RIP, Rox. 2003-2010

No more excited barks as I enter my house, welcoming me home from the grocery store or a Zumba class. No more pitter-patter underfoot as I cook dinner, slurping up spilled wine and spaghetti sauce. No more furry, living and breathing throw pillow on my bed, burrowing under the covers at night and resting in the crook of my knees. My freakin' dog is gone. I took him to the vet last Friday morning, and he never came home. Rox has moved on to doggy heaven.

Because I've shared so much about Rox in the few shorts weeks I've been a blogger, I feel compelled to share his last chapter.....

A month ago, Rox had surgery to remove kidney stones. The doctor did the best she could with the mess inside, but it was a rough recovery, and as we now know, he never did truly recuperate (Read post from 2/24 for full synopsis). After being in and out all day last Thursday, I noticed around dinner time that Rox was not acting normal. When I let him out to do his business, I watched closely to make sure all was good there. It wasn't, and immediately I had flashbacks. Can he really have kidney stones again? Already? After being on his special diet? What's a doggy-mom to do? I was prepared to call the vet in the morning. By 9pm that night, the poor guy was pacing and trying to lay down in the oddest of places. Never able to get comfortable, he would whine, cry, and make all sorts of terrible, painful noises. I called the vet's office, hoping to leave a message and hear from someone over night. Never did. By 4am, Rox either finally fell asleep, or just didn't have anything left for complaining. He was quiet for a few hours, laying under my bed (which he only does when he's in trouble or not feeling well). I called the vet and she had me bring him in.

I really felt in my gut that this was it. He looked so sick and tired. I remembered how difficult the previous surgery and recovery was for him, and wondered if going through it all again was even humane. The doctor looked at him, and I could tell in her kind eyes that she was fearful of the same thing. We talked, and her suggestion was to put him under, take a look inside, and if things looked bad, we let the poor dog go. I questioned her about letting the kids come in after school, or me coming back to be with Rox as he slipped away, but she explained that there would be no reason to bring him out of the anesthesia if it was his time. Through my tears (and face contortions), I told her I understood.

How does this lady do this everyday? Tell people when it's time to let go? I'm the one who refers to her pet as "freakin' dog" and makes fun of people who put pics of their animals in frames on their desks (you know the ones, sans kids). I never referred to, or considered my dog my "fourth child." And yet, here I am, bawling my eyes out at the thought of losing him. I needed to call Big Daddy for backup and comfort. I called his office and explained the sit(uation). I told him I would put him on speaker phone so Rox could hear him. After the longest pause ever....Big Daddy choked out his goodbye. I spent the next five minutes holding my baby, hugging him, telling him what a good doggie he was and how much we loved him. I also told him that he had lived a good life, and if he needed to, he could leave us now and rest. It's weird. I remember telling my grandpa the same thing years ago as he slept in his hospital bed. It was the last time I saw him alive, too.

I was in my kids' school gym, setting up decorations for the next night's big fundraising event when I got the call. Doc informed me about ill-placed scar tissue, the risk of infection, etc., etc. I thanked her for all she had done, and told her to proceed with the most humane decision. She said she was glad we took the time to look, so we knew without a doubt, it was indeed the best thing for Rox. I hung up my cell, walked into a backstage closet, and again, bawled my eyes out.

Big Daddy came home early to help me break the news to the kids. I won't go into too much detail here. Of course, they were very upset and there were more tears. MT blinked back his tears, and quickly assumed the role of "cheer everyone up" guy for the rest of the night. I didn't realize how strong he is. I have forbidden any and all books, movies, and tv specials having to do with dogs for the time being. I think Hong Kong Phooey would be too much for us right now - Marley & Me (currently playing on HBO) would surely send us into hysterics.

Sunday, the decorating committee again called me to the school gym - this time for clean-up. I spent two and a half hours undoing everything we had done over the last two months. Exhausted, both mentally and physically, I walk in the house (ungreeted) and find not much has been done since I left. I'm wondering why cereal boxes and bowls are still sitting on the table when it's lunchtime. ZuZu pops into view and begins talking in her really high "I'm excited" voice:

ZuZu: Mom, I cleaned my room! Come look. It's totally organized!

(she emphasizes this word, knowing how happy the thought of it makes me).

Me: Okay, let me just have a bite of this tomato pie. I'm starving! Did you guys have cereal for lunch?

ZuZu: No. But Mom, come see my room. Nobody else can see it until you see it.

Me: Okay, okay. I'm excited to see, just give me a minute to throw this in the oven. (translation: I just spent over two hours pouring out old, stale beer and disassembling centerpieces. Not really interested in your sock drawer right this minute).

I'm standing outside her door, and ZuZu makes me close my eyes. She tugs on my hands as we walk into her room, over her shaggy rug, and onto the other side of the room. This is far away from her sock drawer. What gives?

ZuZu: Okay, open your eyes!



Me: What the - ?!?



Freakin' hamster.

Time to Share the Story About How My Male Dog Acquired a Va-Jay-Jay

My dog has had a rough month. Short story long.....

I've briefly introduced you to the family pet - Rox. A 6-pound Poo-Chi. 50% Toy Poodle, 50% Chihuahua (which took me, like, 3 years to learn how to spell), 100% pain in my arse (," she said, lovingly.") I know, I know. All you "Pet Owners of the Year" are wondering how much trouble can a six-pound, non-shedding dog be? Well, he's no Marley, I'll give you that. But he has chewed his way through many shoes, toys, and loose rug strings. Those, however, are common dog issues that one would expect. What I wasn't ready for was his homosapien tendencies at manipulation. The dog is smarter than my 9-year old in this department. Rox has been known to bark at the door until we let him out, hide behind a bush pretending to urinate, and wait to come back in until we offer him a snack. In fact, he'll even run and bark at imaginary creatures, just to force our hand with the running-from-the-kitchen-spatula-a'wavin'-in-a-panic-that-he's-terrorizing-a-neighbor-"ROX, COME GET A SNAAAACK!!" He thinks he's so clever. Well, it was all fun and games, until one day....

Poor Roxy was sick. Just wasn't himself. Stopped eating and drinking. Strained terribly while trying to do his business. A neighbor saw him and said, "Oh boy, I hope nothing's blocking the way, there. That could cost ya." What the - ?? Blockage? What could he have possibly eaten that could be stuck in there? He's over the whole chewing things that aren't food. I called the vet and gave them the lowdown. They wanted to see him stat.

Initial examination revealed nothing. No blockage according to that handy-dandy thermometer the vet whipped out of nowhere. Thankfully, that six seconds was more uncomfortable for me than Rox. On to the x-ray machine. They swept up Rox and left me sitting there, wallowing in my mommy-guilt. I wasn't sure how, but I was quite certain his suffering was my fault. Ten minutes later, the vet comes back with the answer. "Right problem, wrong end," she said triumphantly. Then she held up an x-ray and pointed to a few circlish dots. "Kidney stones."

Seriously? My dog has kidney stones? Weeell, of course he does. I KNEW it was my fault! I shouldn't have tried to buy his love by allowing him his weight in snacks every day. I should have taken him on walks instead of letting him sleep all day in my big comfy bed because he matched the throw pillows. I should have purchased the Wii Fit for Small Dogs that he had on his Christmas wish list. Bad mommy!

And so, Operation Kidney Stone Removal was in full swing. I leave the dog, Doc performs surgery later that day, dog stays the night and probably comes home the next day.

LATER THAT SAME DAY
*Ring* Ring* Operation Kidney Stone Removal has hit a snafu.

"Wow, she was a mess in there," said the vet referring to my male dog. Happens all the time. Everyone expects the cute little poodlesque pooch to be a girl. Especially with a name like, Rox, which we often affectionately lengthen to Roxy.

"What do you mean, is everything okay with HIM?" Doc proceeded to tell me how there was a lot of damage in the urethra and they wanted to watch "her" a couple of days to make sure everything's okay. Again, I'm not often offended when people call Rox a "she," but this lady just operated on his penis. Poor Roxy. Could he be any more emasculated?

Yes. Yes, he could....

DAY TWO
*Ring*Ring* Just as Operation Desert Storm has become Operation New Dawn, Operation Kidney Stone Removal has become Operation New Pee-Pee Hole. That's right. That's what the vet told me (kinda). "I had to give him a new hole because there was too much damage in the urethra."

"I'm sorry, wha?!?"

"We're going to hold onto him (after hanging out down there another day, I guess she got used to calling my dog a "he") another day or two and make sure everything comes out okay." No pun intended, I'm sure.

My poor little doggy. The "day or two" ended up being four more days. It was truly touch and go there for awhile. He wouldn't eat or drink. I think the "new hole" was confusing him. So much change in one short week, and no counseling, hormone injections, or even so much as a 'Getting to Know the New You' pamphlet to read. He was taking it hard. When he did finally come home, we had to watch his every move. He had to wear the Elizabethean cone, which really pissed him off, but he was stitched up in two sensitive areas - make that three. One of the vet personnel tried to give Rox a quick "bangs cut" (he had missed his grooming appointment during the whole ordeal) and accidentally knicked him with the scissors. Pathetic, right? Keep reading.

When he finally did come home, he was a miserable mess. I resorted to letting him lick ice cubes out of my hand because he couldn't seem to get his cone-head into his water bowl. I also had to hand-feed him a few morsels of his new special diet food by hand, but with every bite, he hacked, gagged, and threw up a mucousy mess. And, of course, there was the ointment which needed to be applied to the wounds twice daily. We were both a little bitter about that one.

After a couple of days of barely eating, I phoned the vet with the latest. "The antibiotic is probably making him sick." So they prescribed an anti-nausea pill. Super. Now I have to hide pills in his food for him to eat, which he's going to throw up and I have to clean up. "Got any prescriptions for me back behind that little desk of yours, Lady? Just kidding! No I wasn't. Thank you so much. I'm sure this is going to work great." Because everything's been foolproof thus far. The pills did stay down. But don't alert the choir of angels just yet. Five minutes after taking said pills, my dog would bark and cry incessantly, follow me around so closely that he would bump into my calf every three seconds, and shake uncontrollably. It was like a "This is your dog on crack" commercial. The schizophrenia lasted about 20 minutes. He totally scared the children. I decided the pills would have to be administered 5 minutes prior to us leaving the house everyday. Sound cruel? It was for our sanity and his own safety. Oh, did I forget to mention that at this point, he's still throwing up his food?

By now, I'm picking out the casket. I'm writing the eulogy. I'm trying to decide the best way to console the kids. Perhaps an aqua frog for each of them. Lord knows, there will NOT be another dog. Hell froze over once. It's ain't happening again.

A week and a half later (nearly three weeks after the first surgery), Rox trotted down the stairs and headed straight to his special diet food bowl. He had his fill, lapped up a big drink, and turned to me with a smirky smile. Swear. My dog smiled at me. Such relief I felt! I hadn't killed my dog. I am a responsible dog owner! PETA isn't going to put a hit out on me!

A week later, I finally take Rox to his much overdue grooming appointment. I apologize for his shagginess, and hold him "crucified Jesus" style as I point out his delicate areas. "Oh, I see. He has a vagina," says the groomer.

"SSSSHHHHHH," I cover Rox's little ears. "We're calling it a new pee-pee hole." My poor dog. His penis has been rendered completely useless. He shoots blanks and pees from a fabricated va-jay-jay. How will I ever make it up to him?

"Give him a mohawk...and I'll take that spiked collar in the window," I tell the groomer.

Freakin' dog.

Meet the Cast

Perhaps now would be a good time to introduce you to the residents of Aleighopolis. The cast of characters (and I do mean characters) are listed in the order they first appeared in my life.


First and foremost, my husband of almost 17 years. He loves me despite all my flaws. Not that I'm admitting to any. I call him Big Daddy, and if you've ever seen him, you know why. 6'6", broad shoulders and a heart the size of a zamboni. We crack each other up and piss each other off on a daily basis. Co-dependency at it's finest. He's worked for the same company for about a year longer than we've been married (loyal like a pup), and his promotions are the reason behind our many moves. He promises me it will all be worth it one day. I think everyday has been worth it - but don't tell him that. His Catholic guilt is working for me.

ZuZu is our oldest and only daughter. For about 5 minutes, we considered naming her Zuzu Petals "Blahzlahski" (being huge fans of "It's a Wonderful Life" as we are), but who could be that cruel (other than a slew of Hollywood's finest)? Instead, she's always been ZuZu to me, "my little gingersnap" as George Bailey referred to his daughter. ZuZu is teetering on the edge of teendom. She's a little mini-me, cursed with her father's near-sightedness, but blessed with his long, thin and toned legs. Although she looks more like me, her personality is more like Big Daddy's. Reserved and almost shy in big crowds, but a leader and a clown amongst her closest peers. She wishes only good for all people. All people, except her oldest brother.....

Enter Deuce (because "Little Daddy" just ain't right). Born 15 months after ZuZu, and always clipping her heels. Hence, the resentment. I'd feel a little sorry for him if he wasn't such a pot-stirrer on the homefront. He knows how to get in ZuZu's kitchen - and mine. But the truth is, he's an amazing young man. Such a gentleman...always gives his best and excels at everything...rule-follower...good grades...the stuff that annoying Christmas letters are made of. That's my Deuce. He wants to play football for Notre Dame one day. I tell him, don't bother. Go straight into the workforce and make that million by your 21st birthday. It's your destiny! (Translation: we can't afford Notre Dame)

And now, my swan song, MT. He was the easiest baby - almost like he had heard all the commotion in utero and decided, "I'm gonna give this poor lady a break." At nine months, he could keep himself occupied for hours with McDonald's happy meal toys and binder clips. At age nine, he still can. He has a huge imagination and the quickest wit of all of them. He does have a serious temper, though. Big Daddy would say, "If MT is mad at you, sleep with one eye open." We were sure he would find that rusty old axe with the hollow handle and do us in in our sleep. He never did, though. In fact, he's the one that gives the most sincere "sorrys," and the best hugs and kisses as repentence. His cheeks still carry a little baby fat, which I'm so thankful for. I get to plant my lips on those cheeks every night at bedtime. And then I go hide the knives.

Last but not least, our freakin' dog. One late summer day in 2003, Big Daddy and Deuce went to a Notre Dame football game and came home with a puppy. They tried to convince me it was "giveaway day" at the stadium. But I'm no fool. The adorable little mutt looked exactly like the 6-month old I had met a few weeks earlier at our friends' house. The friends who earlier that spring had thought they were losing one of two pet Pomeranians, and had a gorgeous little baby. The same friends who found out, "IT'S A MIRACLE! YOUR DOG IS GOING TO LIVE," and "CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'RE PREGNANT WITH BABY NUMBER 2!" within a week of adopting said pooch. My 4 1/2-year old son was wise beyond his years. He knew he'd hit paydirt. He was skipping town with low-dog on the totem pole. Our Rox. Half toy Poodle, half Chihuahua. He's like a baby poodle on espresso. He's had some work done....but I'll save that story for another day.

So there you have it. My own little party of five plus pooch (Poo-Chi, to be exact). I thought it was fitting to formally introduce them, as I suspect they will make many appearances in Aleighopolis. My husband, my children, my freakin' dog. At any given time, they can be the meaning of my life, or the bane of my existence. But with every heartbeat, they are my world.