How My Dog Saved My Life (probably).

It was the end of July and I was walking my dog Chuck. The weather was warm and luscious and we sauntered together slowly down the sidewalk. Suddenly Chuck pulled sideways towards a parked car; there was a cat sulking underneath it. 

It wasn't a hard pull, just an unexpected tug. Chuck is 150 lbs to my 100 lbs, but he's a good walker and I led him easily away and thought nothing more of it.

Why my boobs got to do me like this.

Two days later I felt a pain in my right breast. Not remembering that cat incident, I immediately thought, uh-oh, something's up with the Old Girl. 

My right = Old Girl. My left = Old Maid.

Having had a lump removed from the left breast in my early 40s (turned out to be just a lump) plus being over fifty, I get a mammogram every year. This year I was thinking, "There's a pandemic out there! I'll just skip it, no big deal." But when I got this weird pain, even though I felt no lump, I got worried and went in for the scan and also an ultrasound.

A few days later, the radiology clinic called me back for another scan. The following weeks they called me back for two more "magnifications" and different views. Weirdly, they were focusing only on my left breast, the Old Maid, while completely ignoring the Old Girl.

Next thing I know, the doctor told me I needed a biopsy because I have some micro-calcifications in the Old Maid. You guys: "stereotactic" is a word. A stereotactic biopsy is a thing where you lie face down on a table with a hole in it. It looks like a massage table! Your boob goes in the hole and hangs down (in my case, to the floor). They freeze your tit, and then do the biopsy whilst simultaneously scanning it for accuracy. For the record, it hurts about as much as going to the dentist; a tiny needle prick, some pressure, and that's it. (The next few days were a bit ouchie though. Just like the dentist haha.) 

Around this time I was diagnosed with Old Lady mononucleosis. And tummy troubles exacerbated by my osteoporosis medication (barf). The Huz was away in the UK visiting his mum. My friend Kym was struggling with her cancer. There's a raging pandemic. The world is on fire. And now a looming breast issue. It was a lot.

So it turns out I don't have cancer! I have pre-cancer. Also known as stage zero Ductile Carcinoma In Situ. And I'm having surgery next week to carve that bitch out. Partial mastectomy. It sounds dramatic, and I know it's going to hurt, but I'm not scared. As my doctor said, "We caught it early. This is why we do mammograms." 

I was listening to NPR in the car and there was a medical expert saying that in two to three years, something like 20,000 women were going to die because they delayed their mammograms due to the covid situation. That might've been me. So basically, if Chuck hadn't yanked me, I probably wouldn't have gone for my yearly mammogram. The dangerous micro-calcification clusters would have laid undiscovered until possibly stage 1 or 2 DCIS. Thanks Chuck: you saved my life (probably).

Yes, I still have to get over the wretched mono and tummy troubles as well as surgery and whatever that reveals. But the good news is I have every chance of good results in the future. Also the Old Girl doesn't hurt anymore.

Please tell Chuck what a good boy he is. And if you feel so moved, give a small donation to SOS Quebec Newf Rescue. Don't delay your mammograms!

PS Wear a mask. I don't want my surgery canceled due to Covid overload.

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My Inkling.

I’m grieving hard. I don’t want to forget. Writing it down helps.

I'm not really religious, but he looks so darned cute with these wings.

I love dogs, and I’m especially fond of Newfoundland dogs. I’ve had other dogs before and mourned them at their passing. But Inkling was more than just my dog, he was a support system. I leaned on him because I'm susceptible to so many things including alcoholism, morbid intrusions, and depression. The attention Inkling demanded saved me from spiralling. His solid dependence was my strength. I raised him with the utmost care, using positive reinforcement and force-free training. We went for walks in the forest, and we had daily playtime. I fed him wonderful home-prepared food and treats. I taught him to do some amazing tricks – he was so clever. Inkling never had a punishment, a swat, or a leash jerk. He would not have understood it if I yelled at him. He trusted me. And when he showed signs of fear reactivity to strangers, barking and lunging at them, I rolled up my sleeves, educated myself, and did the work. I counter-conditioned and desensitized him to triggers like strangers, horses, car rides, and the vet. I muzzle-trained him – Inkling loved the muzzle! None of this was easy or quick, but we did it. Our bond deepened, and, over time, he calmed. Some might say I doted on him, but the focus on his needs kept me from veering off the road.

What happened to Inkling? Some yarn got tangled up in some bark and found its way into him. He had emergency surgery to remove the obstruction from his tummy. He didn’t make it. He was only three and a half.

I am plagued with “if only’s” and “what if’s”. I try to keep them at bay but the mind circles round and round, caught in a loop of repeating scenarios where the outcome is different, to make sense of the loss, to cope in some way. One of these scenarios is that, somehow, the yarn from my crochet clung to the back of my trousers and fell away in the garden without me knowing. Thinking this gave me some comfort. I mean, people tell you not to blame yourself, and in my head I know that dogs just eat stuff. But…I had worked so hard to keep him safe, nagging at my kids to pick up their socks, to not bring home gum with xylitol in it, to shut the toilet lid, to keep all the trash bins up out of dog-reach. I had trained Inkling to “drop” and to “leave it” in case we encountered a potential foreign body. In the end I wasn’t able to keep Inkling from ingesting 12 inches of yarn. I never even saw it go in him. I didn’t keep him safe and I will regret this forever.

Everywhere at home, I feel my Inkling. His leash and harness on the footstool; I stop and sniff them when I walk past. Opening the freezer in the laundry room, packed with containers of raw dinners, each one carefully weighed to precisely 2.2 lbs; giant freezer bags filled with home-made treats; tubs of Kong stuffing mixture; and some soft cooked food I prepared for when he would have returned home from the vet because I believed he would live. That freezer is filled with love.

The wooden stand for food and water bowls, the dog bed in my studio, the grooming table in the garage, and the slats of wood that cover up the gaps in the garden fence: my husband made all these things for Inkling. The toys carefully put away, the muzzle I trained him to love, the carpets I’d put down for traction at playtime, so many brushes, and the dog hair in that found its way into everything, including the cookie I’m now munching.

I will miss our quiet bond. The way I communicated my wishes to him, the way I could read him. The subtle nuance of hand gestures, tone of voice, and complex dog signals, the tension of impulse-control and the joy of the release command, together these things made my world good. In the last week of his life, spent in the Intensive Care Unit, Inkling was not triggered. The ICU team were gentle with him, and he allowed all the necessary medical interventions, and there were many, with nary a growl. They could even cuddle him. He was suffering a lot after the surgery but he did not have fear-based anxiety. He was a brave boy and a very good boy.

We were with him. I held Inkling's gigantic head in my hands when the vet gave him the dose, my face down on the floor close to his. I told him we were going to go outside and play. Just like a Newf, he began to snore.

I can’t believe he’s really gone.

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Lost in Space

We like to believe that we keep our dogs on a leash, but the reality is that it is we who are tethered to them.

Inkling left us yesterday; he was only three and a half, but nonetheless a robust 160 lb Newfoundland with a deep and mighty WOOF! He was with me every minute that he was awake and I gave him all the time, care and love a dog could want. In return, he kept me focused, slobbered all over me and let me stroke his beautiful fur.

Rest in peace, Inkling. I am adrift without you.

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Stop PUPPY Biting NOW.

WARNING: Sharp language.

Puppies have milk teeth, did you know that? Indeed they do: tiny teeth that fall out when their adult teeth come in, around 5 months of age. And they use them for everything - eating, playing, communicating. I knew that! But somehow (in my floof-induced stupor) I'd forgotten just how bad it can get. Those motherfuckers are sharp. I'm talking hypodermic-needle-fangs. I'm talking dragon-slicers, piranha-biters, shark-slashers and alligator-gnashers. Basically I'm totally perforated.

I'm trying to look on the bright side here.

And if you think this is bad, you should see The Huz; he foolishly waved his schnoz back and forth in a tantalizing manner in front of the puppy and basically he can now wear that nose-ring he never wanted.

Yeah, yeah, I can hear some of you saying, "it's your own damn fault, spoiling that puppy." Blame the victim, right? Or, "you need to grab his maw with long-handled tongs and tell him NONONONONOBADPUPPY." Because puppies understand tongs and shouting.

"Just whimper like a puppy when he bites you! It will teach him that biting hurts!" Um, yeah, it worked at first, but since Inkling snagged The Huz on the hooter, the subsequent howling and bloodletting tipped the beast over the edge. Mad dog!

Things have improved somewhat since I discovered my little newf doggie will do anything for tiny bits of cooked chicken, also known as ...puppycrack. He's basically a total slut for the stuff! I carry some around in a little pouch on my belt and give him a morsel every time he doesn't snack on my ankles and fingers. He certainly has me well trained.

It's a good thing he's cute; his survival depends on it.


Comments are here.

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Getting a Puppy? Read This.

In the past three weeks I have seen more poop than you can shake a stick at. It's no secret that I have got myself a little Newfoundland puppy boy and YES, he is the uncommonly remarkable source of all the poop. Not only is it (finally) of perfect colour and consistency, this little guy can really churn it out. The food goes in - the poop comes out. Totally magical.

Inkling is my third dog, and my second Newf. But it's been over a decade since I had a puppy around. Knowing I had to get my self, my family and my house ready, I tried to prepare, tried to remember, did a lot of reading. However, nothing can really prepare you for a new baby. And that's what having a puppy is like. It's exactly like having a baby.

Because not only do you have to feed it, and teach it and play with it, you also must care for it when it's sick, and be patient with it when it's wrecking stuff, and it's chewing on your arm with those needle sharp puppy-fangs, and you haven't had enough sleep, and you're worrying whether or not you're doing it right. You forget to pluck your eyebrows, you wear the same clothes every day, showers become a distant memory, and makeup seems pointless.

And deep in the corners of your mind, because you've done this twice before, you're thinking, "in fifteen years I will have to let you go", and you just cannot bear it.

In short, you have to love the dang fur-ball floof-baby. Time to pick up some poop.

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Back to school.

My youngest child is thirteen years old and going into Grade 8. He wasn't too stressed about today being the first day back to school. The boy asked me to walk him "halfway" there.

I decided to take the dog with us.

And he was off...

I watched him until he disappeared, half hoping he would turn to wave. He didn't.

Motherhood? It's all about letting go. You gotta keep cutting that umbilical cord, over and over and over. I'm so glad I brought the dog with me.

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Spring. And dogs.

Ah yes! Spring in Montreal! The long hard winter is over and the snow melt reveals some pretty amazing gems.

I say “gems” but I really mean (dare I say it) ...dog poop. Let's stick with "gems" shall we?

Usually I pick up after the dog soon after she goes out in the garden. But when the temperature drops, the idea of venturing out into sub-zero Canadian winter in my pajamas is less than appealing. So as the dog lays her eggs, I let the snow fall and cover it.

I warn the kids of the dangers of building a snowman. I wait patiently until spring. I look out the window and admire the pure, white, freshly fallen blanket of snow masking the evil that lurks beneath.

The spring thaw yields layer upon layer of treasure. It resembles an archaeological dig: the snow melts enough to expose a few sparkling jewels at a time and I remove each layer over a period of weeks.

It’s normally hard going because the gems are cold and soggy; some even need to be dug out of the ice with a trowel.

An emphatically unglamorous activity.

This year however, I decided to refrain until all the snow melted. I waited for a dry day (today). Armed with my usual protective gear...

...and a zillion plastic bags... I went out to face what would surely be a bumper crop.

To my surprize, there were only half as many and the ones I found were half-sized hard little nuggets. Also, being dry, they didn’t smell.

Why, in twenty years of living with dogs, am I only just now discovering this?

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Christmas Mojo.

Caption this drawing:

And have yourself a merry Little (insert seasonal-type celebration)!

PS. Hugs are the best.

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To iPad or not to iPad...that is the Question.

I've been toying with the idea of getting an iPad. I mainly want to use it as a portable digital sketch book to create rough drawings for my blog, on the fly. Before I dish out the money the Board of Directors in my head want to know what the drawing apps can do. So I borrowed my mom's iPad, got myself a Wacom stylus and loaded up on apps. As far as duplicating my blog style, which is drawn in Adobe Flash, this is how it panned out so far.

I started with Sketchbook Pro - it felt good, though it's not a vector program. I don't mind it too much as a sketchy version of my blog drawings. What do you think? It does have a lot of 'feel'... and I did eventually discover the all-important-purple ha ha.

And then I tried a vector program called iDraw. The pencil tool only gives a line with uniform thickness.

So I gave the brush tool a shot - it can do thick and thin, but only calligraphy style. I don't like it. I found it difficult to control the select tool in iDraw.

Adobe Ideas was actually cool. It's super simple to use and the brush feels amazing. I think it came closest to the look of my blog style. But it's a little too simple for my needs. There's not nearly enough layers, there's no way to merge layers and there's no way to grab the whole image and move it around.

Then I went back to Sketchbook Pro and did this drawing of my dog. Holy crap this thing is fun!!!

So what's the verdict - should I spring for an iPad or what? Do you guys think you can handle the occasional post done in a sketchy style?

Questions that need answers!

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Deeds & Magpie!

Little Deeds doesn't know it yet but he's getting an updated version of the Dog4Deeds drawing with Magpie on a t-shirt.

Don't know who Deeds is? He's a little boy with autism. And Magpie is his autism service dog - she keeps an eye on him. It was nearly a year ago that Caryn Haluska AKA @ihave7monsters recruited me to help Deeds' family. Back then, none of us knew what kind of dog would be found for Deeds, so I drew a Golden Retriever. Turns out Magpie is a pretty Black Lab!

I'm still so proud of what we achieved together. It was one of those special social media moments where so many folks came together to help someone. You know who you are.

Don't tell Deeds about the t-shirt!

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Crapola.

Warning: Dog business.

I came home earlier this evening to find poor Miss Doggie locked in our bedroom. No idea how this happened. I managed to find the one key in a drawer full of keys and let her out. She tore past me, raced down the stairs and didn't even say thanks. Sheesh.

The good news? The dog hadn't actually peed in the room. The bad news...?

CRAPOLA!

I know, it's a drawing of a turd. It's late, I'm tired, and turds are funny. As long as you can't smell them. And look, I think it likes you.

The brown crayons were @BigDaddySaid's idea!

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