In memory of the princess

This is my second non-movie based post. It was more difficult to write, but equally necessary. I like to tell stories, and any pet owner will tell you stories upon stories of their furry family members, even when you don't ask. This process of personifying pet antics helps solidify them as a part of your family; part of your life.  You love them like family, and you tell those same stories, even after they've passed. These stories are about some of my furry family through the years, and about our littlest princess, Eleanor.

The Princess

Eleanor was a soft wirehair runt of a small dachshund. Were she well bred, she'd be considered a runt of a rabbit dachshund. My wife found her online through a local breeder and was immediately and irrevocably hooked. She had already saved up her pennies. She begged to get this dog for two full weeks non-stop. So one day, we went "just to meet her". She, of course, would be coming home with us.

I'm supposed to hunt you and very small badgers.

We met Elle at a farm with a few dozen baying dachshunds of various sizes and shapes. The breeders needed no alarm system. Neither did the rest of the county with that noise. After being invited inside to another small pack of howling hounds, we took a seat on a well worn couch and waited for our chance to meet the star. She walked into the room smaller than my foot. We asked about her health, shots, and if she was housebroken. On cue, she peed on the rug, then sprinted around the room 3 times to show off how proud she was.

She was very good at "you can't see me"...mostly.

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My first pet was a 20 pound behemoth of a cat found sneaking around Satan's barn. He was too pretty and stupid to be an outdoor cat, and too angry towards humanity to be an indoor cat, so my mom decided to bring him home. Evinrude spent the majority of his 17 years as a hate-and-kidney-stone-filled bastard, with just enough lovable moments that you forgave him. Which was likely part of his plan.

Evinrude would claim all of your attention (and lap. Did I mention he was big?) for a predetermined amount of time. Any deviation from the love clock in his head was non-compliance and would be met with punishment. He had a vicious mean streak with the muscle and foul language to back it up. I learned the F-bomb from this cat. Yes, he had figured out hard K sounds.

This isn't him. Once Evinrude was outside he'd freeze. He just wanted someone to yell at him to get back inside.

This cat was likely a descendant from Chuck Norris' beard trimmings. We put him on a strict regiment of super-de-duper diet food. He gained 2 pounds. It took a patrol of ex-KGB trained bouncers-turned-dog groomers to shave his billowy and easily tangled white fur in the summer. After he was sedated. Twice. The calmest this fiend ever was came after he found his Christmas present one year. He stalked, slayed, and ate an entire pound of catnip; wrapping paper, plastic and all. To put that in perspective, go eat 5% of your body weight in raw marijuana in a single sitting, with a roll of wrapping paper to wash it down.

Don't. You would most certainly die.

The beast that was my first pet was in renal failure for the better part of 6 years. He was too stubborn and too mean and too immovable to let Death try anything.

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Miss Eleanor had a bark larger than she was. For the first few months, her bark would knock her over backwards. Eventually she learned how to plant herself and let her big brother go first. If we didn't mow the lawn at least weekly, the grass would be taller than her. Same with shoveling snow in the winter. She loved it all. If she got really excited about something in the yard, real or perceived, she would bound through the yard like Pepé Le Pew.

She was only slightly less stinky. Slightly.

Elle was the only dachshund I know that loved the water. Dachshunds were built for tunneling and hunting ground game, but Elle wasn't really built for either. These features do no justice to their canoe shaped bodies, which sink like stone. I've never seen another dachshund that wants to be wet. Elle stumbled upon her love for the water on a hike one day. Granted, this love only went up shoulder high, but she would march right in to water of any quality just to walk around drinking the face-high liquid, as if she thought she was a fish trying to breathe.

The smile says it all

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My family and I met the sisters "just to meet them". I was claimed by Allison, my sister by Cinderella. They, of course, came home with us that day. Mom would defend this decision to Dad by saying "well we couldn't just take one! They're sisters! And they're so little.". Dad tolerated the increase in cat population because there was no way they could combine to be as troublesome as Evinrude.

Ally and her sister Cinder came into our home as kittens. They would be dubbed "scoop kittens" by a friend because you could easily scoop them up one handed. This would not last. Forklift kittens would be a more accurate description.

I'm a dainty flower. You gonna tell me otherwise?

Ally was a cat with many quirks. For the first few years, it was her job to ensure Cinder's ears were clean. Abundantly clean. Stand on Cinder's neck and hold her down clean. Tackle Cinder from across the house clean. We began to wonder if Ally though ears needed to be wet to function. You could say "dry ears" and she would start hunting for Cinder. Cinder did not appreciate this, but Ally could throw her weight around so it mattered little.

She also had a thing for my clean socks. Namely, they had to die in a fire. Chasing  my folded socks across the room and murdering them was really the only exercise this cat ever cared for. That and moving at the speed of light when the kibble was being poured.

Nothing to see here, human.

Lastly, she hated my wife. More than slow kibble. More than dry ears. Nearly as much as my socks. Allison hated my wife. You know how girls in sitcoms get when they're being jealous? They go way over the top with some hysterical freak out and then some other girlfriend or side male character calls them "catty" and they storm off to shoot daggers from across the room. Those writers pay us a royalty check every month for the inspiration found in the way Allison treated my wife.

It's one of the many reasons I never have to watch shows like this. That and you know, I'm a guy.

Allison eventually had a stroke, combined with some other health issues made life increasingly unpleasant for her. But she wasn't going to leave me in the hands of some other woman.

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Eleanor loved the leash. She always wanted to lead the way, until she was distracted by all the things that were out in the world. Just getting the leash out would produce a one dog three ring circus act of running, jumping, standing, barking, squeaking, licking, and impatience that made those videos of excited kids about to go to Disney World look like disgruntled teenagers at a family reunion.

And her bandana, because she looked dapper

Or the sweater grandma knitted for her to match her brother

She also loved eating. We'd have to add water to her food just to keep her from inhaling the bowl. She would spend just as long cleaning every bowl in the house as everyone else would eating. She'd eat anything, especially if her brother already had (it's like he's making a free snack in the yard!).

And the bone. Always the bone.

She loved her family. Loki, the biggest cat, was her personal chew toy. He spent years thinking the ground was dog-breath flavored lava; coming out only once she was crated. Puck was her moving target, and they would chase each other until Puck scaled a bookshelf and laughed at her.

So close!

Edgar was her oldest brother. She wanted nothing more than to be with him and do what he was doing. She would go as far as to stretch out directly on top of him, even in the hottest days.

Jackson, the newest bald puppy, would be her little brother. She felt it was her duty to keep an eye on him, and clean his face whenever he forgot to do it himself (he keeps forgetting to do it!). She would show him how to play with his toys (you bite the eyes first! Then get 'em where they squeak, right in the crotch!). She even showed him where to pee before going to mom's work for a check up (It's this tree in the parking lot, so everyone can see you!)

She loved her mom and dad too. The best things in the world could always be made better with mom or dad around. Which made the last few days the hardest.

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Miss Eleanor was in bad shape a few months back. Food wasn't as great as it used to be. We tried everything. We bought new food. We changed foods. We changed it again. Finally my wife brought her in to work and got the bad news. She had multiple cancerous growths throughout her intestines. Too many to operate, too many thousands of dollars to use chemo, which would only be an extended stall for the same result.

Prednisone is a steroid that works wonders for a time. Elle was right back to her "old" self within a day. Nothing could stop her. One of the side effects to Pred is an increased appetite. She'd eat everything all day. This is when she discovered her love of pretzels.

Things were so well for so long, I forgot there was even an issue. Unfortunately, this was always a matter of time, not cures. When cancer eventually solves for the steroids, everything comes crashing down. This was reality at its harshest. In what seemed like overnight, the world was broken. By Saturday morning, Eleanor was dying.

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I'd never owned dogs until I married my wife. To watch one when it's in that poor condition is beyond heart-wrenching. Elle could barely move. Wouldn't eat, wouldn't drink, wouldn't even take the bait as Puck ran around her. She was small, so she found several places to hide. She didn't want to be seen this way.  We hoped for it to be just a bad day. We wished this was just an unpleasant reminder that the end would come, but not for a while yet. We were fortunate to have the time that we did.

The decision was clear, and so early Monday evening we brought her in to my wife's practice one final time. She still wagged her tail when I got her leash out, but we had to carry her most of the way. She peed on her tree, and we went inside. I had not been the decision maker for any of my previous pets. Nor had I been present for the euthanasia. My wife's co-workers were all very considerate, and the process has been perfected over the years to be painless for the animal. My wife held her, and I pet her head while the neon pink shot was administered. So little changed, and so did everything.

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There is a difference between caring for yourself, caring for your family, and caring for an animal. Domestic animals always need our help. They look to us for everything. Sometimes, they look to us for food, for friendship, for that one itchy spot to get scratched for as long as we can handle it. And sometimes, they look to us for help. Evinrude was too old and too stubborn to let go on his own. Allison was too in charge and too jealous to let go. Eleanor loved everything too much to stop. All of them needed our help.

To take an animal into your home is to accept that one day, you may be faced with this kind of a decision. For me, this was both the easiest and most challenging conclusion to reach. I can understand why some would choose to forgo this inevitable hardship. But I can't imagine what my life would be like without the experiences that led me to these stories. And Eleanor's short time with us was an experience like no other.

Thanks, little girl