Mel, August 2006
In the spring of 1999, my partner Robert and I decided to get a dog. Robert grew up with dogs. I had one when I was very young that I actually don’t remember. All I really knew was that having a dog would make Robert very happy, which was good enough for me. After some discussion about the qualities that were important to us, we bought several books and started to do some research. After reading the books, it was clear that perhaps the best breed for us would be a Boxer. We did some additional research and found Boxer Rescue of Los Angeles.
We phoned to ask about the adoption process and the woman who answered (Ursula) explained that they were an all-volunteer, non-profit organization that had been rescuing Boxers for quite some time. She directed us to their website (www.boxer-rescue-la.com) and explained that pictures of all the currently available dogs were on the site. She then asked us to select 2 or 3 to look at in order to make the process more efficient since they had an overwhelming number of dogs at the time. We made our appointment for the following weekend and set out to select our new dog on the BRLA website.
We showed up at BRLA with a short list of dogs we wanted to see. As we were getting out of the car, we noticed a young couple getting out of their car who had a Boxer on a leash. I thought at first that they were bringing the dog in to give it up. However, we learned once we got inside that they were bringing their girl Boxer to find a companion. Ursula had greeted us all at the door and asked us to wait since the other couple’s appointment was before ours.
As we stood in the lobby, we noticed there were at least 6 travel kennels along the wall. Each kennel contained a dog and some of them were just barking like crazy. We looked at them, our list in hand, and as Ursula walked through she noticed us looking at the dogs. She asked us if we would mind leashing one of them and taking it for a walk as they had not time to walk these new arrivals yet. We agreed and Robert bent down to look at one dog in the bottom middle kennel who was not barking. She was lying there, her head resting on top of her paws, with a heart-breaking look on her face. My initial thought was that she was really listless and depressed.
I was surprised when Robert said, “this one”. So they leashed her up and we set out for a walk. Once she was on the leash and outside, she perked up considerably, to the point where she was walking Robert. She stopped to do her business and it was obvious that she wasn’t feeling well, which in turn made us feel really bad for her; stuck in the bottom kennel, recently arrived, not knowing where she was and what was going on, surrounded by barking dogs in the sweltering heat of Sun Valley. No wonder she looked depressed.
After we got back from the walk, we sat down in the shade of an outdoor courtyard with her while we waited for a volunteer to unleash and kennel her so we could see the dogs on our list. The couple ahead of us were also out in the courtyard and it was clear they had found a mate for their girl. He was a big, brawny Boxer, full of energy and twice the size of the dog we’d been walking. I had been petting the dog we’d walked and she felt a bit dirty so I got up to cross the courtyard to a sink to wash my hands. As I crossed the courtyard, the Boxer mate noticed me and bounded over to me. He was clearly a bouncy, exuberant, joyous dog and just wanted to say hello.
At that moment, the dog we had been walking tore away from Robert and jumped in front of me, growling this other dog, twice her size, down. I froze because I didn’t want to be in the middle of a dogfight between one very big Boxer and one smaller but obviously pissed-off Boxer. Ursula had just come out in the courtyard and witnessed the scene. She matter-of-factly looked at us and said, “It appears you’ve been adopted. I’ll go get the paperwork”. I looked over at Robert, who was beaming from ear to ear.
We learned from Ursula that our dog was a year old, good with kids but not good with other animals, and that her family had given her up when they moved from a home into an apartment and couldn’t keep her.
And that her name was Melanie.
We signed the papers and loaded her into the car, Robert driving, me in the backseat with her. As the 5 freeway whizzed by us, she stared out the window. I was petting her and had looked down at one point. She looked up, reached up to me and gave me one small lick on the tip of my nose. I fell, hopelessly, in love.
We stopped on the way home to buy bowls, food, and other assorted dog stuff. When we got her home, we brushed her really well, did some playing, and let her explore the house and the yard. We explained to her that she was home and that her life would be full of love. It was an incredible day.
Shortly after we got her home, she came down with kennel cough, which we found out was fairly common amongst rescue dogs. A couple trips to the vet later and we came home armed with pills and medications. In order to give her a pill, we had to tilt her head up, insert the pill down her throat, close her muzzle and stroke underneath to make her swallow. The only problem with that plan was that every time we’d tilt her head back, her sinuses would drain and she would start sneezing and the stuff that came out of her nose was the most ungodly green mucous-y slime we’d ever seen. One evening, I was seated on the kitchen floor in front of her doing this routine when she started sneezing and just couldn’t stop. I held her close to me, soothing her until, finally, she stopped. Robert came into the kitchen because of all the noise and I looked up at him, covered from head to toe in dog snot and said, “I just love her so much.” We nursed her back to health with a combination of meds and boiled chicken, brown rice, and shredded carrots.
I never considered myself a dog person, but this little pup changed all that. She bonded quickly with both of us. We remarked often that we were surprised at how she seemed to be equally close with each of us. Her morning routine consisted of getting up with Robert. After he put the coffee on, he would feed her and refresh her water (later in life that routine expanded to include pills for hip dysplasia). Once he had poured a cup of coffee, they would walk out the front door together around the house to the backyard. This quickly became known as the “perimeter check”. Mel loved our garden, or more accurately, her garden. Thankfully, she wasn’t a digger (digging was NOT one of the qualities we wanted in a dog). She had the truly bizarre habit of eating bees. She would get stung on the inside of her mouth, run out into the main yard and flop down, rubbing her muzzle against the grass. Occasionally, we’d find little piles of dead bees that she’d puked up. Yeah, I know, gross, but that was her thing for a while. She chased and barked at crows and tried in vain to catch lizards.
In her early years, she played a lot. She would take off running around the yard and up the stairs where she’d make a full pass through the garden, back down the stairs and onto the lawn where she would tear around our carrotwood tree, doing laps. Then she’d collapse, spent, in a heap on the lawn and lie there with her tongue hanging out, panting and elated.
I was out of town one time when Robert called me and told me Mel had broken her leg. She had been at the door and when let out, she bolted up into the back garden to chase something. She slapped her foot against the top step and kept going. A few minutes later the limping started and off to the vet Robert went with her. She mended quickly. The sight of her with the cone around her head (to keep her from getting to the dressing on her leg) and the thudding sound of her cast hitting the hardwood floors as she’d try to navigate the house made both of us giggle for weeks.
In her early years, she had no shortage of toys to play with, from rope chews to her big orange ball which lasted less than a week.Whenever she’d get a new rubber toy that squeaked or made any kind of noise, she would lay down on all fours with the toy captured between her front paws and pinned to the ground. As she would chew on it the toy would squeak of course, and she’d make the most bizarre little growly, talky noises at it.
We lucked out as far as her training was concerned. While we didn’t know if she had been actually trained, it was clear she knew all the basic commands. Like any dog, she tested her boundaries at first. She’d try to lead when walked or even try to get the leash off of her. She fought us both several times when leashed at first. We believed in treating her equally and we each tried to reinforce her training as much as possible in order to provide her some structure and routine. No table-scraps, ever (until she chowed her way through some brie we had absent-mindedly left on a cocktail table). Always sit before doing anything else. Whenever we’d go outside, all the humans went first while she waited her turn.
We tried to crate-train her but she hated the crate. It was serious drama to get her in the crate. The first few nights we had the crate in our bedroom. We’d get her to lay down in there but as soon as the lights were out she’d start panting and whimpering, which led to a lot of sleep-deprivation for us in the beginning. We’d crate her when we left the house and when we’d come home, she’d be covered in her own saliva from panting so much. We figured out fairly quickly that she had a severe case of separation anxiety. We slowly started letting her be free while we were not home for short periods of time. As we realized she was not inclined to act out due to our absence, we increased the amount of time we were gone. Whether by training or instinct, she was an unusually well-behaved dog. In her entire life with us, she had only two accidents in the house. She never tore up pillows or chewed on furniture. I think her damages were limited to us replacing the screen material in our screen doors because in her excitement to get out into the yard to chase crows, she burst through them several times.
It became apparent that whenever we weren’t at home, she slept, either on her bed in the Sun Room or her bed in our bedroom. Very often we’d come home and find her asleep on the living room in “her spot” or on the rug in the entry hall. Later in life, she’d sleep in Robert’s office when he was gone, curled up under his desk. Both of us joked that we wished we could eat whatever we wanted, sleep 18 hours a day, and still have 0% body fat like she did. Whenever we’d get ready to leave, she’d find the single most inconvenient spot and lay down in it, usually right in the middle of the way from the bathroom into the bedroom, or right in the doorway of the bedroom. And even though she was very fond of giving overly large kisses, you rarely ever got one when she knew you were headed out the door. I’d lean down and say “kiss” and she’d turn her head in the opposite direction.
By far, the best part of almost any day was walking in the door. She’d bound up to us with a smile in her eyes, then quickly fold into us in the shape of a “C”. Not content to let her nub of a tail tell the whole story, her entire backside would wiggle like crazy. We’d sit on the floor in the living room in front of her and she’d tell us about her day (sleep, crows, UPS delivery truck) in this rolling talk/bark, which sounded roughly like, “a ro ro ro ro ro…”, with her lips pursed into different shapes creating different sounds. Truly bizarre. That was occasionally followed by singing (her, not us) and lots of it. She greeted pretty much everyone at the door the same way, making immediate friends out of the people we welcomed into our home.
She enjoyed walks and would get visibly excited by the sound of her leash but she loved taking car trips more. Every now and then, I’d need to make a quick trip to the store, so into the car she’d go. She’d wait patiently, breathing the fresh air from the sunroof, until I returned to the car where she’d greet me and want to see what was in the bags.
For whatever reason, laundry folding time always ended up being her time as well. She’d follow Robert from the garage and he’d put the basket of clean clothes on the bed. Then as he folded or put clothes on hangers, she’d roll around on the floor on her back, making eye contact the whole time. Inevitably, he’d end up on the floor with her, giving her lots of attention.
In an effort to try to please us one time, she presented us with a gift. Robert had let her out to do her business. When he called her back in she didn’t respond so he called a few more times and she appeared around the corner of the house with a baby possum, playing dead, in her mouth. She dropped it on the patio in front of him with a thud, with immense pride beaming from her face.
While it was clear she loved us both equally, we each had a different relationship with her. She and Robert would tear around the house playing like crazy when she was younger. She loved to lay on her side, facing him, almost nose to nose. She’d stare into his eyes until her eyelids started to get heavy and she’d drift off to sleep. He laid down with her next to her bed almost every night of her life and pet her while she fell asleep. Her routine with me was for us both to lay down on our sides and she’d fall asleep with her head on my arm and her back to me, nestled against my chest. After she’d been asleep for a few minutes, she’d develop what we called “warm doggy smell”, which was just the best scent ever. Until she started farting; which she did, loud and often, while she was sleeping. The little girl could clear a room sometimes with big rippin’ farts.
We thought it was important to never just give her a treat without her earning it; and she earned them by sitting, speaking, or shaking (or sometimes, all three). Before she started losing strength in her hips, I’d have her sit, then kneel in front of her with the treat pressed between my lips. I’d pat my shoulders with my hands and she would rise on her back legs and place her paws on my shoulders. I’d say, “OK”. Then, gently, she’d lean forward and pluck the treat out of my mouth, making eye contact with me the entire time. She was exceptionally good about waiting for us to say “OK” for almost everything, giving her permission.
Whenever Robert and I were in separate rooms, she would pick a spot that was equidistant between us to lay down and hang out, allowing her to monitor both of us. When we would get done with whatever we were doing and end up in the Sun Room to watch a movie, she would come in and lay down on her bed, content that all her peas were in the pod together where they belonged.
She and Robert spent countless hours chasing each other around the house, playing with her toys. Occasionally we’d watch while she tried to deal with a 2-liter plastic bottle. Of course it was too big for her to get her jaws around so watching her try to control it with her paws on hardwood floors made us laugh because it would get away from her constantly and bounce around, which only strengthened her resolve to wrestle it to the ground and conquer it.
She’d run into whatever room he was in and pounce on the floor in front of him. Shoulders down, paws out, hindquarters up in the air. This was Mel-speak for “play with me!” So he’d get down in front of her and say, “I’m gonna get you” and then reach for one of her paws. She could spend hours dodging us, trying to keep us from getting one of her paws. We’d let her think she was winning for a while, before we’d get both her paws, at which point she’d roll over on her back (in what we called “takedown”) and wait for the inevitable tummy-rubbing that followed. When she was younger, her other favorite game was fetching. Robert would pitch one of her rubber toys down the hallway and she’d run to get it. Over and over and over again. Seriously, if we’d had the patience, she’d have spent entire days doing that.
Christmas was a new and different thing with her. She had a stocking which was usually filled with treats. We would open our gifts first while she waited, impatiently to be sure, until we got to hers. Once we were done, we’d make a big deal about her stocking and treats. Needless to say, this ended up backfiring on us as, inevitably, she thought that every time there was a gift-giving occasion, she’d end up getting something.
Back in 2005, we remodeled a home down in San Marcos with Robert’s sister and Brother-in-Law. It was the only time we ever flipped a house and we were trying to get things done quickly. Even so, it took over three months to remodel and I’d drive down there every weekend, taking Mel with me. She’d camp out in one of the rooms on her bed while I painted. There were a few times the three of us were down at the house together. We’d take breaks and walk her outside and let her explore the yard. As long as the three of us were together, she was content.
I got contracted to design and program lights for a concert in early ‘08 on a weekend when Robert was working out of town, so the only way to make our schedules work was for me to take Mel to the programming session with me. So we hung out in this converted unheated warehouse in January with rain pounding on the sheet metal roof, her asleep on her bed with a heater pointed at her and me sitting at the console, listening to the songs on my laptop, coming up with looks for the show. Best programming session ever as far as I’m concerned. And while I’m sure she was happy to be there with me, she always missed Robert when he was out of town.
Robert was her caretaker. He was almost always the one who made sure she had food and water, cleaned up after her prior to mowing the lawn, and that she was taking her meds. He also was adept at spotting changes in her as she aged.
She developed hip dysplasia as she got older which we treated with meds, special food, and special treats. And while she loved her bones when she was younger, it was all about Greenies for the last year or so. We think that was because her teeth and gums were beginning to hurt. For the last three years she was on and off meds for a variety of things and had developed a problem with having blood in her urine. Even with all of that, she was still a high-spirited, low-maintenance dog.
While her separation anxiety diminished as she got older, it never went completely away. Every time one of us would leave with luggage, she’d mope around the house, not eat and would barely drink until we got home. Whenever we had to kennel her to go away for the weekend, she’d barely eat or drink. She’d lose weight and be listless again. Out of all the things I wish she’d been able to do, it would have been to shake the fear that we were never coming back.
The worst was when we got home from Paris several years ago. We picked her up from our regular vet and it was clear she’d lost weight, but she seemed in good spirits. We got home, unpacked, spent some quality time together then went to bed. I woke up in the middle of that night; waking in the middle of night is SO not my usual routine. I looked over at her bed and she wasn’t there. I got up, went to the office, then to the guest room, then to the living room and didn’t see her. I went into the kitchen and turned on the light to see a huge pool of blood and feces. Needless to say, I panicked. I looked in the rest of the rooms of the house and couldn’t find her. I got back into the bedroom and found her lying right next to Robert’s side of the bed, not moving and barely breathing. Robert woke up when he heard me trying to rouse her. Finally she woke, but she was sluggish and not all there. We took her to the emergency vet and they immediately diagnosed her, injected her with an antibiotic and gave us medication for her later. Apparently, she had not eaten or drank hardly at all during the 10 days we had kenneled her at our regular vet while in Paris.
That episode should have prepared us for the inevitable, but it didn’t.
April 4, 2009: It had been a great Saturday. I had done some framing and printing earlier in the day while Robert was at work. Once he got home, we went to a show opening at a gallery in Whittier and then we treated ourselves to dinner, which we rarely do anymore. After some errands at Cost Plus and Target, we headed home.
I had bought some new CD’s earlier in the day so I headed to the music room to get them into iTunes while Robert checked his email. Once he was done, he joined us with a glass of wine and a Greenie for Mel. She was camped out on the floor between us and was being incredibly impatient while waiting for her Greenie but was very happy once Robert gave it to her.
While iTunes was busy importing, I watched as our pup started working her way through her treat. She had barely started when she leaned up on both front legs, slightly arched her back, then collapsed onto her side. We thought at first that she was choking so Robert checked her mouth and found a small piece of the Greenie. She had stopped breathing so we tried CPR. After a couple minutes it was obvious that wasn’t working. She let out a sound she had never made before, which in retrospect we acknowledged was the end, but we kept trying to revive her anyway.
I wish I could say it was as calm and collected as it sounds. It was not. It was chaotic and emotional and heart-breaking. I will never forget the sound of my husband as he tried to save her life, through the impending tears and realization that we were losing her.
Once we acknowledged she was gone, I called the 24-hr vet we had taken her to when we got back from our trip. I explained what had happened and they told us we could bring her body in. We bundled her up in her blanket, gingerly protecting her, and got in the car. When we got there, the staff was very understanding. We laid her on an exam table and filled out the paperwork. We petted her and said goodbye, then thanked the staff and walked out the door.
We had gotten into the car when Robert said we should just sit for a while and collect ourselves. As we were talking, there was a tap on the window. One of the staff had come out to get us and said, “Your dog’s not dead.” We ran back inside to where the Vet had come in to examine her, thinking beyond all hope and possibility that she’d been revived. It had been over a half-hour; how was this possible?
The vet said that it was probably just an electrical impulse, but that he detected a very faint, very erratic heartbeat and could, just barely, feel a pulse. He said that her brain was long gone, given that irreparable tissue damage starts after 2 minutes with no oxygen. She had suffered from a massive heart-attack. Since she was, technically, still alive he needed our permission to put her down. And with both of our hands resting on her, we looked at each other and started to speak, when the Vet told us he had lost her pulse and that she was gone.
They left us alone and we said our goodbyes to her again.
We got home and sat in the living room, shell-shocked. After a half-hour or so, we went to bed. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her dying all over again – the shoulders lifting up, the collapse onto her side, the pain in Robert’s voice. I turned on the light and read for a while.
We both cried ourselves to sleep that night and awoke early Sunday morning, still crying. After we made coffee, we decided to collect her stuff from around the house, since seeing a little bit of her in every room was really hard. We agreed to throw away her beds since, as she’d gotten older, she hadn’t always been able to control herself and they had served their purpose. We washed her bowls and put them away. We contacted our friend Ruth who has a Dalmatian (Maddie) and let her know what had happened. Having spent a lot of time with Mel, she got very emotional. We let her know that we had bags of treats and bones that Maddie was welcome to have. We also contacted the rest of our family to let them know, since Mel had spent time with all of them.
Sunday would have been a perfect day. An oddly clear Southern Calfornia spring day, Robert would have worked in the garden and I would have continued my printing/framing project. Mel would have roamed back and forth from open door to open window, checking on Robert then coming to give me status reports. Robert would have come in later, showered and changed clothes. We would have put dinner on the stove, poured a glass of something (probably Champagne – it was Sunday, after all), and then all three of us would have walked out into the garden, since Mel would have needed to check out what Robert had been doing. After dinner we would’ve popped in whatever had come recently from Netflix and Mel would’ve settled on her bed. She wouldn’t have slept at all earlier in the day, what with all the open windows and activity; so after she had gotten her Greenie, she would have slipped into a deep sleep, curled up in a ball and snoring.
Robert would have looked at me and, in Mel’s adopted voice, said, “Seriously, this was the best day ever. I love you guys…”
