Homer The Brave

Dogs are such a part of the good life for human beings that I can't imagine not having them around for any length of time. When we lose one we lose family--and some family are harder to lose than others.

Such is the case with Homer, my daughter's version of "Marley," who for a couple of years made us crazy, but then, when he finally felt safe and "at home" became the happiest, goofiest dog I've ever known.

Well, Homer died yesterday, after a long illness. Rather than telling the story myself, I'll let her do it. This is the letter she wrote to the adoption agency after he died:

I just wanted to inform you that Homer, who I adopted 5 years and 8 months ago, passed away peacefully yesterday at the age of 9-ish.

He had been diagnosed with Leiomysarcoma (cancer of the smooth muscle tissue) in November of last year. He had surgery in December to remove the tumor, however it was too intricately entwined with his ureter and too close to his spine for them to be able to remove it. We went home with Homer on "pallative care", with the vets only expecting him to live a short time. My sweet boy held on for almost 9 months. 8 months and 30 days to be exact... He was a fighter and loved his life so much he didn't want to let go. My vets were all amazed by his attitude and his determination to keep on keeping on.

Sunday night he could hardly walk, and by Monday morning he showed me in his own special way that it was time. He was tired of fighting, and he was ready to let go. Two of his favorite aunties and my boyfriend came over to say goodbye, and we all loved on him for a long time before we took him in. His passing was a true testament to his life - he was pure love down to his last breath. He was surrounded by love, and even my vet cried. He actually had to leave the room afterwards because it was too much for him. For a dog to have that much of an impact on a vet speaks volumes about Homer's personality and gentle soul.

I just wanted to say thank you for saving him, and thank you for keeping him until he picked me as his mom. I loved him so much, and he changed my life.

He was the best dog in the world, and when I am ready for another dog, Lexee's is the first place I will look.

It's fitting, I think, that Homer is still the "poster dog" on the Lexee's Legacy home page.

We'll all miss him, but I can't tell you all how proud I am of my kid, who took on a task that many had already refused. But the only thing she refused was to give up, and Homer gave us many happy years as a result.

Image notes: These are the last two pictures Esther sent me of Homer; the opening shot was taken the night before he died. For things like this I'll be eternally grateful that we've now both got iPhones.

Skywatch Friday: Stormclouds Gathering

The news has been full of storm stories, including rather stunning videos of the tornado that touched down in nearby Rice, Texas on Sunday. This week's Skywatch photos are of that same storm, but it only grazed us. As it approached, I shot both north and south/southeast, turning 180 degrees alternately: blue skies and white clouds on one side, gathering greyness on the other.

On Saturday, as I waited for the Beloved Spouse to return from east Texas with the tennis team, the tornado sirens went off here, but despite the wind, rain, and chaos, nothing much happened. By the time he got home that night, we'd suffered no more than the usual scattered pecan branches. The next afternoon I decided that the impending drama deserved documentation, and these are the results.

The shot that opens the post shows a slightly different view, toward the southwest. The rest show the contrast between what was going on to the north and south.

As the storm moved up, the sky gradually became darker, but since the sun was shining in other directions, the contrast is more apparent in some of the photos:

To the north, the front line gradually became apparent, but even when it passed through, a small patch of blue was still visible (at the bottom left of the image).

I've resurrected my project to photograph each named full moon for a year, only because I've managed to capture the last two: the Harvest moon on the equinox last month, and the full Hunter's moon last Friday night. This, of course, was the night that the Texas Rangers captured the American League Championship title and headed to the World Series for the first time in the club's history. Buzz from folks who attended the game mentioned the spectacle of fireworks over the stadium lit as much by the full moon as by the park lights. I've shot many a moon over Ranger's Ballpark, so it seemed a fitting astronomical tribute to an historic event. Here's my usual lame effort from the front porch.

The rest of the week didn't go as well. It became apparent on Sunday night that our cat Koko, who's been suffering from lymphoma for several years, was ready to meet his maker. The poor cat looked like a skinned monkey, although he was once so round and fuzzy and black that we named him after Koko the gorilla. He was so thin we could see the blood vessels in his legs when he sat in the sun. He was a pretty valiant cat, and had endured all manner of indignities over the length of his illness.

Our vets do a very sweet thing for clients when a pet is euthanized. They cast its paw print in a little clay heart and present it to the family when they come by to pick up the little cedar box containing the pet's ashes. Unfortunately, the last two years have not been good to our cats, so we now have a collection of four clay hearts--and an entire shelf of a closet devoted to pet urns. One day I'll figure out an appropriate memorial for the back yard and deposit all the remains together.

Koko's demise has produced mixed reactions. I'm glad he's not suffering (we were never sure whether he was in pain, but he certainly seemed to experience embarrassment when he couldn't make it to the cat box), and feel somewhat guilty about the relief that brings. For the past four years we've been caring for and cleaning up after a cat who's never complained and who remained cheerful throughout. Constant medication and litter-box issues have meant no holidays, so his death brings freedom from the burden (and the expense) of maintenance and the ability to take the pups on a camping trip or a family visit. We're down to one easy-to-care-for cat and the two dogs, which is probably an appropriate number of pets for a couple of geezers.

Last night's first game of the World Series didn't help our moods much, with the Rangers' being trounced by the Giants. Here's hoping things go better tonight. Have a happy Skywatch Friday, all, and a pleasant weekend.

The Old Gumbie Cat

The actual time and place at which human beings domesticated cats seems to be in dispute, but pictures of cats appear in Egypt in the Bronze Age, and a burial on Cyprus suggests that cats may have found a place among Neolithic populations--not as early as domesticated dogs, but certainly early on in the process of civilizing ourselves.

The relationship between humans and pets is complex, and we often prefer one species over another for a variety of reasons. Dogs are more companionable by reputation, and cats more aloof, but neither stereotype fits every breed of dog or cat, or any individual animal, for that matter. Take, for example, Biscuit--the affable, large tabby who more or less came with our house when we moved in eight plus years ago.

When I first saw him (and thinking that he might be a pregnant female), these lines from Old Possum occurred to me:

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;

Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits - and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!

and:

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots.
All day she sits beside the hearth or in the sun or on my hat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits - and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!

At the time we had a passel of cats we had rescued from our old rented house in Dallas, as well as a couple of "leftover" pets from my children's younger years--cats they grew up with--and the cat Beloved Spouse and I acquired as a companion for his English Bulldog, Zack when we were living in Chicago. Zack was no longer with us, but we had happily adopted another Bulldog from a friend, whose father had died and whose mother wanted to travel. There were seven animals all together. After all, we had a half acre and a much bigger house, so why not: plenty of room for everyone.

The cats all stayed indoors, so when we worked outside, the only pet who joined us was the dog--until Biscuit (originally "owned" by a couple with a large property just up the street) decided he liked us better, and began to spend most of his time lounging on our cars, or keeping the dog company in the back yard. Worried about his well-being as winter set in, we installed a cat door into the shed, and made him a bed where he clearly spent most of his nights. Every morning, however, he appeared at the back door, just in time for breakfast.

From his girth it was apparent that we weren't the only people in the neighborhood who fed him. But we were the ones who provided the good stuff and ended up taking him to the vet, so, after two of the other cats had died, Biscuit became an indoor-outdoor cat, and an official member of the family (with the blessing of his previous clan). Then, after we lost the Bulldog to cancer and acquired a couple of mutt puppies, Biscuit helped to bring 'em up; he was the only cat who could really hold his own against their exuberance, and didn't mind sharing space with them--although he no longer spent any time in the back yard where the dogs seemed to confuse him with the squirrels.

For the rest of his life, Biscuit would see us off to school and greet us when we returned. He knocked politely on the door to be let in, and waited patiently next to it to be let out. When I worked on the front border he'd come and bask in the sun next to me, or sit on the porch rail to survey his domain. If I went out at night to watch the moon, he'd come along and gaze upward as if he understood what I was doing and took as much pleasure in it as I did.

He kept the shed relatively vermin free, until he got too lazy (and too well fed on pricey holistic cat food) to run after them. They practically had to sacrifice themselves at his feet for him to take the bait, but more than once we had to bury what was left over from an evening's work. Indoors, he especially loved to sit on our laps when we watched movies, attending to the action until he fell asleep, purring loudly.

During these last two weeks, however, his apparently early exposure to to FIV (the cat-version of AIDS) caught up with him, and he began to lose his vigor. He still liked company, and still purred with pleasure when petted, but it was clear that something was wrong. When we took him to the vet this morning we found out just how much had stopped working, and how much he must have been hurting, and decided it was time to say goodbye. He kept purring until the end, and looked rather elegant when he died, as if he were lounging on a cushion in a bordello.

Animals of all sorts, and pets especially, are part of what makes this world pleasurable. We enjoy their company, and learn from them. We admire their grace, or their demeanor, or even their suspicion. All dogs, said Plato, are philosophers. They, like Odysseus's Argo, know who their friends are. Cats share this quality to some extent, although they tend to bestow their friendship somewhat more selectively.

Next week another little cedar box will join those containing the ashes of Biscuit's predecessors. But as much as we've loved the cats who've come before, there really is something special about one who domesticates the humans of his choice, and makes them his friends. No questions asked.

The image from T. S. Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats is from Wikipedia--which includes the text of the poems. The opening image was taken two years ago, on the driveway where Biscuit would present his belly for a rub, by way of greeting.