Lockdown Day 25: Doomsday domesticity

Lucy Littlestar, skittish airedale rescue, has discovered she likes green beans. And to top it all off, she loves raw carrots as much. It’s pretty cute, and for an a girl who came to us weighing 92 lbs. and is now slimming down to 67 lbs, she’s got a little more bounce in her step—so new edible rewards seem to align nicely with her changes. I could give her carrots all day as they are better food, are fiber and are not the mountains of cheap, wheat flour food she grew up on. So, hello, CSA and the juicy carrots—Lucy is interested in those roots as are we.

I have been grating carrots and making a nice salad with a dijon/lemon vinaigrette (add a bit of chopped cilantro—or sauteing them in a bit of olive oil, garlic and some “bloomed” coriander/cumin/garam masala. All good. I bought 2 8 lb bags of carrots and we are depleting the reserve. I also am fermenting and am on my 3rd round of garlic/dill pickled carrots. I am reusing the brine when the carrots are ready to put new carrots in. That live bacteria goes CRAZY—bubbling and popping within minutes of the new sweet veg. hitting that solution. Its good amusement to see how we can keep this going. I also did a big batch of pickled beets . I boiled the beets and peeled them prior to the pickllng which made the brine become almost syrupy—lending more dimension to these vegetables. Next time I do beets it will be a smaller batch, and I may just peel and cut the beet vs. the boiling and see if they become a bit more sour and picklie.

Yesterday at noon, I started a loaf of the NYTimes No Knead Bread. There was a time I was really pushing on Sourdough starter and bread—and I had an audience of hungry teenagers to eat even the mistakes. Since then, I have been a non-baker, but with the need to be home, hungry mouths and limited bread in the stores (seriously, I ordered 2 loaves from Wegmans and got a half of a tiny loaf…which was consumed in seconds upon arriving here)—has prompted me to rethink bread. My friend, Teresa from the Honeybee Embassy made this Jim Lahey recipe and sent me pix. The pix clinched the deal…I was going to try this. So, 3 ingredients stirred together, placed in a bowl and put in a warm-ish place (I know where those are in my cool kitchen). A day later, I had a loose dough that had bubbles. I am now in the last rise and we will see if my hopes are realized. Good thing though, there are eaters who would love to eat some hot bread regardless. And in the world of Pandemic land, we are not dependent on other bakers and fermenters—we can do it ourselves.

Kitty is busy making masks in her spare time. She made them for friends and family but also making for the local restaurants and retailers that are open for sale. I am proud that she is engaging in helping on a grassroots level. Feels right to give back—and/or pay it forward.

I am tired. Not sleeping well at all. Last night I credited the full moon with this jumpiness but candidly, I think its okay to just acknowledge the horror of the times and try to focus on small projects like the bread and carrots on a local level. I cannot change Washington, but I can evince change here at the local level.

Americans die by the thousands, and Trump gloats about his television audience. They face financial ruin, and he chides governors for inadequate adulation. This is more than a failure of empathy. It’s a failure of basic humanity. My column >>> https://t.co/WtW3NWXSTZ

— Frank Bruni (@FrankBruni) April 6, 2020

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This article in The Atlantic. The Revolution is Under Way Already by Rebecca L. Sprang (April 5, 2020) speaks to conversations we have been having under this roof. Give it a read, your thoughts?

Oh my God. I had to look. I knew that this week was going to be one for the record books. And the President and his lick-spittle cabinet is publicly shutting down and trying to silence Dr. Fauci, the only voice of reason representing science and medicine with 45 prescribing untested medicine and protols that he has absolutely no place doing. This is just plain head-spinning. At least we know that there is no bottom to this evil.

Welcome shy girl.

Lucy Littlestar

Slip, sliding on the ice today. Rumor has it that we are on track for getting 5-7 inches tonight. I have coffee and milk and enough kibble to not have to go anywhere. Oh, that’s right…you don’t know about Lucy.

Lucy (working middlename is Littlestar) is my new dog. You heard me grieve over my golden boy, Mitch, and how crushed I was to lose him just as we had all gotten comfortable with each other. I didn’t want time to drag between losing my heart and getting another dog to take the space. So, I was looking on Puppyfinder.com and searching for airdales in the area. I noticed that there was a way to dial in age in the search bar—and up popped Lucy. She was/is a 4 year old Airedale who was part of the family and they had to get rid of her as her “person” couldn’t be around her any more. Turns out, there is much more there to unpack. I started to text with the owner and after a bunch of back and forths, she agreed to let me “rehome” the dog. Getting her was another issue…as the owner lives in North Carolina. But with our going to a wedding in Maryland, we agreed to meet closer to her in Richmond, Virginia. This was at the end of October 2019.

The hand-off was bizarre and after relating details to my new doggie support team, they have reinforced how wrong it all was. We met in a dog park because Lucy is a bit “shy” around cars etc. Dog Parks, according to my vet, are designed to keep vets in business. One never knows what is going to go down between dogs, their owner, off leash—put that in tumble dry and see where it takes you. Sleepless—-this will keep the wheels spinning. Lucy was not the tiny thing we saw in the pictures, but 90 lbs of shaking fear. She was hoisted into our car, shaking and burrowing her head into the seat back until we stopped to spend the night. She was good on the leash and was solidly walking with me until we got to our room…when she got into the bathtub and did not budge whatsoever. Poor Lucy was an emotional mess. Rob wisely cited that “this was not a rehome, but a rescue”. I concur. I was really regretting my impulsivity and worrying about how this might not be a good thing. Seriously worrying.

Basically, Lucy did not eat, drink or communicate for the better part of month. The first few days she spent in the tub here at 2 Camp. She kept her tail tucked tightly between her legs such that I had to ask the vet if it was broken.. She saw the vet—with the vet encouraging me not to worry as they have seen dogs like her, and it takes time and they saw a loving animal. And so it began. She had never been on stairs…and now she adores them and for fun climbs them up and down as part of her daily routine. She now is my dog. Lucy is on better dog food and has lost (less volume) 20 lbs and counting. She now has a shape. She has been spayed, microchipped, clipped and cleaned. She has had a haircut and her coat is improving. She wags her tail for me…and her place of sanctuary is my office whether I am there or not. She is beginning to unfurl and show me her humor, her spunk and her smarts. I am optimistic.

And she loves popcorn. Caught a piece this morning as i tossed it to her.

We also have appointments with Russ. Russ Hollier is a dog whisperer from Cortland. I figured Russ could help Lucy become more of the dog she is…and once we are there, to work on basic training to improve our relationship. While Lucy gets a little closer, or lets Russ pat her (big deal, Lucy had some bad, traumatic men in her life) or reward her with a squeeze of cheese from a can— Russ tells me about his other dog customers and the things they are doing from work helping super anxious people to a person with disabilities whose dog is part of their support team. it is all very heartening and lightens my mind to know that Russ is changing lives both canine and human through his interaction and training.

We all need dogs during the age of Trump. They keep things real—and she pushes me to pay attention and support them. Lucy and I have a way to go…but she isn’t going anywhere and hopefully, the only place she will be going is vertical.

Fingers crossed.

What a boy!

What a guy! It is said that airedale terriers are the “giant” or King of terriers, and our guy, Mitchy Ray Sunshine personified this aspect of his breed. He was a big, big dog in a medium sized body. He exuded confidence, humor and love for this new world he unexpectedly was tossed into. He was one of us for exactly one year and four days—and I have such tremendous gratitude for that short time filled with learning from this brilliant boy. When we first started out, on day two from the Gotcha!, I knew I had him when I opened all the windows of the car on our trip North—and he was stunned with all that hit that nose and brain of his. At the halfway point, I offered him an egg sandwich, and I got his full attention which I had until yesterday' morning.

We both grew our worlds with Mitch pulling me out of a hole—and everyday rescuing me from my desk—with his pulling on my pockets or jumping up and digging his claws into my shoulder—to tell me it was time to get away from my desk. And I gave Mitchy space, treats and less anxiety which I tried to manage through his space and his feeling comfortable. Believe it or not, the car was his safest place. If he felt he needed a place to be that he would not be harassed, it was the car. It was the vehicle that took him from New York City. It was the magic box that took him to “camp” (the kennel which he adored). It was the way we got to the lake with the porch, with breezes and birds and tasty bugs to snap out of the air. He loved his treats and I was not shy…and looking back on that, it was the right thing to do. To think that dream bones were the beginning and end of all fun and the terrier dance he did— but that he only had a short moment to adore them…and he did. Golly, I would have cashed in my treasures just to keep him in dream bones for more time—but it just wasnt in the cards,

As I had said to Rob when we were weighing to take him home or put him down at the hospital— I wanted to be mindful like Mitch—and that if his spirit was there, we would do all we could to help him live. And we had some good days until that last three when he had stopped eating and drinking and spent his time on a downstairs sofa. We would get on occasional tail wag, but the ears were not up and the shine was not there. He was quite an actor and could muster the steam to greet the vet and her assistants (old friends of Mitch)—with a bit of a prance and a hello—to then go back to quiet and still. I knew it was time…and I think he did too and so we said goodbye.

You will live in my heart, my golden boy. Thank you for being with us. It was a gift and honor.

Walk in the light, prance in the light, with your ears up and take it all in. You are my sunshine. always.

Mitchy Ray Sunshine
December 2015- August 28, 2019
Gotcha! date: August 24, 2019

Sunshine in a rain storm

Welp. You just never know.

Thursday night , I mourned my little athletic dog—and the life he could have had. I grieved about the time we had together and the life in the future I took for granted. I reflected on his quirks from playing with doors with his nose, his herding me whenever he had an idea of what we needed to do, to his broad curiousity around the world that his previous life as “Mitchi (their spelling) from Queens” to Mitchy Ray Sunshine of Trumansburg. Country squire, lover of people, crowds, squirrels, deer, NYS sharp cheese, white hots, aand the opportunities to flee or tease us to chase him. He was verging on zombie dog that afternoon. After the cycle of being taught by a very precise and loving vet, it seemed that there were two options—Mitch lives, or Mitch dies. I was not right with any of this, but as I said choking down the emotions to Rob while we waited to do the hard work on Friday morning, I want to be mindful. I want to be there for Mitch. I believed he would tell us what to do.

And he did.

We were back at the Cornell Companion Animal Hospital getting the full experience from the amazing scene of the waiting room with animals of every shape and size, breed and age, with their handlers who reflected the same spectrum. It is always very exciting and funny. Truly, I could sit there a day a week for the happy factor. Dog people want to hang with other dog people. It’s i a great place to make life long dog friends and share the love of dogs, their companionship and quirks, and the import they have in our lives.

Rob and I were shuttled into another one of the holding rooms to wait, and then spend time with our bully boy. He blazed into this space, tail twitching, ears up—fully alert and delighted to see his people—who are two poles of electricity—-his alpha and his beta—and he is the charge in-between. For Mitch, black and white is nice, but there is a lovely spectrum of grey. And so, we decided to take him home. No doubts about it. If we could have a little more time of lake breezes and long drinks, of snapping at bugs and sleeping on a puff—then we will take it.

So, armed with a plastic bag of meds and a magical punch list of what, when, how—we took our little prancing boy to the car on a rainbow leash. He was ecstatic. And, in the Cassetti tradition of, “you do well at the doctor, there is a treat”—Mitch got a full order of hot chicken nuggets which, after not eating his whole time in the hospital was heaven— which he (Mr, Temperature Sensitive) inhaled— smacking his lips and snapping his jaws. And so it began. He is so, so happy. Rubbing his head against us. Sleeping on his puff with all four legs in the air. Drinking heartily from the tub faucet—breathing in energy wherever it is.

My thinking is that time with our guy — who is living off the standard for his kidneys, every day is a gift. My job is to run the best canine hospice for our brave boy, and let him savor the tings he loves. So, food is whatever he eats. There are drives. Everyday, our drive to the lake (normally a 12-15 minute drive) is 45 minutes to an hour with the windows open, frequent stops to inhale to fragrances and smells. Oh my goodness, the smells. He absolutely drinks it in—tongue out, swiping at the essence of fresh grass, or flowering milkweed. Standing still—with the car still as well—-hearing the sounds, watching the birds and tasting the country.

Our first night of our long drive through the countryside— we drove through a light rain in a brilliant blue sky summer day. Sunbeams in the rain. My tears despite Mitch’s mindfulness. “ Look at what we have now, Q.” is his encouragement. And so, I turned off the radio and stopped the car to smell the cut grass and flowers in the air. To confirm this—we pullled onto the road that is populated with an Amish school and several farms. I saw two young amish boys…maybe 5 or 6 years old…I only saw heads/hats and their shoulders until they emerged out of field—with one boy in an electric wheelchair pulling his friend in a little wagon. They were in the moment, taking advantage of what they had—and not mourning what they could have or be. They exuded life and joy. “Learn from that Q.”, Mitch reminds me.

He is drinking robustly but being fussy about eating. I got a big talk from the Vet about dog food…and though I have done all of that, he turns his nose up. So, I am nurse in charge at hospice…pushing the pills and giving him food he will eat. It may not be the perfect medical solution, but he is eating….and that gives both of us pleasure.

Mitch is still here. Waning, but fiercely still here. And I will be here for him until it’s time.

My golden prince

I have told you about Mitchy Ray Sunshine, my co-pilot and friend —almost a year in from the date I picked him up at the Jehovah’s Witness Conference in Reading, PA under the cover of darkness. He is my ray of sunshine, my golden haired boy who lives to breathe the country smells—-hanging his beautiful head out the window to drink it all in, tasting it, savoring the summer as an aphrodisiac that my head understood and now my heart does too. I haven’t told you of his likes and dislikes— his love of dream bones with the terrier dance of joy in receiving them, the thrill of soup bones, and the comfort of his bed. I haven’t told you about his thrill in squirrels and being off leash—leading us on a merry chase throughout the neighborhood because he could—-with a saucy toss of the head and away he went. I haven’t told you of how he fell in love with us, just as much as we have with him from peaceful companionship on the deck of the porch, to claiming every stuffed animal in the house, to being a friend to every eye poking child or happy adult to meet him.

He has been my teacher, my mentor exclaiming every morning that today was going to be a brilliant, happy day. He had one of the strong ladders that were put down in my deep hole to help me raise myself from the darkness because his life has no dark corners, no sad spots. His life is filled with love and joy—-and a little anxiety which, he was finally quieting with his comfort in us and our life. His humor and head tilt was a reason to laugh—as he was one to give me many. He is one do pull me away from my desk (often pulling my shirt and tugging) to say there is more to life than this silly work you do. He herds me downstairs making sure I hit every step…always on the inside like a gentleman. He knows my routine—from the glasses go on, the phone is put in the pocket and the cane is grabbed and he is up and read…stubby tail wagging to partner with me from the moment I woke up to the next time we sleep. He followed for fabulous drink from the faucet to listening and returning when I call off leash (mostly). We were rarely apart—and I felt it and missed his glow, his intelligence and to my thinking his deep understanding. He is my dear companion—who I have been blessed to live with for this short time.

I picked Mitch up from the vet where he was boarding—-as we were out of town. The vet-tech said that he hadn’t eaten his breakfast which wasn’t an oddity—but was a note. This was last Tuesday. Mitch was quieter but I thought it might have been from going to Camp (which is what we called going to the kennel). But Wednesday and Thursday came with no eating and little drinking. He was lethargic and listless. Friday, I took him to the vet— who gave him subcutaneous infusion, fancy dog food and an appetite encourager….and he was so dehydrated, they suggested I look at his gums to see if he needed another infusion the next day. He did…so Saturday, it was the same. Sunday—slower/more lethargic though I made him his favorite, fried eggs and he scarfed them down in no time. Monday, more lethargy, but more eggs….and he was doing some crazy things like not being right next to me, standing in closets, and looking off in an aimless way—not like the targeted missile he generally projected. Tuesday, I called the vet again and we had blood drawn at 2pm. By 3, I had a call to say his kidney and liver functions were off the charts and to get to Cornell Vet Hospital ASAP. By 3:30 we were at Cornell getting him in ICU—with the team focusing on stabilizing him. Not worth getting into the detail but prior to data, it was projected that Mitch could have anything (on a spectrum) from a big urinary tract infection, to Lepto (a bug) to something critical that either had protocols to live a good life to one of death. We left him in Cornell’s care, with Mitch walking by the doctor like the show pony he is, ears up, tail up, and a bounce to every step.

Here we are two days later. I decided that one visits family in the hospital, so I went to visit to see how he was. No flowers but a dream bone for him. We played a little…but it was no Mitchy joy dance…slamming that bone and tossing it in the air as high as it could go. It was no Badgerdome experience—-but more that he was humoring me. He did not have the bounce to the ounce—and knew me—but couldn’t really stay up sitting, or even standing and slid to the floor at my feet as I hugged him and patted him and let him know we loved him. His doctor came in and gave it to me straight with lots of biology until I asked he point blank whether his kidneys were destroyed…and she said they were. His is not able to retain fluids—and that they have run out of options as he has Glomerular Disease— a condition that if not caught early can lead to chronic kidney disease. The doctor said that he has had this for quite a while….and yet, we did not know our ray of sunshine was not 100%. But that Mitch’s time was limited—and that we needed to think about next steps.

So here I am. Crying. Tearing rolling down my face over the decision that really has been already made about our dear boy, our sweet prince who brings light and laughter to me. Here I am missing him already—though I think he is already on his journey. He was not himself, and was glancing at the angels in the corners of the room—ears up, tail up—-seeing friends that were not in my spectrum of sight. I hope that's the case. My boy needs companionship on this next adventure— friends who will love him for his dear personality and life.

I hope I can give him the joy in release that he has given me. Mitch deserves the best because he is the best from the top of his ears to the tip of his metronome tail—including the laugh, the prance and his golden heart. My heart is broken losing a dear friend such as this dog. I have such blessings—and this comic dog is a great one.

Meet Mitchy Ray Sunshine.

Our Shady Grove died—and it was a very sad time. I didn’t know I missed her so much—but I did. So, I started to look for dogs often driving to the SPCA to have the dog that was posted online, gone before I got to even say hello. This was multiple years of “almost” getting a new, used dog. So this went on and on—and I wasn’t having any luck. I decided that the only course was to get a puppy and raise it. After some research, I found a great goldendoodle breeder nearby and put money down on a pup and waited. I wont go into detail on that thread, but as everything seems to be—it was not simple.

Kitty came to visit and she participated on an “almost” moment with a rescued havanese/maltese mix who was adorable. But it was “almost” with no cigar. She and I were crushed. So, she started talking it up in NYC to all of her friends.. One friend knew of a dog who was “coming up”—the brother to his dog (also rescued)—and would we be interested. After about a minute, the answer was absolutely- and that is how Mitchy and the Cassettis connected. Only thing is that I needed to drop everything to go get him. And I did.

Mitch (Mitch was named Mitch by his first owner) grew up in Queens, living in a small one bedroom apartment. After meeting him, I was stunned to thing this cuckoo bananas dog lived in a tiny apartment with a very circumspect life. I get ahead of myself.

Kitty’s friend picked him up in Queens and drove him (and Mitchy’s sister for company) to Reading PA where he was visiting family. Kitty’s friend was awesome— trying to get him in some order, trimming hair and getting himin working order. prior to their trip to meet me. I drove down from Tburg—taking a very fun bunny route (not the highway, but the biway) to Reading through coal country. I checked into a hotel in downtown with a convention of the most lovely Christian people—all dressed up and so kind. I had dinner at the hotel bar watching a few of my Christian friends slam a few cocktails—and waited. At 9 p.m. the phone rang and the message was for me to be downstairs for the pickup/drop off. Up pulled this little orange car filled with two over energetic airedales —straining at leashes. I handed over the rehoming fee and was handed a leash and off my new friends went leaving me with this maniac, Mr Mitch. He was unlike anything I had ever seen—-vigilant, funny and smart. Too smart.

Mitch and I went up to the room at the hotel —I had set it up with food/water etc. and he was franticly checking all the windows and doors (and mirrors as they are kind of doors) all night. Poor devil—it was this circle of windows and doors, windows and doors and then strange sounds with this strange lady. It was not a restful night for either of us. Morning came at 5 a.m when I told Mitch we were going home, and we did. He got in the car and was stunned at the smells as we drove through the countryside to the lake. As soon as we got home, I got him set up—and clipped to a long leash around a chairleg on the porch, both of us passed out with the lake breezes wafting over us. That was day one.