Operation Soft Landing, Day 1
Monday, July 10, 2006
Operation Soft Landing, Day 1
If my dog is going to die -- and I guess he is -- he is going to have the best death ever. He and I are going to do everything that ever he enjoyed, often and with gusto. I'm calling it Operation Soft Landing.
Saturday was Frisco's second day on the steroid designed to shrink his tumor and restore some muscular control, and he had indeed been much better. He was still out of sorts, but had at least been able to stand on his own and walk a little. I carried him outside, he did his business, walked a few halting paces, then stood unsteadily, waiting for me to come and carry him back inside. Once I had him situated in a comfortable spot, he was able to sit up and raise his head to watch me as I walked around the house, but he did not attempt to follow me.
Saturday night, I brought him to Spider House cafe, one of Austin's best hanging-out places. The name comes from its history: it is a classic little house in what used to be a residential neighborhood just off campus, which was inhabited only by bugs for some time before being converted to a trendy hang-out. It's now one of those classic Austin spots, populated in equal parts by freaky college students with multi-colored hair, young professionals who can't admit that they're not still college students with multi-colored hair, and unemployed "poets" and "musicians," some of whom are hawking poorly-printed books of poetry or homemade CD's.
In the early days of grad school, I used to hang out on the patio with my laptop, while young Frisco made the rounds of their spacious brick patio. He would go from one end to the other, often disappearing for ten or fifteen minutes when he'd found some poor sucker willing to throw his ball for him. He'd come back to check on me, tail wagging, like a runner tagging off base, before dashing off to steal someone else's affection.
Saturday night, he was clearly skeptical when I put my sandals on, got my car keys and tried to entice him to come with me out the front door. He complied, though, when I asked him to stand up enough that I could pick him up to carry him to the car.
He obviously recognized Spider House, but he still wasn't confident in his ability to walk. I had to carry him from the car out to the big back deck. I got a few strange looks, carrying a 75-pound golden retriever, but Austin is a place tolerant of the strange. I set him down, and a college-aged girl in a tie-died tee shirt that read "Keep Austin Weird" kept him company while I went inside for a nice locally-brewed beer. In previous days, I had to place him in a down-stay (which he routinely violated, occasionally following me inside the coffee shop before I'd gotten served). This time, though, he showed no sign of movement before I returned to carry him to a spot in the middle of the huge patio.
It was a crowded night, with some sort of New-Age guitarist playing incomprehensible melodies on the small stage at the top of the hill, and Frisco has never been able to resist the sounds of cheery conversation. After a few minutes to get his bearings, he hauled himself to his feet and hobbled over to a neighboring table of pretty young girls. (His eyesight clearly hasn't completely failed. Frisco's taste in girls has always made me proud.) I was doing some writing, so I heard rather than saw him making friends, soliciting attention and (over-optimistically) offering them his racquetball.
Someone threw the ball for him, but he nearly fell over on his right side trying to retrieve it. I sensed his frustration and went over to stabilize him, and he didn't complain when I tucked the ball into my pocket. He'd tested his limits and learned that he wasn't ready for the ball, but he still had a wagging tail that was enough to get him some loving. Emboldened, he limped off down the patio, his tail in the air like a periscope so I could keep an eye on him as he made the rounds.
He didn't stray as far as he used to, and a couple of times he got himself stuck by hobbling to the right against some tree or other obstacle. I was always able to prod him back onto the path without too much trouble. A waitress asked my permission to give him some slices of Boar's-Head turkey, apologizing because she didn't have any "proper" dog treats. (As if I might be upset that she gave him premium sandwich slices. Why am I never that lucky?!) The girl at the table next to me asked nicely what was ailing him, and I told her, controlling my emotions as much as I could.
His stamina is understandably not what it was, so he soon returned to collapse across my feet, his soft coat tickling my toes. I petted him a bit, but tried not to make too much of a fuss over him. After a longer-than-normal rest, he got up again to introduce himself to the people who had arrived since his first rounds. The girl at the table next to me called him over, I suspect partly motivated by the desire to escape the two gym-bodied cads who had sat down at her table to hit on her. Frisco obligingly let her scratch his ears for a good ten minutes, then lay back down at my side.
The girl was very upset by Frisco's condition, and her expressions of concern attracted a gangly young guy who was wearing -- I'm not making this up! -- a pointed wizard's hat decorated with tin-foil stars and crescent moons. He petted Frisco while staring at her and claiming that he had just lost his pet fire ant to the same condition. "He was the cutest fire ant you ever did see," he said solemnly. This was enough for the girl, who gathered her things to leave. She paused, though, long enough to give me her contact info. (Frisco's still got his Mojo!)
Another girl took her seat, and she told me crazy stories from her job as a "receptionist" at the county jail while Frisco rested at my side. I figured he'd had enough, and sure enough I had to pick him up and carry him towards the exit.
When Frisco was a puppy, and not fully immunized against the diseases that were legion in New York City, Darlene and I used to carry him through the streets in a bright blue backpack, slung across the front like a papoose. A grown man carrying a golden retriever attracted attention back then, and it's no different now. I was noticed by my old friend Mark, who always hung out at Spider House, so I laid Frisco down next to Mark's table on the deck and chatted with him for several minutes. When I looked down to where he had been lying, Frisco had disappeared. I quickly located him back down on the patio, making another round of schmoozing. I called him over to me, and he clumsily picked his way back to me. He made it back to my car on his own steam.
It was well after 2 AM by the time we got back home, and I carried him inside and laid him down next to me. He slept soundly, snuggled up against my left side, with his schnozz draped gently over my shoulder. It had been a successful start for Operation Soft Landing, and a very good day for a dying dog.
RG
Operation Soft Landing, Day 1
If my dog is going to die -- and I guess he is -- he is going to have the best death ever. He and I are going to do everything that ever he enjoyed, often and with gusto. I'm calling it Operation Soft Landing.
Saturday was Frisco's second day on the steroid designed to shrink his tumor and restore some muscular control, and he had indeed been much better. He was still out of sorts, but had at least been able to stand on his own and walk a little. I carried him outside, he did his business, walked a few halting paces, then stood unsteadily, waiting for me to come and carry him back inside. Once I had him situated in a comfortable spot, he was able to sit up and raise his head to watch me as I walked around the house, but he did not attempt to follow me.
Saturday night, I brought him to Spider House cafe, one of Austin's best hanging-out places. The name comes from its history: it is a classic little house in what used to be a residential neighborhood just off campus, which was inhabited only by bugs for some time before being converted to a trendy hang-out. It's now one of those classic Austin spots, populated in equal parts by freaky college students with multi-colored hair, young professionals who can't admit that they're not still college students with multi-colored hair, and unemployed "poets" and "musicians," some of whom are hawking poorly-printed books of poetry or homemade CD's.
In the early days of grad school, I used to hang out on the patio with my laptop, while young Frisco made the rounds of their spacious brick patio. He would go from one end to the other, often disappearing for ten or fifteen minutes when he'd found some poor sucker willing to throw his ball for him. He'd come back to check on me, tail wagging, like a runner tagging off base, before dashing off to steal someone else's affection.
Saturday night, he was clearly skeptical when I put my sandals on, got my car keys and tried to entice him to come with me out the front door. He complied, though, when I asked him to stand up enough that I could pick him up to carry him to the car.
He obviously recognized Spider House, but he still wasn't confident in his ability to walk. I had to carry him from the car out to the big back deck. I got a few strange looks, carrying a 75-pound golden retriever, but Austin is a place tolerant of the strange. I set him down, and a college-aged girl in a tie-died tee shirt that read "Keep Austin Weird" kept him company while I went inside for a nice locally-brewed beer. In previous days, I had to place him in a down-stay (which he routinely violated, occasionally following me inside the coffee shop before I'd gotten served). This time, though, he showed no sign of movement before I returned to carry him to a spot in the middle of the huge patio.
It was a crowded night, with some sort of New-Age guitarist playing incomprehensible melodies on the small stage at the top of the hill, and Frisco has never been able to resist the sounds of cheery conversation. After a few minutes to get his bearings, he hauled himself to his feet and hobbled over to a neighboring table of pretty young girls. (His eyesight clearly hasn't completely failed. Frisco's taste in girls has always made me proud.) I was doing some writing, so I heard rather than saw him making friends, soliciting attention and (over-optimistically) offering them his racquetball.
Someone threw the ball for him, but he nearly fell over on his right side trying to retrieve it. I sensed his frustration and went over to stabilize him, and he didn't complain when I tucked the ball into my pocket. He'd tested his limits and learned that he wasn't ready for the ball, but he still had a wagging tail that was enough to get him some loving. Emboldened, he limped off down the patio, his tail in the air like a periscope so I could keep an eye on him as he made the rounds.
He didn't stray as far as he used to, and a couple of times he got himself stuck by hobbling to the right against some tree or other obstacle. I was always able to prod him back onto the path without too much trouble. A waitress asked my permission to give him some slices of Boar's-Head turkey, apologizing because she didn't have any "proper" dog treats. (As if I might be upset that she gave him premium sandwich slices. Why am I never that lucky?!) The girl at the table next to me asked nicely what was ailing him, and I told her, controlling my emotions as much as I could.
His stamina is understandably not what it was, so he soon returned to collapse across my feet, his soft coat tickling my toes. I petted him a bit, but tried not to make too much of a fuss over him. After a longer-than-normal rest, he got up again to introduce himself to the people who had arrived since his first rounds. The girl at the table next to me called him over, I suspect partly motivated by the desire to escape the two gym-bodied cads who had sat down at her table to hit on her. Frisco obligingly let her scratch his ears for a good ten minutes, then lay back down at my side.
The girl was very upset by Frisco's condition, and her expressions of concern attracted a gangly young guy who was wearing -- I'm not making this up! -- a pointed wizard's hat decorated with tin-foil stars and crescent moons. He petted Frisco while staring at her and claiming that he had just lost his pet fire ant to the same condition. "He was the cutest fire ant you ever did see," he said solemnly. This was enough for the girl, who gathered her things to leave. She paused, though, long enough to give me her contact info. (Frisco's still got his Mojo!)
Another girl took her seat, and she told me crazy stories from her job as a "receptionist" at the county jail while Frisco rested at my side. I figured he'd had enough, and sure enough I had to pick him up and carry him towards the exit.
When Frisco was a puppy, and not fully immunized against the diseases that were legion in New York City, Darlene and I used to carry him through the streets in a bright blue backpack, slung across the front like a papoose. A grown man carrying a golden retriever attracted attention back then, and it's no different now. I was noticed by my old friend Mark, who always hung out at Spider House, so I laid Frisco down next to Mark's table on the deck and chatted with him for several minutes. When I looked down to where he had been lying, Frisco had disappeared. I quickly located him back down on the patio, making another round of schmoozing. I called him over to me, and he clumsily picked his way back to me. He made it back to my car on his own steam.
It was well after 2 AM by the time we got back home, and I carried him inside and laid him down next to me. He slept soundly, snuggled up against my left side, with his schnozz draped gently over my shoulder. It had been a successful start for Operation Soft Landing, and a very good day for a dying dog.
RG
posted by Unknown at 8:57 PM
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