Gus is Gone

Time seems to have stopped during this pandemic. The things that we used to look forward to and fill our time with have fallen by the wayside. No social gatherings, no shopping trips for things that aren't food or essentials, and no hair color, cuts, or manicures. Life really is just about the essential things once we're outside of our home. It seems surreal and, in some ways, an alternate universe. That's how it's been for me the past several weeks. However, the events of three weeks ago snapped me back into the real world. I have a heavy sadness, but it isn't "pandemic sadness". It's "just life" sadness--like the old kind of sadness would have been.  But I am also comforted by the fact that real life does still exist and it's still part of my world.

If you know us, you know about Gus. His full name was Augustus (after my favorite character from one of my favorite shows--Lonesome Dove) Richard (after his human dad) Melton (that's a given). We called him Gus (also, after the bailiff in movie The Judge, another of my favorites). Gus was a challenge since the day he came into our lives.

We'd lost our "once in a lifetime dog", Pepper in June 2015. It was sudden and devastating, and we said no more dogs for a very long time. But in late September, our son in law saw a schnauzer for adoption at a shelter near them in the Quad Cities--the same shelter where we had adopted Pepper. We drove the five hours and met Gus. He appeared a little dazed and was shaved very close. He wasn't particularly happy to see us, but something about him struck a cord with me. The big guy wasn't convinced but I was firm in my decision. Gus was going home with us. The people at the shelter showed us photos of Gus (his name was Dexter then) and he was unrecognizable--not just as Gus but as what kind of animal he was. He was hairy and matted, and you couldn't tell one end from another. They told us his story, and it broke my heart. There had been four dogs in the home--two males and two females. None of them were spayed or neutered, and they were tied at different places throughout the house. Gus was tied to a doorknob for what appeared to be a very long time--possibly many months. The hair had grown all around his collar and it had to be cut out. The owner was an elderly lady who developed brain cancer and had no one to care for her or the dogs. Evidently, all of them went a long time without any care at all. As I was signing papers and paying fees, the caretaker at the shelter patted me on the back and told me that I was doing a very kind thing. They told us that Gus was eight years old. Someone also told me he didn't like his brother and someone else told them to be quiet. Hmmmm . . . it wouldn't have changed my mind. So Gus rode home in a crate and we pondered on what we had gotten ourselves into.

When we got home, he walked all over the house--around and around and around. Pacing, pacing, pacing.  We'd get used to that pacing but, in the end, it would prove to be a signal that it was time to say goodbye. It was the way Gus let us know how he was feeling, that things just weren't right, and he was uneasy, uncomfortable, or in pain.

We got him into the vet as soon as we could. By then, his stomach was inflamed and red, his genital area was swollen, and he was an anxious, bewildered mess. The vet examined him and asked me his age. When I told her he was eight, she shook her head. I said, "Nine?" She shook her head again. "Ten?" She said POSSIBLY ten. I think we settled on putting nine on his paperwork but we both knew that was a low ball. She thought he had possibly had a seizure during his neutering procedure. His teeth were terrible and she was perplexed that they didn't pull them while he was out. The seizure theory would support that action. During his last few minutes of life, we confirmed that this was probably an accurate assumption. We had a blood work-up done, got some meds and directions, and she sent us home. That was the beginning of our journey.

The vet later told me that she really hadn't expected Gus to make it. She said she saw a lot of dogs and she had seen a lot of dogs who were said to have been abused but were really just neglected. She went on to say that Gus was a case of serious abuse. She also told us that he had been transformed by our love and patience. He was a changed dog, and she praised us for what we had done for him. That was good to hear. Gus was definitely a trial on the patience front.

Gus was a dog with serious baggage and a lot of quirks. He had the absolutely strongest and worst smelling urine that I have ever dealt with and he loved to share it. In his first days with us, it was a problem. Everywhere. All the time. After a while, it got better but we were never completely in the clear. It began as a lapse in his training. It become something he couldn't help. But somewhere in the middle, it became the way he communicated. Pastor comes to a small group meeting at our house, pee on the floor. Someone's been visiting my house and they had a dog, pee on the floor. She's got some new furniture, let's just pee on the floor. All I had to do was get out my suitcase and begin packing. That little dude would look me right in the eye and pee in my traffic pattern. Communication, all right. He was telling me he wanted me to stay home. It was infuriating and, at the same time, he was telling me he loved me and he wanted to be with me. Who can be terribly angry about that? During his last couple of months, he sported a belly band at all times and we did a lot of laundry with a lot of vinegar to get out the smell. It wasn't that Gus wasn't house trained. He was. Until the end, when it was simply a lack of control, it was how he demonstrated his displeasure. We heard him. Loud and clear.

Gus was MY dog. I was the one who wanted him and I was the one who accepted the responsibility for him and all of his flaws. He knew this. I was his person and he was my person. I used to look him in the eye and tell him that daily. We had a special relationship. He knew it was me that saved him and he returned the favor by guarding me faithfully and letting me know he was always in my corner. Even when he was embarrassing me. Although he had other people in his life that loved and helped care for him, his devotion and his loyalty was to me.

If you wanted to understand Gus, you had to see things from his perspective. He was THE protector. Once he came home with us, his protective devotion was focused on me. Any time that I showered or spent any time in the master bath, Gus positioned himself between the bathroom door and the bedroom door. He would sit or lay there and stare at the bedroom door as long as I was in the bathroom. Clearly, he was guarding me against any unsavory intruder. Even though he only had four teeth, he would have given it all he had. He was also territorial--the protector of his territory. I was his territory. Our house was his territory. Our whole neighborhood was his territory. He was protecting us all or bossing us all around--I was never quite sure about that one.

To be honest, Gus was famous in our family for a lot of things . . . how his toys were his "family" and he protected them as such, how he despised male dogs of any size, how he despised big dogs of any gender, how ALL the toys were his. He was famous just for being Gus the wonder dog who was difficult to like but hard not to love.

Our Melton family motto is "I do what I want". This motto was created and sponsored by our children. We raised good kids, by the grace of God, because they are so strong willed that we would have been hard pressed to prevent them from doing anything that they really wanted to do. (Gee, I am not sure where they get that.) Gus fit right in. He did what he wanted. Every. Day. He loved me. He was loyal. He was protective. He was still going to do what he wanted. If it made me mad? Well, sucks to be me. I do what I want.

We have laughed and laughed and said Gus was our second chance at raising our first born. You know, when you are parents, that first kid . . . it's a trial run. You make SO many mistakes and you have reactions to things you wish you hadn't had. Gus had some of the traits of our first born child. He was intelligent, extremely independent, and frustratingly strong willed. He did what he wanted. We felt like we could possibly redeem our sad performance a little bit with Gus. I think we did. A little. We were more understanding, more patient, and more accepting--the things we wish we had been the first time around.

We told ourselves if we could give Gus some peace, love, and security for the last couple years of his life, we would feel that our mission was successful. He was with us about 4 1/2. He knew he was loved to the very end as we said a sad, but not regretful, goodbye and he fell asleep for the first and last time in my arms. What more could either of us have wanted?

Be Like Kate . . . or Not

During the pandemic we are all getting used to doing things a little differently--school, groceries, socializing, touching our face, working, eating out (by not really eating out), and our grooming routines--things like hair cuts. I wear my hair short and I can't stand it when it gets long enough to be the least bit unruly and wavy. Neither can my husband. He has a nice little wave on top of his head that he hates, when that wave starts to pop up and the little ripples of hair begin to grow down his neck, it's time to head to the barber. Sadly, the barber is unavailable due to COVID-19 and the ensuing social distancing. As a devoted wife, I am happy to step in and help any way that I can. Except drive the mower. Never the mower.

If you read my earlier post on the haircut situation, you're up to speed, good to go, ready to move on. If you didn't read it, you'll probably want to catch up. Right now.

After drawing Stage Three out for about as long as I could and "detoxing" the clippers in the back of my car for a few days, it was time for action. Since I found the good haircut scissors (yes, we do have some good scissors) by the bathroom sink and they were not placed there by me, I knew I better get myself together or the big guy was going to take matters into his own hands. My plan was to watch multiple YouTube videos during detox to learn the ins and outs of barbering skills and compare technique and approach. Those were lofty goals, at best. But each and every time I got out a device--any device--down the rabbit hole I'd go. Never once did I make it to YouTube on my own. I did have a couple of friends and family share a detailed video from The Small Things blog by Kate Bryan. It was an excellent video and made cutting hair using scissors and clippers LOOK so easy! But that was before we actually got into Stage Four. Here are his "before" photos or, as we prefer to call them, Stages 1-3.

I took a picture of his face. I told him he looked like a grumpy old man. He said it was because he IS a grumpy old man.

Stage Four was the real deal. It was late when we got started because, well, there was stuff to do. I watched the video. Ok. I watched PART of the video. I had my husband watch the video. Ok, again, PART of the video. All right, the truth is that I started the video as I started cutting, thinking I would cut along with Kate. There was a lot of detail and I'm not so much a detail person. And we were tired. Really tired. After a few heated conversations consisting of "What did she say? What did she do here? How did she do that?", we decided to just go for it. Goodbye, Kate and Justin. I proceeded to do it just like I do most things. Catch the big ideas and highlights and then wing it. Whatever you can't remember, improvise. Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn't.

My fingers had been itching for those clippers since they made their way into my car. I was scared and excited all at the same time. We got the clippers out and surveyed the attachments. There were seriously a LOT of guards. I picked one up that looked not too long and not too short. Just so you know, I did look at the numbers. They didn't mean a lot--1/2 inch of hair (especially short hair) is a lot different than a 1/2 inch of wood or fabric or a line on paper or when we're talking short hair vs. long hair. I attached the guard, plugged in the cord, pushed the button and went for the hair on the back of his neck--those curly little ripples that were trailing down. I swooped upward. Nothing. Not a single hair moved. I went a little higher into the thicker part, thinking it was safe. Straight up the middle. "Oops! Uh, there's sizable chunk out of the middle of the back." was not what the big guy wanted to hear. I thought I could make it disappear and did some more swoops on both sides of it. The oops was still visible but not quite as pronounced. However, the back of his head had quite a bit of Dorothy Hamill action going on. If you don't know who Dorothy Hamill is or the hair style she is famous for, look her up. I used my amazing problem solving skills at this point and put the clippers aside then picked up the good, old-fashioned scissors.

I have trimmed my mom's hair a few times over the years, so scissors weren't as foreign (or as exciting) to me as the clippers. I tried to mimic what I've seen my hair dressers do. Lift up the hair, daintily clip a little off. Tiny, precise chops. That got old fast. And his hair didn't cooperate very well. I know there is a method to where you cut--you do it here and then you do it there. Mostly, I cut here for awhile until I got tired and moved on to somewhere else. When I heard a "crunch" sound, I knew I had too much hair but, alas, the crunch sound came a tad too late to change that. I worked my way around, cutting a little here and little there. The big guy kept saying that he thought that was good. It was good enough. The only difference between a good haircut and a bad one was two weeks, he told me repeatedly. I think he was a little nervous. I got the mirror so he could see himself. But he couldn't see the back. Maybe that was on purpose, subconsciously, of course . . . I did a little trim around his ears and realized the next morning that I didn't even check to see if they were even. He suggested I use the clipper without the guards to "clean up his neck". I did that and he, brave man that he is, said I could even take it up a little higher. Was he crazy? Yes. Yes, he was. No way was that happening. I think he really was angling for that buzz cut, after all. Not today, my friend. So we removed the towel, brushed him off, and he showered for the second time in 30 minutes. To be honest, it was way more than 30 minutes. Hair was everywhere--tiny pieces of whiteness. His shorts were covered. I was covered. The floor was covered. The counter was covered. That's just one more of those secrets that hairdressers keep to themselves--how to keep from looking like a furry kitten by the end of the day. And here is how he looked "after" or as we call it Stage Five:

I'm not sure if this is hair lines or shadow, but he says it's all good. 

Oh, my. I see some clipper lines in this photo. Who knew? 

By the way, there is not something hanging out of his nose, it's the back end of the dog behind the recliner. 

If you are looking for a blog to tell you how to give a man a haircut, this is probably not the one for you. You need Kate. Go find her. Her video is great. My hunger to master the clippers is growing. The dog clippers arrived yesterday.  Wish me luck. 

The Times They Keep A-Changin'

As the death toll rises and cases grow exponentially, we are settling into doing without things we used to take for granted and making do the best we can. We watch with fear and anxiety as we are thankful for the health we've been able to keep so far and pray for safety and health of everyone else. We send special prayers to those who have fallen victim to this dreadful affliction and for their loved ones who must often be separated from them as they undergo treatment alone. As we keep these concerns in our minds and hearts, we work to find a bit of lightheartedness anywhere we can.

Things are getting pretty desperate in our house. My husband was just on the edge of needing a haircut when it was recommended that we stay home. Since he is high risk, I didn't think it was a good idea to go into his favorite but very small barber shop to get that taken care of. For once, he complied. It's now safe to say, he's over the line of simply needing a haircut. Although his hair is snow white, he still has a very full head of it. It is wavy and is definitely driving him crazy. Let's just say that one of the talents that God gave me is not styling, cutting, or doing anything with hair. But the guy needs a haircut and I'm the one here. We haven't made it to the actual haircut yet. We're still in the prep stages.

Stage One was finding some clippers. We don't intend on this being a regular thing once this pandemic is over (if it ever really is over), so I didn't want to spend a huge amount on tools. I know nothing about clippers. Nada. So, I got on Amazon and read a few reviews. It was cheap evening entertainment and, boy, was it entertaining. Check them out sometime. Just search hair clippers for men and then read the reviews on the cheaper range--those around $20-30. Oh, and don't miss the questions. Let's just say upstairs and downstairs has taken on a whole new meaning in my sheltered world. What were those people thinking? It was tough to find something affordable. Affordable by my new, pandemic dictated standards. Not finding any reviews that didn't say they were junk in the cheaper price range, I moved on to Walmart, strongly encouraged by the hair cut needing husband to get them as quickly as possible. Amazon is taking a little longer these days and he would prefer a cut sooner than later. I found one on Walmart and had it "pick up in store" which leads me to Stage Two.

Stage Two required me to go into the store. Oh, geez, another round of anxiety. This was the same store where we purchased our groceries the last two weeks. It wasn't senior hour but it was Sunday morning. There were some big changes . . . they were allowing only a certain number of shoppers in the store. They kept track by having an employee stand between the entrance and exit and click an iPad when someone entered and someone left. There were cones showing the path you were to come in and more to guide you out. There were a lot more masks visible on shoppers. There were markings on the floor to show you where to stand while waiting to check out or make an inquiry. Folks in the store all had lists and were staying far apart--which was much easier to do with limits on how many could be shopping at a given time. This was my first experience at "pick up in store" at this particular location. I went to the front counter and waited quite awhile while the clerk got a piece of her Dove chocolate and started to walk away. "Excuse me, ma'am? I have an order to pick up." She directed me ALL the way to the BACK of the store where it was tucked in around a corner. It took a long time to get the order identified, checked in and out, and get the package out. I was then asked to sign a receipt with the clerk's pen! NO!!!!! But I did it and then I sanitized my hands. Pick up in store needs to talk to Pharmacy about not making people touch/sign things. No gloves--but that's a whole other discussion. I grabbed up my package and made my way all the way back to the front of the store and out the front door. I felt like I had run the gauntlet. I had to walk by so many things that I wanted to pick up and purchase. They had bleach today. They had the cotton yarn I am nearly out of because I am now a semi-professional dishcloth maker. Don't judge me. But I soldiered on to Stage Three.

Stage Three is that the clippers are still sitting in the cargo area of my car--way in the back. I am letting them "detoxify" a few days, or so I told the guy needing the haircut. Honestly, I am trying to figure out how I am going to explain to him the mess I've made of his hair. I know the explanation is going to be needed so I'm just being proactive. And he's not even a picky guy about his hair. But  those 95 cowlicks may prove to be a challenging dilemma. Maybe I'll just agree to a buzz cut. The one he's been wanting for years and I have denied him. He really should get something out of this pandemic and for going to work every day to do his essential job, right? Stay tuned for Stage Four. And, just so you know, the dogs got some clippers, too.

Groceries in the Time of Corona

I've wanted to start a blog for, well, for a very long time. Why haven't I? Confidence? Time? Not wanting to put myself out there? Not sure I had anything to say? Probably a combination of all of those and several more. No more excuses . . . here goes.

I went to the grocery store today. I got up at 5:00 a.m., left the house at 5:30 a.m., picked up my mother and drove to the grocery store. They opened the door to let us in at 6:00 a.m. on the dot. It was the hour allotted for senior citizens (60+) to get in, get their stuff, and get out before the store opened to the general public. The store is newly sanitized to the best of their ability at this time in the morning. An employee stood at the door and turned away anyone who wasn't a "senior". It was a quiet crowd that busily moved about the aisles trying to keep their distance but also fill their lists. No visiting and, basically, no breathing when you had to pass someone. No one was shopping without a list. There were masks, and some gloves, Clorox wipes, and hand sanitizer, and more than a little fear. Not the panic kind of fear that makes you do stupid things. The kind of fear that makes you somber, serious, a little bit sad, and a lot careful. Mom and I filled our orders and checked ourselves out, sanitizing everything we could.  We were in the car headed out of the parking lot by 6:40 a.m. I am not going to lie. These trips to the store cause me such anxiety that I don't sleep well the night before. I worry not so much for myself--although there is a bit of that. I worry about my mother getting infected. I worry about bringing the virus home to my husband who is still working (and not from home) and is at high risk. I worry . . . 

One image has haunted me throughout the rest of the day. There was a little man who was very elderly. He had a tiny piece of paper with his list on it. He would look at the list and then look around. He was somber and a little confused. The adjustments you have to make quickly because what you want or need isn't there can be tough, especially if you have dietary needs that require label reading. Which means picking up something and possibly needing to put it back. That's a no-no these days. That all takes time and we had one hour. I am sure that he filled his list and made it home. But that face has stayed with me. It seems to represent all of us. We're bewildered and frightened and sad all at the same time. 

Last week, we went to "senior hour" and there was one person with a mask. People were smiling and saying hi. No visiting but a quick, "How are your kids doing?" and moving on. There were a lot of people and they were younger--over 60 but not that far over. There were more things on the shelves this week, though, and the shopping wasn't as "feverish." 

I've never enjoyed grocery shopping. To be productive, it's always taken some level of planning. The planning consisted of intended purchases. It might be a random list of items that were written down as they popped into my head or it might be listed by food type or location in the store. Having a list was THE preparation. Planning for grocery shopping has now taken on a whole new meaning. It involves a list written in order of my planned path through the store, where I'll pick up the cart and what I'll use to disinfect it, how I'll avoid touching anything unnecessarily and the list goes on all the way through unloading them at home and disinfecting purchases and surfaces before putting them away. Gone are the days of running into the store, grabbing a few items, and setting them on the kitchen counter to be put away. 

As we move through the COVID-19 Pandemic, our world has turned upside down. Already, for me, grocery shopping will never be the same. I'll always think about where those germs might be lurking and how I can avoid them. I'll know that I can get in and get out of the grocery store in 30 minutes with mostly everything I need. Trips will be fewer and more efficient. We'll make do with what we have and we'll cook more at home. And we'll waste a lot less food. Some of these changes are good things. None of these changes are bad things. It is the emotional impetus behind them that is born of anxiety and uncertainty that gives us pause to stop and appreciate the innocence of where we've been, the naiveté that we leave behind, and the courage to meet what is to come.