Farewell to a beloved pet, Sir Vincent of Whent

I was in my freshman year at the University of Oregon when my parents had to put Shiner, our family dog of 14 years, down. He’d had arthritis in his hind legs for a while and one night, he lost all feeling in his back end. My parents made the decision to put him down quickly, and also chose to shelter me from the knowledge that they had done so until I came home for a visit a couple weeks later. As soon as I walked in the door to the back porch, I noticed Shiner’s food and water dish were missing. I remember thinking it odd, and maybe Mom had moved them elsewhere. Only after I set my stuff down and walked into the living room did it become apparent that the dog was no longer there. Dad quickly told me, “Linds, we have some bad news. We had to put Shiner down.” I listened to their story of what happened with sadness, but I don’t remember crying right away. My tears came later-- the next few nights in bed when I was alone with my thoughts.

My heart is still pained to this day when I think of how my parents and younger brother must have suffered so without me knowing. I don’t remember what I had going on in the weeks surrounding, but Mom insists that it was something important enough (midterms, finals?) that she didn’t want me to be away from home, grieving by myself, and worrying about them. Instead, they had to hold everything in during those weeks when I was no doubt calling them often to vent about my own struggles. I honestly still can’t say now what I would have preferred. I’m thankful my family is strong and so considerate of my feelings.

Fast forward about five months or so to the summer of 2004. I had only been home from college for a few weeks when I hear my Dad and brother’s mumblings about getting a new dog. Mom, I think, was pretty decidedly against getting another one so soon. I’m sure she had finally just finished cleaning up the very last black hair that Shiner had left behind. I’m sure Shiner’s death was still a bit raw for her as well, and she knew that new puppies are, in fact, a lot of work. However, that did not deter my father from searching the classifieds one morning and stumbling upon an ad for purebred Golden Retriever puppies being sold near Redmond. They wanted $300 for one, which I thought at the time, was insanely expensive for a dog. We got Shiner out of a cardboard box at a fair for free. I questioned Dad, with raised eyebrows, if Mom was really ready for another dog. His eyes shining, I knew what was coming next,

“Your mother doesn’t know what she really wants.”

It was an inside joke that had been carried on as long as I could remember, but in this case, Mom had actually always wanted a Golden Retriever. She, perhaps, just was going to have to compromise on the timeframe.

And so, that very same day, my Dad, brother and I found ourselves barreling down the highway in search of the farmhouse with the Golden puppies. When we arrived, the mother dog, a slim, petite, beautiful Golden Retriever, greeted us. We made our way into the garage, hailed the owners, and set our eyes on the six or so little puppies playing in a pen. They were all very pretty dogs, with cute faces and shiny yellow coats. The owners rolled some of them over for us, asking if we were looking for a male or female. The gender of our choice required little discussion—we all knew we wanted another male dog. There were only two left males left, a third having been claimed by the owners of the sire. They pointed to the huskier one of the group, the first-born, and then to another, the runt, who was the same size as his sisters. We played around with them a little bit to try to get a feel for their personalities, as much as you can a new puppy, and then Dad looked to Jared to make the decision. I remember being hesitant about both choices. The oldest one looked big—I thought he’d grow to be a really big dog and Mom might not like that so much. I also had reservations about the runt, merely because he was just that—the runt of the litter. I can’t say what my brother thought of as I was mulling this over in my own head, but I think he connected with the littlest one, perhaps from being the youngest himself, and chose the runt.

Back in the car on the way home, I remember being filled with nervous anticipation for showing Mom our newest find. The puppy whimpered a bit on the way, as Dad urged my brother to keep the puppy in his lap and keep talking to him, reminding him that the puppy had never been away from his mother or his siblings like this before. Jared soothed him as much as possible until we reached the church where my Mom worked. I can’t recall what was going on that day, but I remember that she wasn’t in her normal office. There was some kind of get-together at the student center across the campus, and she was helping with food and setup. There were a few other families we knew from the church there as well.

I’d be lying if I said that it was love at first sight for Mom and the puppy. We got out of the car, plopped the puppy down outside, and when Mom saw us, it took a half second for her to register what was going on. I remember her turning sharply back to the kitchen, not saying a word. I can only imagine what must have gone through her head as we showed the puppy off to the group, allowing him to make his first debut as part of our family. I don’t think Mom ever seriously considered taking him back to the farmhouse, but I don’t think it wouldn’t have mattered if she did, because the puppy won her heart quickly anyway. As we brought him home that night, it was clear-- he was ours, and we were his.

Jared and I busied ourselves for the rest of that week playing with our new dog, training him, making sure he didn’t pee in the house, and a few times, searching for him because we were sure he was lost. We finally discovered that he liked to sleep smashed between things—the deck, Jared’s stuffed animals under his bed, etc. No doubt, he missed the closeness of sleeping with his brothers and sisters in the pen. It took us the better part of that week to come up with a name as well. I took to calling him “little dog” and “boof” because he didn’t bark, he just kind of let out a small woof, or grunt instead. That name stuck for me, even after he developed a rather mean-sounding warning bark when he got older. Finally, one day, Jared and I were in the middle of a heated game of NBA Street on the Playstation. Jared turned to me, “What about, Vince?”

Vince. I looked over at the dog. “Yeah, I think that would be okay.”

We told Mom and Dad when they got home, and Mom mentioned that she’d probably just call him Vincent. We thought that sounded better. But, later that day when I looked over his “family tree,” which was registered on some national pet registry, I noticed that his ancestors’ names read like a Downtown Abbey cast book-- “Lord this” and “Lady that”. I guess it’s a thing for purebreds. So, NOT to be outdone, I suggested an amendment to our puppy’s name. We needed something regal for our noble dog, especially if he was going to be registered too. And so, our dog’s full name, “Sir Vincent of Whent” was chosen.

I still marvel at the difference between our two dogs. Shiner had mostly lab in him, but was also mixed with healer and collie. This made him a true “dog’s dog” and he probably would have played fetch until he toppled over from exhaustion. Vincent was completely different. He had the most personality of any dog I’ve ever know. He never played fetch on land, which was shocking to us all after Shiner. The only time Vincent was interested in bringing back something that we threw was when we tossed a stick in the water. He’d jump in, time after time, to chase the stick into the middle of a lake, but not ever could you convince him to do it more than once while on dry land. He’d look at you like you were wasting his time. He loved the water, and always enjoyed our trips to the lake, never tiring of swimming and fetching.

I’m not sure how he did it, but Vincent knew exactly how to push buttons and get us riled up. It started with him stealing our socks or other items that were on the floor, refusing to give them back until we traded him for a treat. On occasion, he’d leave them outside, freezing them solid in the winter. He knew he wasn’t supposed to bring pine cones in the house, but every time we opened the garage door, he snagged one, brought it inside, and taunted us with it, his whole backside wiggling away. We always knew he had something he wasn’t supposed to when he wiggled like that. When he was older, and you weren’t paying him enough attention, he’d walk right up and snatch something out of your hand as you were walking away. I chased him around several times trying to retrieve my clothes, boxes, and even my water bottle. One time, he was so mad at us for leaving him to go on Christmas vacation that he actually took a whole VCR tape in his mouth off the right coffee table and tried to dart outside with it through his doggy door before Mom yelled at him. He’d purposely “lose” his leash on walks and have us hunting around for it until we had just about given up, and then he’d race right to the spot where he left it.  He'd chew up Mom's flowers and tulip bulbs if he got upset at her for something.  His games were played by his rules, and he’d make it known if you weren’t playing correctly. His antics quickly earned him the endearing nickname of “Brat.”

Oh, how Vincent loved to go on walks and runs. We took him on walks from a very early age and discovered quickly that he was not an obedient walker. He had his own ideas of where we should go. I’ll never forget the first time I saw him pick up a stick on his way back home from a walk. I don’t know how he knew we were heading home after only a few times walking with him, but as soon as we did, he immediately searched the ground for a stick. No. Searched the ground for a log-- huge pieces of wood, almost bigger than he was, and heavy. He had to have one to take home at the end of every walk. It’s like the Retriever in him just took over, and was amazing and hilarious to watch. We had many laughs over the monstrous pile of wood he left at the end of the driveway over the years. I remember too that it didn’t take him long to know where home was. One time, not long after we started the walks, Dad dropped the leash long before the entrance to our cul-de-sac, and we watched as he pranced, with the stick tight in his mouth, all the way up to our garage door, leaving us a football field’s length behind. When he got older, Mom took him for nightly walks along the fire road, which borders a forest for as far as you can see. Mom told me that the first time she took him out, she panicked because he just took off, running full speed to the edge of the tree line, without warning. He’d never done anything like that before. After getting a long ways off in the distance, he stopped and looked at Mom. She called him, and he came racing back, running full speed again, right to her side. It was like an unleashed freedom, and the walks were from then on something that he and Mom shared and enjoyed for all of his days. Vincent loved fighting with the leash and chasing after squirrels on those walks.

Another of Vincent’s greatest joys was car rides. I don’t care if he’d gone with you in the car 20 times already that day, he’d be just as excited to go the 21st time. When Dad was home from work, he took Vincent everywhere. Vincent would sit on his shoes and often positioned himself within a few feet of the door, so not to be left behind. The summer that we got him was also the summer that I got the first car that was truly mine, my 1998 Mustang. I used to take Vincent to the park in it, first plopping him down on the passenger’s seat, but he’d always end up in my lap instead, head hanging out the window, smiling at everyone who drove by. He considered his true place with us, curled up in the back of the Durango, or sticking his head out the window to see what was going on. He had the saddest face you’ve ever seen whenever we told him he couldn’t go with us.

Vincent absolutely refused to let any of us walk down the driveway without him. He’d cry and bark and carry on, and even escape out of the fence if he could find a loose spot in the wire. Jared and I tried to go Rollerblading without him one day in the summer when he was older, and did not even get halfway down the cul-de-sac before he had somehow escaped from the fence and joined us on our skate around the Lasso loop, running full speed behind, panting, as we laughed all the way. Neighbors reported he’d sometimes use his escape techniques to go and visit other dogs in the neighborhood when he got “bored” while Mom was at work for the day, but he’d always be waiting for her on the front step.

 Like most Goldens, he was a routine dog, and our lifestyle fit that nicely. Vincent would get up every morning with Mom, “help” her get and read the paper, and wait faithfully for his walk when she came home. Dad would see squirrels and birds in the yard and send Vincent after them because he liked to watch the chase. Dad always told Vincent he was a “good boy” when he returned inside, and I swear that Vincent always had a look of great satisfaction after. He barked, low and strong, when someone was at the door, but then was quick to show them that he was happy they were there. He loved to play with his stuffed animals, Simba and his bear, and with his rope, but never growled when playing tug-of-war with you. He enjoyed bones, and people food, and the special treats Mom made for him. My brother worked with him to train some basic skills, and even taught him to rollover, which was silly to watch. When my brother moved out a few years later, it made me feel better to know that Mom wasn’t truly ever by herself. She had her great friend there to keep her company. I loved coming to visit and spending time with Vincent, getting my “pet” fix, and even though I never lived a full year at home while we had him, I still considered him my dog as well. I have fond memories of just sitting on the floor, singing to him and petting him. He was such a happy dog, and always got excited to see us when we came home.

As some purebreds do, Vincent had his share of health problems. The sheer amount of medical bills was another great difference between our two animals. Vincent had allergies and growths on him from young age and was regularly at the vet, where Shiner hardly had any major issues. However, it was still a shock when Dad called me on Thursday to tell me that he had sad news. Vincent wasn’t doing well, and the doctor was sure he had spleen cancer that had likely spread. Dad, who does not tolerate the suffering of animals well, was ready to put him down that day. Vincent hadn’t eaten well in a week, and was slow and tired. My brother convinced my parents to wait for him to come up from California for the weekend to see Vincent again, and Vincent did rebound for a short time while on some medication that Friday. My brother was able to make it home, and spend the last few days with our dog, taking him to one of his favorite places, Camp Sherman, so he could put his head out the window and see the river and one more time.

I had considered home going as well, but the selfish part of me wanted to remember my dog as I had seen him a month ago when I visited home-- happy, healthy and full of personality. At my parents’ insistence, it was okay, I chose to stay home, once again apart from my family while they said goodbye to our beloved family dog. I’m okay with my choice. I know that my family loved on Vincent and each other for me.

I know that the bible doesn’t give us a very straight answer on if we’ll ever see our animals again in heaven. My heart was so very much to believe that we do. It’s impossible for me to imagine eternal happiness without being able to pet my dogs and or take them on walks. I do know that God answers prayers about our animals. While I prayed for healing or help with acceptance that Sunday, my Mom had the good sense to also pray that He make it clear and obvious if putting Vincent down on Monday was the only option. He did. He allowed my family to make the right choice, without doubts, and be there together. I hope that God has a special place for dogs somewhere in His kingdom.

Although my heart aches for my Mom, Dad and brother, I try to remember all the fun times and great memories that we had together with Vincent, as a family. Farewell to a very beloved friend. Forever, you are ours, and we are yours.

Lindsay

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-eight has proved to be an odd and confusing age so far.  More than any other time that I can remember in the second-half of my 20s, I feel like I’ve been asked how old I was more THIS year.  When I answer, I get a really odd mix of responses.  Most people, especially strangers (dentist, hair dresser, lady at my gym), remark on how “young” I am, or that I’m still a “baby.”  That response is SO odd to me, because, I don’t really consider myself either of those two things.  The remainder of the people (co-workers, my family), usually want to know how long I’ve been married, and when I’m planning on having kids, because that’s what’s normal or expected to them.  A remark from my gym instructor really got me the other day—she was talking to someone else about this girl who did Cross Fit at another gym and was really good.  When asked how old the cross fit girl was, my instructor said, “She’s not young.  I think she’s like, 28, or 30.  She’s not like those young girls who can just rip out a workout.”

Okay, so WHICH is it, then?  Am I young?  Am I bordering on too old?  Maybe the reason that I get a bit edgy about it is not because people ask me more about my age now, but more because I feel conflicted about it.  Comparatively, I think that 28 is still young-ish.  But not just “young” by itself, you know?  I felt “young” in college.  Now, I’ve been paying my own way for a long while, and have become a fairly accomplished adult.  I’ve been out of college for 5 years now, I JUST got married a year and a half ago.  I’ve been doing stuff, enjoying my life, seeing the sites and having adventures.  I feel good about all of it.  I don’t (often) look at my friends who got married and had kids younger and wish I could go back for a re-do to be more like them.  I’m not even close to the oldest person in my office who doesn’t have kids.  

But, it still nags at me, because 28 seems so very close to 30, and with that age comes a bunch of expectations and judgments.  Not to mention, concerning stats.  One minute I feel so free to just be able to pick up and leave and travel for work with no qualms.  Another minute, I am consumed with worry of what people will think if I don’t produce offspring in the near future, and the consequences to MY future if I don’t.  It. Is. Exhausting.  For once, I’d like someone to say “Oh, 28… that’s a fun age.”  Or, even better—don’t ask at all!  I know how old I am, I am well informed of the expectations and stats of being 28, and I’m handling it.  I got this.  Trust me.

I digress from my moody rant.  It’s been a very busy March around these parts.  We were hit with the news that Steven’s grandma had passed away (peacefully) in the second week of March.  We made the trip back to Malta to be at her funeral.  I was glad to be there for Steve and help out the family during the hard time.  I feel comforted that she had a long, full life and was loved by so many people.  I know it will be hard for the Greens not to have her to talk to anymore.  She will be very missed.

The week after we got back from Montana, I was off again for a work trip to Chicago.  It turned out to be a nice visit, aside from the FREEZING cold weather, and the massive issues that our software’s build created the weekend before.  The office was "tense" to say the least.  But, I got to visit and bond with my team, as well as see a lot of other people I usually only email, so it was a pretty productive time.  There was also a product training during that time that some other people from the remote offices flew in for, and hanging out with them in a different city was pretty cool.  I always like going back to Chicago.  The streets and way of life are so fresh in my mind and it’s easy to get swept up in the city lifestyle after being submerged in suburbia for almost three years now.  But, I SO do not miss the cold.  I’ll take my 60 degree March days over anything else.  Caligurl4eva.  ;)

As always, I’ll end this blog with a resolution update:

1. I fell behind on blogging for reasons mentioned above, but I’m completing mine for this week!
2. I’ve been doing pretty well with being active during lunch.  This week it’s been rainy and hard to get outside, but I did go for a nice walk on Tuesday and cleaned up the house Wednesday.
3. I’ve kept up with bootcamp pretty well and really only fell off the wagon in Chicago, where it's pretty tough to work out in a hotel—but I walked so much that I feel like I MUST have got some calories burnt off that I normally would not have.  Steve and I also hiked at Sunol two weekends ago, so I hope that we can keep it up.  Exploring new hiking areas around the Bay is so fun!
4. I’m trying to get back on the wagon for eating less junk food.  I’ve done pretty well this week—as long as you don’t count the frozen strawberry lemonades at McDonalds as Junk.  :)
5. I’ve still flossed pretty regularly every other night, and my dentist check up went pretty well a few weeks ago.  I only have one cavity and I think it has been there for a bit, because the dentist said it was right beside a filling they had already done last year.  I think when that happens, they should re-do your filling for free.  It must be their fault if the filling didn’t do it’s job, right? ;)
6. I’ve been to a few places that I need to Yelp about, so I’ll try to get on that next week.
7. No back-blogs yet! 

I will leave you with some pictures from our most recent hike in Sunol.  I’m really enjoying getting outside and seeing the sites of the bay at new heights!