn to send a treatment regimen to my vet. Not that it is going to cure anything. Now the goal is to keep him as good as I can for as long as I can. They say two weeks to a month, but they don't know. They told me lots of things that are going to happen. But for today, I'm trying to face it like Roscoe does. You fall down, you get back up and keep going.

Ermie Burgers ... My Favorite Comfort Food

I love my birthday. No, don't go trying to check, it isn't my birthday now. This is just common knowledge of anyone who has known me any time within two months of the month of June. I start the first celebration somewhere around the last week of May, and it usually continues through the entire month of June. 

I've sometimes wondered why I thought my birthday was worth a national public holiday when so many women (and men) say that they don't want anyone to even know it is their birthday. (Although I really think everyone likes a good birthday.)

It isn't hard to figure out why I love my birthday. In my family, it was always a big deal. I, being the self centered child and later self centered adult, thought it was because everyone came home for my birthday. Auburn, Nashville, Huntsville, wherever ... the whole family drove home for my birthday celebration. I mean, my birthday had to be important if everyone in the family showed up .... right?

Then one day, it hit me. They didn't come to see me, they came for my birthday meal. Mom always cooked my favorite meal for my birthday, and everyone knew what it was going to be. The cake changed from chocolate to coconut over the years, but the main dish never changed. We called them juice burgers. My friends here in Birmingham decided that was a stupid name (I had to agree with them after I saw the blank looks they gave me when I said I was making them) and renamed them Ermie Burgers. Named after my mom, Ermie. (yeah really Ermie, not Ernie or Erma - Ermie)

Over the years as we added family members, there were lots and lots of picky eaters. But we never had one that would turn down this simple dish. Everyone laughs when I describe them as my favorite meal, and no one grasps how good they are, until the first bite.

The origin of the recipe is kind of shady. Our church had juice burger suppers. My aunt may have been the first to make them. But Mom was the one who made the meal a regular event. For me this silly little meal is the best comfort food in the world. You are going to laugh when you see the ingredients, and love me when you taste the results. 

I just made a big pot. It freezes well and can be eaten later, so Mom used to make a lot and then have some ready to defrost and serve at any time. I had a few friends over when I made this batch and none of mine made it to the freezer. I love that.

I started with two pounds of browned ground sirloin. You can use any ground beef, I just like the really lean. (That's the way Momma did it.)

One large chopped onion. Don't you like the cute little chopper that Laura and Martin gave me? It matches my kitchen.

Mom used to just toss the onion in the big skillet with the ground beef, but I decided to cook my Ermie Burgers in the slow cooker, so I sauteed mine for a few minutes first .

And then the first of the secret ingredients. Mom always used two cans of regular cream of mushroom soup, but hey ... we should all try to be healthier, right? So I used the HUGE can of 98% fat free. 

And then the SUPER secret ingredients.

Ummmm hummmm ...  I have never measured the amount before, and I KNOW Mom never measured, but for the purposes of this blog,  I got out the measuring cup. I used about 5/8 of a cup of Heinz Ketchup and 1/4 of a cup of French's Yellow Mustard. 5/8 because that is how much was in the bottle. Heinz because that is the only kind Mom ever bought. I guess any other ketchup would be fine, but I will not guarantee it. Same thing with the French's Yellow Mustard. Mom never bought a brown mustard or a spicy mustard or dijon mustard. Plain old yellow mustard was all you were going to find in our house.

Mom would brown the ground beef, toss in the rest and leave it to simmer. I couldn't tell you how long. Until she decided it was ready.

Since I didn't want to really pay attention to whether it was ready or not, I decided to toss everything into the crock pot and leave it on low for the day.

Now for the creative part ... how to eat them. We always ate them open faced, topped with cheese and your favorite combination of sliced onion, pickles and tomato slices.  (I always did onion and pickles.) But this time I had a specific craving. I put Fritos in the bottom of a bowl and topped them with Ermie Burgers and shredded cheese (cheddar, American, whatever you like).  Add a Rolling Rock and wait for birthday presents. Wait ... oh yeah .... it isn't my birthday. Who cares.

From Bubba to Toto

Just a little story delivered to me via my friend Sondra.

For those of you who don't live in one of the cities that connects directly to Oz, tornados are something you think about when the images are plastered all over the evening news. For those of us who live through those images, they are a terrifying fact of life.

I have been blessed to have been consistently passed by, other than one small piece of siding which I am sure is being used by the tin man to patch up his house. But for so many it has meant the loss of loved ones, companions, everything they own, literally the roof over their heads. The grief is indescribable and beyond my ability to understand or belittle by trying to discuss.

But in this, we search for the happy endings. The little stories that give us hope. Please don't take this story as in anyway diminishing the loss of so many.

The image above was of the tornado that went through Athens, AL. This is where my niece lives with her husband and the two tow headed girlieques. They were fine and untouched, although many were not so lucky.

My friend, Sondra, posted this image after the tornado went through.

This was a kennel that was hit. She let me know that all but one dog had been found and moved to another kennel. As sad as losing one pup was, the fact that only one was lost was pretty amazing.

Today, behold Bubba. Officially renamed Toto by one of Sondra's friends. A broken jaw, that will mend, and a few missing teeth, which he can survive without, and a new convert to Dorothy's belief that "there's no place like home".

Welcome home Toto.

Heart Of My Heart

Valentine's Day I got a text message from my niece that was this picture of these guys.

Lisa and her husband have two beautiful golden retrievers, but their first babies were doxies. Two  little girls named Madison and Sadie. They both lived long doggie lives, but that just never seems long enough.

Lisa loves her new big dogs, but has wanted another dachshund. Valentine's night, Steve showed up, not with flowers and candy, but with these new babies.

It was love at first site, as is appropriate for Valentine's Day, right?

The only problem was that they were supposed to fly out of Birmingham Thursday for a long weekend in Florida. The plan was already that they would come down with their girls and spend the night with me Wednesday night. Anyone who knows me has no doubt that I was going to offer to keep these new babies. I mean, they had just left their momma. They just couldn't go to a vet for boarding.

They all arrived last night and the fun began. My friend Katie is dog sitting her sister's beagle, Layla. She grabbed up Jake (her brown pit) and Layla and came to meet the babies too.

It was really funny to watch how dogs react to puppies. Either they run from them and want nothing to do with them (Jake, Sam and Sister fall into that category), or they are obsessed with them. Roscoe and Layla loved them and seemed to be interested in taking care of them. I set up a little playpen type area with one of the gates that I have here. Every time I looked around, Roscoe and gone into the gate, or was patrolling it, making sure that the babies didn't come through the rails and get stuck or run away.

The baby boys arrived with no names. When I started calling them Rufus and Rex, Lisa decided that she should pick names quickly, or it would be settled by the time they got back. Thank goodness Ronald and Reagan were eliminated, as were Jeb and George. I suggested the previous Rufus and Rex, and Frick and Frack. Other names were Cain and Able, Romulus and Remus, Galahad and Lancelot. (Yeah, I was the only one that liked most of those.) Steve wanted to name one Melvin. (And y'all thought my names were bad.)

Lisa really liked the name Blue for this guy. He has the most striking blue eyes. I think the spelling is still up for debate, but the name has stuck.

That left this one.  See those little front legs? They reminded me on a famous singer and producer, but Lisa didn't really like calling him Cee Lo.

Orange didn't really work (blue and orange ... Auburn's colors). Aubie wasn't right either. Tiger was met with silence. There was a brief discussion on changing Blue to War and this guy becoming Eagle, but that was gone as fast as it was mentioned.

Finally I suggested Covey, for my grandfather (her great grandfather). When I said that, Lisa said ... what do you think about Bailey. We all looked at each other, and then at that face. Bailey seemed to work.

So welcome to the family Bailey and Blue. We're happy to have you.

 You are our Valentines.