Needless to say, February kicked my ass and I am not ok.
There were still many good times in the first half of the month, which I'll catch up on some other time. In the meantime, I'll dump photos and try to focus on the positive.
| Having a bouncy colt is a good distraction. This month, he discovered the joy of mud. |
To the person who dumped the unneutered young pit bull at the Trenton boat launch in July 2013,
You know the one. Black. Little white toes, white chest, the narrow stripe on his face, perfect for tracing your finger from his nose to that ticklish spot between his eyes. Well. Maybe you don't know that.
I hope this letter doesn't find you well. In fact, I'm not sure I hope it finds you at all. You don't deserve to know how he turned out. You don't deserve to know how happy we made him. How happy he made us.
How did you, how could you, just throw him out the door of that van and drive away, watching him run after you in the rearview? Or maybe you didn't even look back as he tried to catch you. He was loyal like that. So faithful. After that day, that dog did not leave my side for eleven and a half years. Eleven years, seven months, two weeks.
He was so scared when our neighbor scooped him up and put him in his own truck. "Just don't bite me, ok, buddy?" But he didn't bite. He never bit anyone. He just wagged his tail and gave Harry the benefit of the doubt. He gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Even you who abandoned him when...
...what? Was he a Christmas puppy that got too big? Did you have to move? Did your girlfriend not like him? Did he scare the mailman?
I'm being unkind. Maybe you lost everything. Maybe there was a very good reason you couldn't be bothered to place him with a rescue or a friend. Something. Julio would assume there was a very good reason.
Oh yeah, we named him Julio because....
Me and Julio down by the [boat] yard.
He learned his name right away, though I suspect you might have called him Skipper. For a long time, he would wake from a dead sleep if he heard you say it. Skipper? Wag wag. After a while, he forgot, though. He became Julio. Ho Ho Bear. Von Boof. Dude. Buddy.
Not Buddy. Julio.
But he learned so much more. He learned that car rides were ok again. More than that. He learned to love car rides. Windows down, head hanging out, ears flapping in the wind, nose sniffing a mile a minute.
He learned that humans have cheese. Some humans will share an entire block of cheese with you if you give them some of the Fun Juice at the lake house. Or if you just make big, sad eyes. Or if you thump your tail. Or if you just happen to be in the line of sight at the right moment. Or if you talk to their coworkers just right in a Teams meeting. Or their friends during Zoom yoga when the pandemic strikes.
I'm getting ahead of myself. A lot happened in eleven years, seven months, and two weeks.
You see, Harry called us while we were at the grocery store. The soup aisle. "Do you have room for a foster?" he asked.
I said no.
But there were no other good options. We couldn't just leave him. He'd get hit by a car. Or worse. The shelter wasn't really an option either. Did you know that about 40% of dogs don't get adopted? The statistics are worse for certain dogs. Black dogs. Pit bulls. Dogs in more urban areas.
So we took him in, introduced him to our other dog. Let him up on the couch.
We took him to the vet. Got him neutered. Got him up to date on his shots. Got him microchipped in case he ever got lost. You know. Lost. Where the dog is accidentally misplaced. Not dumped with no food because it wasn't convenient to keep him.
We taught him how to sit, stay, lay down, leave it. Go in the crate. That one was hard. He wanted to be with us. But he did it. Because he was a Good Dog. We taught him all the things that a dog needs for success. To find a good home.
We listed him through the local rescue (the one in your back yard that would have helped you find a place if you actually cared).
And we found him a home. A good home. A great home. A home in the country with a little old lady and a big yard and other pets to keep him company.
And then I cried because I couldn't stand the idea of being away from him, of not seeing his big, brown eyes looking lovingly up at me, of not feeling his weight on the blanket between us, then under the blanket between us. I couldn't imagine my life without him.
So we kept him. We told the little old lady with the country cottage that he had found a forever home. And he did.
It wasn't always easy. The learning curve was steep and we were fighting the lack of socialization and training. What did you do? Keep him in the basement with just the TV for company? He did love to watch TV. I've never seen a dog that seemed to follow the plot of the movie like Julio did. He loved watching Heartland (all the animals!) He did not love the zombie dogs in Resident Evil (you don't talk to humans like that!)
Sometimes I wish we got him as a puppy. I bet he was a cute puppy.
But he met every day with gratitude and wide-eyed wonder.
A snack? For me?
A blanket? For me?
A toy? For me?
And he learned. He learned to tug. He learned to snuggle his sister. He learned to comfort me when I was sad. To make his dad laugh with his antics. He learned you can't chase horses (or chickens, or cats, or... what the heck, you guys?) He learned to 'get the stretch' and 'smile' and 'talk talk'. He learned to go hiking and camping and that the cheese drawer is over here on the right.
He never learned to fetch. He got the chasing part. Not so much the bringing it back. That's ok though.
He learned about swimming. He learned about sunning himself on the back deck and watching the world go by. He learned to tip toe around small children so they wouldn't be scared and so he wouldn't knock them over.
That winter, he learned about snow. He loved snow. He loved to run, full speed, with his head down and his mouth open, like a big, furry snow plow.
Julio traveled more than I'm betting you and that van did. He went as far north as Maine and as far south as North Carolina. He saw waterfalls, ponds, streams, and the secret beach at the back of the reservoir. He saw Mount Washington, the Adirondacks, Spruce Knob.
He was in our wedding. My black tuxedo dog alongside Mike's white Herbie. His and her pit bulls.
And then we almost lost him. Maybe you knew there was something wrong. Maybe there had been signs and you couldn't afford the vet bills. We were young and just starting off and we couldn't afford them either. But we found a way. Countless vet visits later, we found the root of the problem. His spleen was bad. Twisted over on itself. Causing awful pain.
The vet told us he needed surgery. Right away. To avoid a gruesome death. They told us to say goodbye in case he didn't make it. We both cried. But the vets were miracle workers and they pulled him through it. He came out the other side, minus one organ. We slept on the living room floor while he recovered. And then we bought a king sized mattress for the bedroom and left that on the floor for easy access.
He loved that bed. Most of all when we were all in it together, but also when he had it to himself. That's when he would roll on his back and kick his feet in the air and roar with pure joy at just being alive.
There was so much joy. There was joy in chewing, in solving puzzles, in learning new tricks. There was joy in laying so close to the campfire I worried he'd catch. There was joy in roasty toastin' it on the back deck and then coming in to cool off on the kitchen floor. There was joy in catching cold water straight out of the hose, or snowballs in the air, or snacks from across the room. There was joy in the window fan on warm spring days. Insta-sniff as he read the world around him on the wind.
The years passed and the memories piled up. Countless ride camps. Countless visitors. Countless biscuits, pizza crusts, bowls to lick.
He and his sister were inseparable. Yin and yang. Lying together, running together, giving the neighbors a scare as they sprinted across the yard, teeth bared, making T-rex noises, but all in good fun. They rolled in mud puddles, explored the back woods, ran blissfully across the beach, side by side.
Julio was Herbie's adopted brother, favorite playmate, and fierce protector. He wrestled with her, let her win at tug, and tolerated her endlessly licking his face and ears.
We said goodbye to Herbie in 2021, and Julio sat faithfully by her side while she crossed the rainbow bridge. With a sad sniff and a gentle nudge, he seemed to grasp that she was no longer with us. We worried about him. We talked about getting another dog to keep him company.
But Julio, ever the survivor, was ready to be an only child. He relished the one on one attention. The extra snacks. The ability to have toys his sister wouldn't let him have. He kept Mister Bull for the rest of his life.
A mere four months later, we got devastating news. What started as a cough and a slight weakness going up the stairs turned out to be cancer, and not the local, slow-growing kind we'd previously had removed from his back paw. This type was terminal. It had already spread, metastasized, to his lungs, his lymph nodes. Statistically, he had a few months to live.
But Julio was never one for statistics. He was the king of beating the odds. With the help and guidance of a good friend, who just so happened to be a board certified veterinary oncologist, we came up with a plan. We drained the bank accounts again. It was too late for surgical intervention, but we did chemo and radiation, and the whole hospital cheered late at night when he emerged from his final round, wearing his literal victory cape. We hoped that pulling out all the stops would buy him another six months. Maybe a year.
He got almost three. Three years of being absolutely spoiled rotten. But it wasn't just the quantity that was amazing. It was the quality. Julio lived every minute to the fullest.
In the last three years, he continued to travel, to savor life, to meet each day with gratitude.
For a long time, he did daily walks at the local park. He memorized all the best places to sniff. He watched the squirrels. He waded in the creek through record high water and record drought. He wrestled with his arch nemesis, a stubborn tree root.
When the rocks at the park became too much for his aging hind end to handle, he still walked the pastures at home, the trails close to the places we camped, the many corners of various endurance rides on the east coast.
As time passed, his gait slowed, his urge to chase and jump faded. Stairs required a little assistance.
I got you, buddy.
Not buddy. Julio.
Still, Julio never stopped discovering new things to take joy in. He discovered the comfort of camping chairs (and promptly stole mine from under me). He discovered the Hi Tie, to better watch the world go by. He even discovered that other dogs were actually not a threat at all and could share the circle around the camp fire.
In the last year, things slowed down. The walks became shorter, but no less sweet. We spent less time exploring and more time napping in the sun. We visited some of our favorite peaks for the last time, taking in one last sunset at the hang glider launch, splashing in the reservoir for a final time. He spent an entire long weekend off leash in a field in the Moshannon Forest, sniffing, snacking, and napping under the fall colors and the twinkling stars. Many of his favorite humans visited and he greeted each one with an enthusiastic thump of his tail.
Even as we planned the next season of camping and carpeted the apartment for better traction, we knew he might not make it through the winter.
Last week, our warrior, our companion, our absolute best friend lost his battle with time. The side effects of aging became too much. His body started to shut down.
Even still, we did not abandon him. We called Lap of Love, the army of veterinary professionals with the hardest and most important job of all, helping our beloved friends pass peacefully to the other side.
And he did. He passed peacefully, at home, on his favorite spot on the couch, with me holding him with my entire body. I held him as he took his final breath and his heart stopped. After you abandoned him, he was never alone again. He lived a life full of adventure, wonder, joy, and love.
You probably haven't thought about this dog in eleven years, seven months, and two weeks, but I will think about him every day for the rest of my life. I will think about the way he looked not into my eyes, but into my soul. I will remember the way his tail would wiggle under the blanket when he heard ice cubes rattling in my glass, signaling the next round of snacks. I will think about the way he pressed his chin to my thigh and let me hold his paw like he was human. I will never forget the tufts of hair between his paw pads, the feel of his cold nose on my skin, the weight of his body between us under the blankets. I will hear him yipping happily in his sleep, paws twitching as he dreamed of all the things we can't chase.
You couldn't even look in the rearview as you drove away, but I am looking for him everywhere. At my feet while I work, on the couch when I relax, on the deck when it's sunny, in the bed when it's cold. I look for him when I wake up and when I crawl into bed at the end of the day. I look for him when I make breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. When I get out of the shower and when I come home. When I'm driving and the windows are down.
He had a good life. A long life. A full life. Despite you.
So I hope this letter doesn't find you. But if it does, I want you to know we picked up your abandoned dog and gave him everything you didn't. I will miss my buddy forever.
Not buddy. Julio.
As some of you have noticed, I haven't been posting. It is rare that I find myself struggling for words, and usually when I do, it's not good news. This is no exception.
Last week, after outliving every prognosis, Julio's body finally gave up. On Sunday, he slept most of the day. On Monday, we started to see signs of end stage kidney failure. On Thursday, I called Lap of Love, hoping for a same day appointment. On Friday, at 11am, Julio passed peacefully on our couch. I was cradling him, my little spoon, and I felt his heart stop as the amazing vet pressed the plunger to free him from a body that repeatedly tried to fail an animal that I can only describe as my soul mate.
It was definitely time and he enjoyed dino nuggies, tater tots, a steak, and (finally) a piece of chocolate before he passed. I know we gave him the best life and that he had more adventures than most dogs. I know we did the right thing and that there was nothing more to be done. I still feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest.
I never found the strength to write a tribute to Herbie when she passed, and this hurts even worse. I have many good things to blog about from the last two weeks, but right now... I just need space.
Goodnight, my sweet boy. I hope you are running free with your sister and that we meet again some day. I will not forget you as long as I live. Thank you for showing me a love like no other. I miss you so much...
Sandy and I got together on Sunday.
There was some trail riding.
There were some shenanigans.
Mike and I have a rule of thumb around here. We call it the one motorcycle per horse rule. It's a joke. Mostly. Kind of. Maybe not. In any case, I got a baby horse and then Mike got a dirt bike to even out the score. (Lucy= supermoto, Booger= sport bike, Chip= dirt bike) The whole idea is that Mike can come with me when I condition in the Pine Barrens and ride the sand trails on his bike while I clip clop around on Booger (or whoever). He can also bring the bike camping and ride trails and/or gravel roads as the laws allow. This dream has been a long time coming.
Going into winter was not the ideal time to get a motorcycle, but his favorite dealer let him know that this was the last year for the model he wanted. Long story short, they pulled some strings and got him the last one in the northeast that checked all the boxes and wasn't a California model (whatever that is). So Mike brought the bike home. Then the holidays happened, it snowed, etc.
Last weekend, Mike made some small modifications to the trailer to securely transport the dirt bike in the passenger horse slot. We loaded the bike and the horse, and headed down to Colliers Mills for Mike's first official trail ride with the new gal. (Meanwhile, I took Lucy and took down my NACMO course.)
Of course, I wasn't going to miss a chance to have Mike take pictures of Lucy and the baby while he was at the barn. We killed two birds with one stone and I took Lucy out to pony Chip. (It's rare all three horses get worked in one day.) This was Chip's third time being ponied and he's being very good about it. He also seems to enjoy it. Lucy? Maybe not so much. She gets compensated for her trouble in the form of extra snacks, however. Mike took a ton of pictures (nearly 300), but we were only out there for 20 minutes (lest anybody think I'm working my weanling into the ground). Here is a not-so-small sampling of my favorites.
I hope y'all are ready for a couple dozen nearly identical photos of my horse in her new harness and cart. On Saturday, I didn't have much of a game plan. The day started off incredibly windy, but cleared up later on. I did not have a riding buddy (though Mike offered to come do whatever I wanted). It was technically Booger's turn, but I wanted to take it easy on her after her puffy leg thing last week. Mike suggested bringing the camera to the barn and getting updated photos of everyone. I will never say no to that! Mike took over 400 of these so you should all be glad I narrowed it down. (Best of all, Booger looked forward and sound for the duration of our drive, and her legs felt normal afterwards. Phew!)
| I love her expression in this one. She's so bright-eyed. This was Booger's second time in the blinders. She is being very good and they definitely make her less reactive to my movements in the cart (something she did not mind in the jog cart). It is taking some getting used to. I have always driven her in an open bridle and she likes to be able to see her surroundings. I may go back to the open bridle, but I think this is a good skill set to have (and blinders are mandatory in some forms of competition... not that we're competing in anything any time soon.) On a breezy winter afternoon after most of two weeks off, she was definitely sensitive to things appearing suddenly in her field of vision. I'm interested to see what she thinks of driving on trail with and without the blinkers. (I wonder if a Kant See Back bridle will be a good option...) |
| I couldn't pick just one preview image. I love how balanced and uphill she looks in this one. She looks relaxed and happy, and I really enjoy driving her. |