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We Should All Be So Lucky

We Should All Be So Lucky

by | Sep 4, 2024 | Pets

It’s been a sad phase for us lately. We lost Maybe, our 10-year-old Bernedoodle last week. The essay below is about loving, enjoying, and saying goodbye to our canine friends.

In 2013, Sachi and I considered getting a second dog. I asked her, “If you could combine two dogs, what would you want?”.

She thought briefly and said, “A cross between a poodle and a Bernese mountain dog.” I did a quick web search. This was the moment we learned about the existence of a Bernedoodle. These are large dogs, sometimes over 100 pounds, with the poodle features of intelligence, low shedding hair, and hypoallergenic. The Bernese side added goofiness, color, and good nature. It seemed like a fit.

One of the reasons to get a second dog was to have two. Our dog Bosco was 4 years old and we wanted him to have a playmate. Also, we love dogs and wanted more. A big question loomed: how would Bosco react?

The Bernedoodle puppy arrived via air freight from a family in Ohio. At the airport, we found multiple puppies waiting for new owners. Inside a medium-sized crate was a tiny black ball and we named her “Maybe”. I wish the name had a rich story, but it came from a dog-friendly hotel that listed the names of arriving “guests”. Sachi, in particular, fell in love with the name.

Bosco, a lab and springer spaniel mix, was a good big brother. He was patient with the annoying puppy and they became attached at the hip. I felt bad for him, at times, because she would NOT leave him alone. I asked a vet friend, “How long will she keep this up?” Her answer: 2-3 years. Poor Bosco.

Being a little sister, Maybe played a supporting role. Bosco was extremely connected to us in the way that labs can be. He was more human than most dogs and you could see it in his face.

The Trip, The Trouble

Within a year or so, Sachi and I planned a big trip. We would pack both dogs in our car, drive from Seattle to Charleston, SC, and stay for a few months. We worked from home and wanted to take advantage of making our temporary home somewhere else, somewhere very different. We planned for months and counted the days with growing excitement.

About 20 days before departure, Bosco was diagnosed with canine lymphoma, a terminal cancer in dogs. Everything changed. The first chemo protocol didn’t work and we faced a grim reality: he would pass in a matter of months. We were crushed.

We decided that the trip to Charleston would be his swan song. The new “rescue” chemo put him in remission and he seemed normal. We could pretend, for a couple of months, that he was fine.

The Asterisk

It was a surreal experience to be on this amazing trip with so much to see and do, yet always knowing that your dog is going to die soon. I call this “the asterisk”.

At the time I had problems with anxiety and my mind always found a way to worry or discount the future. The asterisk is the constant reminder that tempers any happiness. It goes like this: What a fun day at the beach* [Bosco is dying]. Living in Charleston is such a treat* [Bosco is dying]. The asterisk steals joy and my anxious brain could not let it go.

Just after New Year’s in 2016, Bosco died in our temporary Charleston home. He was five years old. Over the months of worry and sadness, we came to terms with the inevitable and saw his passing as a relief. He never knew pain. We did the best we could.

Maybe’s Rise

Starting then, Maybe rose to prominence in our lives. Being so focused on Bosco, I didn’t appreciate Maybe as much. She was a wallflower in a chaotic situation and it took time for her to become the star. We returned home to Seattle with one dog and a new beginning. Without Bosco around, we could experience and appreciate Maybe from a new perspective.

Maybe seemed to come out of her shell. She filled Bosco’s role and I came to know her better than before. In human terms, it felt like Bosco was the popular jock and Maybe was the valedictorian. You didn’t have to worry about her. She listens, gets straight A’s, and will go to a good school. That said, she was very vocal and always let you know how she was feeling. We called her “Maybe, Lady Barks-a-Lot, Duchess of Barkington“.

Two Dogs, Again

Within a couple of years, we decided to become a two-dog household once again. We went back to the same Bernedoodle breeder, got Piper, and the cycle started over. This time, Maybe was on the front lines of Piper’s constant attention.

Maybe was a naturally sweet and we told her that often. Her sweetness came out when she was around puppies. When we brought Piper home, we were on the floor lavishing her with attention. Without any prompting, Maybe brought over a toy and placed it gently in front of Piper. She nudged it closer and closer until Piper noticed. Then she barely moved so Piper didn’t get scared.

It was her nature to be gentle and kind to people and puppies.

Piper and Maybe became fast friends and were inseparable. Over a few years, we moved them both from Seattle to our yurt-shaped house on Orcas, a tiny guest house, and finally to Flattop. Maybe was the leader and Piper was the follower. In the human sense, Piper was the cheerleader: pretty and enthusiastic.

Her entire life, Maybe was possessive of toys. Even as a puppy, she bossed around Bosco if he was too interested in a toy. It wasn’t aggression, but assertiveness. That toy is hers and it’s her right to take it. This was Piper’s reality, too. If she showed too much interest in us, or a toy, Maybe would rush in and bark in protest. We would say “Watch out Piper, here comes the fun police.”

As of 2024, Maybe was 10 years old, and Piper was 6. When a dog reaches double digits, it becomes clear that most of their life is behind them. Maybe was surprisingly spry for a geriatric dog and able to jump easily onto the bed, into the truck, etc. She loved to chase Piper around the garden and fetch a purple ball we’d had for years. In the last six months, I noticed her fetching had become slower. She got up from naps with a bit of soreness. I could relate.

Sachi and I both wanted Maybe to last forever but knew, within a few years, we’d have to say goodbye. Having been through so much with Bosco, it filled us both with dread. Dog owners often face the same end-of-life dilemma: wanting a dog to live as long as possible, but not at the expense of the dog’s happiness and well-being. Too often, in my opinion, owners can’t let go and wait too long.

Knowing that Maybe was aging, we both spoiled her. She got human food when Piper wasn’t looking. She was loved and kissed and coddled every day. Her soulful eyes always seemed to send a message of love. She wanted for nothing and that was exactly what we wanted.

On Monday, August 19th, I took a break from work and took the dogs outside to play. As usual, Maybe was barking and wanting to fetch. So, I grabbed the purple ball and threw it. As sometimes happens, she picked it up and refused to bring it to me. So I walked across the garden, picked it up, and turned to Piper to get her interested. When I turned around, Maybe was lying on her side with her legs spasming, in the throes of a seizure. I felt so helpless. All I could do was say “Oh Maybe, Oh Maybe, no no no.” Within a few seconds, she was gone. No breathing, no pulse. I was frantic and not sure what to do.

I called Sachi who rushed home from work. I led her back to our bedroom where I laid Maybe down in a blanket on the floor. As she reached the floor I wanted to soothe Sachi’s emotions and said, “I was with her. She was never in pain. She was happy and then she was gone.” With tears in her eyes, Sachi said something I’ll never forget, “We should all be so lucky”.

We cried for the rest of the day and talked about Maybe’s life. We discussed the inevitability of death and that it comes for us all. In this way, Maybe was fortunate and so were we. She made it ten years and they were good ones. We had so much fun together.

The end of Maybe’s life didn’t come with an asterisk. There was never a period of worry or stress about Maybe. She was a happy vivacious dog and then she was gone. We should all be so lucky.

R.I.P. Maybe. You were the best.

Lee Night

Lee Night

by | Aug 10, 2021 | Home, Pets, Relationships

The post below was sent as an issue of my newsletter, Ready for Rain.

Sachi’s parents arrived on the red-eye from Hawaii and she went down for a quick overnight trip to pick them up. This set me up for my first “Lee” night (a night alone) in the new house. This may not seem that remarkable, but it’s exceedingly rare. I sometimes go more than a year without being alone in our home for more than a few hours. 

Leading up to nights like this, I always joke about all the fun I’m going to have and what debauchery will ensue. It will be an all-night party with all the music Sachi doesn’t prefer. I may not even be awake when she returns. Like so many things, much of the fun lies in the anticipation.   

To prepare for her parents’ arrival, we washed the dogs in their dog shower and they became clean fluffy balls. My challenge was to keep them dust-free until the family arrived. This meant no rambunctious playing in the garden. Weeks of drought plus eight dog paws equals our own little dust bowl. I even debated if we should go outside at all. But the nice summer evenings are fleeting and I couldn’t imagine a better way to spend it than on the deck.

I grabbed our moveable speaker, binoculars, a Rainier beer, and an adapter that allows me to connect my iPhone camera to one side of the binoculars. During the summer, a parade of boats goes by our house and I’ve become fascinated and sometimes enamored. “Oooh, look at that one.” Photos give me an opportunity to catalog what I see and feel a bit of aspiration. Someday, I’ll have a big boat too, right? I suppose I’m talking about yachts when I say “big boat”, but I can’t bring myself to aspire to something with that label. It evokes Thurston Howell III slumming it on a three-hour tour. I’ll stick with “boat”. 

My friend, Mike, is well-versed in boats and is frequently trying to convince us to get a boat that we can take out for multiple days. He’s said on multiple occasions that when we’re ready, he’ll help us find the perfect boat and recently sent me links to ones I might like. It was obvious he’d been browsing and I understand. The allure is undeniable. 

As boats float by the house, I can’t help but feel like I’m the creepy guy on the beach watching girls walk by. Every boat is different and interesting in myriad ways. If I identify a boat I like, I soon end up down the rabbit hole of boat websites and sales listings. It’s captivating. Someday, we may take Mike up on the offer to be a matchmaker, but for now, we’re happy with little Short Story and watching the parade. 

I had sat down with my supplies for no longer than a minute before Piper leapt from the deck and took off around the corner of our house toward the garden. I protested, but she was silent aside from the footsteps. No bark, no foul. I shrugged it off.

The can of Rainier soon became a dram of bourbon. Then a Toronto cocktail, which features Fernet Branca and rye. These, among other things, are my favorite libations for a night like that one. 

As I got lost sipping the cocktail and watching the boats, a thought hit: Where’s Piper? I shrugged it off. The dogs are in a fenced area. She has a history, as an adolescent, of disappearing into the forest for an hour hunting deer. I don’t think she’d do that now, but the fear lingers. 

Like a child, Piper’s silence and absence were suspicious. Eventually, I had to investigate, which meant walking along the house and peering around the corner toward the garden. What did I see? Piper digging under a woodpile. She was covered in dust up to her front elbows and sticking her nose into the freshly dug hole as far as she could. Because, of course. Damn dogs.

Whatever she chased, it went under the stacked wood and evaded her attack. I called her once and she looked at me with a posture that clearly said, “Dude, this is a serious situation.” I was undeterred, “PIPER, HERE!” [downward point]. I left the scene with my intentions known and her unmoved.

She arrived at my side in a few seconds and I was proud. She clearly deserved a treat for leaving the very serious situation, so we all went inside. One treat per dog, gently accepted. We operate a fair and equitable home when it comes to treat dispensation, even when only one dog performed well. 

Feeling like the woodpile was too much of an attraction, I tried leaving the dogs inside. The plan was to enjoy a worry-free evening on the deck without thinking about the dogs and their fluffy clean fur. I’d listen to an episode of 99% Invisible and chill out. 

Then, just after I sat down, I heard a familiar sound from the other side of the door… Woof.   Woof-woof. WOOF!

I groaned. Piper was not satisfied being inside and wasn’t likely to stop asking. Part of me thought she was having a Piper night and needed to take advantage, like me. At that moment, I realized that there was no training I could do, or maybe wanted to do, that could account for the dogs wanting to be with me. It’s not something that needs correction. If anything, it needs development. The best outcome, I think, is being outside with me, without getting into trouble. 

Meanwhile, something was chirping by the garden. I don’t speak chipmunk, but I’m pretty sure it was mocking Piper…and she knew it. “Chirp-chirp. Good try, muppet.”

This situation was not sustainable, so I had to change course and went inside to get my secret weapon: peanut butter treats shaped like bones, because I’m sure our above-average dogs appreciate that. 

They watched me get the treats and place them in the middle of the coffee table on the deck. This was when the waiting began. All other dog thoughts were moot. The treat was all that mattered. To calm them down, I first asked them to lay down. They did, like good dogs, and received a treat. 

In the moments after that, I decided to write some notes using my phone and ignored the view I had so decisively favored an hour ago. As I wrote, I felt warm, humid air across my face in waves. At first, I ignored it, but then it came in a rhythm and smelled like a dog’s breath.

If you have dogs that are allowed on furniture, you’ve had the experience of noticing a dog in your lap with no knowledge of how it got there. Maybe’s panting felt like that, but not as stealthy. Without noticing, she quietly triangulated her position so she could keep an eye on the treats and be ready by my side if I made any moves.

“Maybe, lay down.” She lied down and one minute passed. After three minutes, my writing was interrupted again by puffs of dog breath. The treats beckoned. “MAYBE. Go. Lay. DOWN.” Piper was tuned into the treats, but not as obstinate. The treats held Piper’s attention over the menace in the woodpile, and in that way, achieved the desired outcome. 

It was a battle of wills and I had had enough. Lee night was becoming more of a dog night. There was no rest, silence, or fresh air as long as the treats were in view. I split up the remaining bones and rid myself of the meddlesome beasts. The chipmunk chirped fruitlessly as the dogs remained at my feet for what was left of the evening. 

At long last, I could finally enjoy the evening writing, photographing, and listening to podcasts. Then, as the sun faded, I watched the Olympic volleyball and went to bed. 

Lee night was not that different from any other night, really. And for that I am thankful. As much as I joke about all the fun I’m going to have with Sachi away, I don’t behave much differently than I ordinarily would. Maybe next time, though, I’ll try to convince her to take the dogs.