Category: dogs

dogs, life

Telling Oscar’s story: a healing process…

stanley & bear

IF only there were a guidebook that prepared you for the emotional trauma the IVDD journey invokes. Yes, there’s an abundance of information and support out there, however when IVDD invades your reality, confusion, despair and grief wash over you in ways you’d never imagined.

As a dachshund owner for nearly 20 years, I believed I knew enough about IVDD to ensure I’d taken precautions to reduce the probability of this insidious disease entering our home.

I now know that despite my knowledge and preventative measures, IVDD was destined to crash into our lives and the emotional trauma left in its wake had me feeling bereft and at times, inconsolable. I’ve blamed myself, rehashed scenarios of the should’ve, could’ve, but the reality is this, there was simply nothing more I could’ve done to change both mine and Oscar’s life path.

What follows is our IVDD journey and the emotional trauma it forced upon us both.

Oscar came into our lives as an 8-week old, bundle of standard wire-haired fluff. At the time my Dad was an All-Breeds judge, and his contacts in the dog world were varied and vast. As such, Oscar’s breeder was well researched, well known and above all, well respected. Over the years her dogs had very few litters and IVDD was totally absent in her bloodlines. From a background perspective, the chances of Oscar succumbing to IVDD were remote. Of my four dachshunds, Oscar was the one I was least worried about.

On the night of September 15, 2020, Oscar went to bed without showing any sign of pain or discomfort. At 5am the following morning, I woke to see Oscar struggling to get off his bed. I shot out of bed as I thought he was ‘stuck’ on something. A stupid thought I know, but at that moment IVDD did not enter my head, particularly as he did not appear to be in any pain, moreover, he seemed to have his normal, happy disposition. I looked around him and could see no reason for his inability to move – it was only on lifting his back end and have him collapse back onto the ground that panic set in.

I was terrified.  I scooped him into my arms and raced down the stairs and frantically started knocking on my 24-year old son’s door. As the door opened, so did my emotions. I began to sob uncontrollably, and I could barely get the words out. Max was confused, yet somehow managed to understand my garbled mutterings about Oscar being paralysed.  I placed him in the car, and with sobs racking my body, I somehow managed to get him to the emergency vet, 10 minutes later.

After what seemed an interminable wait, it was explained Oscar was Deep Pain Negative and they suspected Stage 5 IVDD. She explained he would be transferred to North Coast Veterinary Service (NCVS) at 0800 and would undergo a CT and MRI to confirm their suspected diagnosis. They brought him out for a hug before asking me to await the surgeon’s call later that morning.

At that point shock had numbed my reality. I was floating in a fog of confusion and concern and all I wanted to do was be with Oscar. I wanted to hold him and comfort him, despite my all-consuming fear. I wanted to take him in my arms and run as far away as possible. Shield us both somehow with the ‘if you can’t see us, then we can’t see you and all of this is just a horrible dream’ approach. Denial was hijacking my thoughts, in all its ugly glory.

As I waited at home for the surgeon to call, I begged my memory to recall the previous nights events. To play a movie in my mind so I could see if it was my fault, if I missed something. I vividly remember him doing his nightly ritual of heading outside to wee, then plodding past the bathroom as I showered. My memory clouds when I attempt to visualise him in his bed, and keeping to my nightly ritual of kissing my boys goodnight before climbing into my own bed. I’m sure I bade them all goodnight, in my usual manner, however not being able to have an absolute recall of that moment, I fear I could’ve missed something. Did he look comfortable, or did his disc explode as he settled on his bed? Was he in pain then? Surely I would’ve known that right? Yet the thought he may have been in pain and suffered through the night was terrifying. I’ve read countless stories about other IVDD cases and majority state there were notable signs, yet Oscar did not display any signs, of that I’m sure.

Later that day, as I met with Dr Nima, a surgeon at North Coast Veterinary Service (NCVS), I felt terrified and lost – just as Oscar would’ve been. And whilst I listened to her heartfelt words confirming Stage 5 IVDD and all the possible complications, tears fell silently, and the helplessness intensified.

She began to speak of progressive myelomalacia (PMM), words I’d not heard before. And as she explained that it presented in only 5% of cases, I felt nausea rise in my throat. My heart raced, yet I did not want to appear weak and vulnerable, so I nodded quietly whilst digging my nails into the palms of my hands in an effort to distract myself from the wave of fear her words triggered. My nails dug harder as she relayed her concerns for Oscar, for in light of his diagnosis, the chances of myelomalacia presenting rose to approximately 30%.

Conservative treatment was not a favourable option, so Oscar was scheduled for surgery later that afternoon; a hemilaminectomy and durotomy for a severe disc extrusion at T13, L1. It was then that Dr Nima revealed the ugliest of truths – IVDD could in fact, be fatal. She reassured me that the possibility of this was slight, yet I needed to be prepared as Oscar’s condition was considered severe. Despite my despair, I appreciated her honesty.  She was kind, empathetic and clearly cared about Oscar’s well-being. I will be forever grateful for her kindness and I cannot fault her care.

Yet as I continued to listen, I felt the nausea rise again. This could not be happening; I’d done all the right things and why my Oscar? My soulmate, my heartdog, my everything. Once again I felt the need to find Oscar and run. Run far, far away.

When I returned home, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and I paced the house not knowing what to do with myself. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t protect him and now, I couldn’t hold his paw, stroke his silky head and tell him I loved him. He would be scared; he would be confused, and I couldn’t be there to support him. Not being able to be in the surgery with him, or be there when he woke was for me, the epitome of helplessness. My best friend was hurting and there was nothing I could do to ease his fear or alleviate his pain.

When Dr Nima called me later that night telling me Oscar had done really well in surgery, my heart soared. And when I saw him the next morning, I felt so relieved. They said he was doing well and even managed to walk, albeit aided with a specially designed sling to support his back legs and spine. Whilst I felt so happy to see him, he looked despondent and confused. Nurse Tegan reassured me and said he was on heavy painkillers and a little confused with what had occurred.

The following two days showed promise. There were no neurological deficits presenting, he seemed alert, responsive to physio, yet still no response to deep pain stimulus. Dr Nima was hopeful and on Friday, September 18, said he could be expected to go home the following Monday. Nurse Tegan sent me regular texts when I couldn’t be with him. I will always be grateful and thankful for the love and care they showed Oscar. Knowing he was in such caring hands made this traumatic time a touch more bearable.

The following day (Saturday, 72 hours post op), I had a mid-morning call explaining Oscar had deteriorated overnight and was beginning to show signs of ascending myelomalacia.  

I cannot begin to articulate the level of despair I felt at hearing those words. I had spent the last 2 days heavily researching and I knew what this diagnosis signalled.

I hung up and fell to my knees and sobbed inconsolably. I was alone, I had no one to share this pain with and I felt so, so lost. I had experienced loss of incredible magnitude several years earlier when my little girl died from heart disease; at that moment, as I lay weeping, the grief I felt was measurable to losing Meg. That may be hard for many to understand, but Oscar was my everything and the thought of losing him was beyond comprehension.

Over the weekend he continued to deteriorate, as did I from an emotional perspective. I spent hours at the hospital in his crate, lying by his side comforting him in every way. I held him, played music and fed him pieces of chicken and finely diced frankfurts. I felt so helpless and whilst I didn’t realise at the time, the nurses must’ve known he was now palliative as they were so kind.  On the Sunday I spent most of the day lying in his crate with him. The nurses would come by and offer water and biscuits and generally just ask if I was ok.  At one point, one of them gave me a huge hug, which simply allowed the tears to flow more quickly.

By Monday, Oscar had lost the use of his front limbs and was unable to lift his head. Dr Nima said he was not in pain and she assured me he was comfortable.  I clearly remember her saying that even if there was only a 5% chance of him surviving, she would do everything in her power. Yet, deep down, we all knew the reality.  Myelomalacia was fatal. And I’d done enough research to know that after paralysis of the thoracic limbs, which Oscar now had, paralysis of the respiratory muscles would present. I did not want that for him, so I knew I would soon have to say goodbye to my precious Bear. 

Overnight, Oscar deteriorated rapidly and on Tuesday morning, the 22nd of September 2020, I was told our only kind option would be to send him across the rainbow bridge. As per his clinical notes: Oscar has deteriorated overnight with progressive myelomalacia after severe disc extrusion at T13/L1 with flaccid paralysis of both fore and hindlimbs. Panniculus reflex is absent. He is mentally depressed and less responsive than yesterday. I have had a long discussion with his owner and unfortunately advised euthanasia and the owners have accepted this recommendation.

I knew this was coming, yet when those words were spoken, I broke. I was about to lose my precious boy and that was unfathomable. I asked how long we had before myelomalacia would begin to affect his respiratory muscles. I was told maximum 24 hours.

I decided to take him home as we wanted his last hours to be surrounded by those who adored him and in a place he felt safe and loved. I bundled him in my arms and held him close as we drove home. I opened the window and as his head rested against my shoulder, I felt his breath quicken as he tried to sniff the passing air. 

Being in the car was one of his greatest loves and he would sit upright, with ears flapping, nose sniffing and a look of joy on his beautiful face. As we drove home, I made sure he was doing just that and I sensed he knew I was helping him, and I knew in my heart he felt safe.

As I walked inside, Stanley and Eddie walked slowly toward me. I knelt down so they could see their brother and they gently sniffed him before Stanley gave him a slow lick on his face. I sat on the couch and cradled Oscar and noticed his breathing slow as I believed he knew he was home and he finally felt at peace. My heart was breaking, yet I felt comfort in knowing he was home and that in his final hours, he was bathed in love. As the afternoon drew to a close, his breathing became more difficult and we knew it was his time to leave. We had hoped to say goodbye at home, but sadly and despite our best efforts we had to return to NCVS.

Oscar crossed the rainbow bridge at 4.51pm on Tuesday, September 22, 2020. As he crossed, I held him close and through the uncontrollable sobs, I whispered that I would love him forever.

The emotional trauma IVDD invokes is both individual and undeniably painful.

There is no BandAid for the wound it opens, no aspirin for the pain it places in your heart. It simply breaks us in ways we could never imagine.

Many years ago, after the loss of my daughter, I read the words: ‘when tragedy strikes your life you can be one of two things – bitter or better – I choose better…’

Losing Oscar broke me, and I have had moments when I felt I would never recover. On writing his story, in detail, something changed. I realised I had been so lucky to have known him and in knowing my precious Oscar aka Bear, I had become a better person. Yes, his loss is indeed a tragedy, and in moving forward, he would want me to continue to be better, and he would want me to embrace life just as he did: with love, laughter and light.

I will love you forever my precious Bear…

What I discovered in writing about my own emotional trauma was this: it opened the door to healing, and for the first time in the 6 months since Oscar died, I began to feel the wretchedness of his loss easing. There is no doubt the pain is still raw and tears flow randomly, but I also began to fully identify with a passage I read in Ben Moon’s book. He says: “When you lose your canine soul mate, you not only lose the dog that has been your companion and friend through so much, you also have to let go of that chapter of your life, and who you were then. It forces you to grow into what you’ll become, the last parting act of friendship.”  Denali: A Man, a Dog, and the Friendship of a Lifetime

dogs, life

So broken, so sad, so empty…

stanley & bear

On clearing drafts, I came across this unpublished post. It speaks of the pain I felt after losing Oscar. It was written 3 months after he died. Nearly 4 years have passed now, and whilst I no longer feel this intense anguish and loss, I am posting this to remember how far I have come:

There’s an old adage: time heals all wounds. For the most part it’s true.

I wish I could say that now. But time is not healing. Time is simply intensifying the emptiness of loss.

Everyday tears are shed, Everyday the emptiness grows.

I simply can’t bear it. I cannot seem to function, or see any light in this darkness. And I’m trying so hard to ‘pull myself out of this dark place’, but without Bear, everywhere is dark. Stanley is lost too, I can feel it. I can see it. He misses Oscar as much as I do. He is as lost as I am and he is equally as broken.

I know many would not understand and I don’t care, honestly I don’t. I’m trying to understand myself and I can’t. My world feels so empty, so barren. I’m so lost without my beautiful Bear. Nobody sees the real anguish, the raw emptiness.

I don’t want to be around people, I don’t want to sit and pretend I’m ok and I don’t want to tell people I’m not. Besides, when I have, I’ve been told I’m self-absorbed.

I don’t want to answer the phone, I don’t want to reply to messages. When you isolate for long enough, when you cry for too long, soon people stop asking, stop trying. That’s ok. That works for me as if they don’t reach out, I don’t have to hang on. I don’t have to pretend.

Bear Dog

So it’s easier to retreat.

Sometimes I feel I want to leave. My life is as barren as my heart. I know I won’t, as despite my anguish, I would not place my pain onto those I love.

I can only hope time will heal, yet 3 months has passed and I still miss you so much.

I know it was your journey, you had to cross the bridge.

But my journey now, without you, is meaningless.

So broken. So sad. So empty.

dogs, life

For Bear Dog…

stanley & bear

In life, there is loss. It is painful and it is at times, grossly unfair as some experience great loss while others experience very little. It’s just the way it is.

And if I’m to be honest, thoughts of unfairness hijack my thoughts as of late, there has been many losses, in many forms.

But please understand I’m not writing this from a ‘poor me’ or self-absorbed perspective, quite the contrary. I’m writing this because I find writing to be therapeutic and consoling. I guess in some ways it’s my own personal therapy session. Tapping words onto a screen seems to somehow ease my grief as I discovered the hard way that internalising pain is not conducive to the healing process.

Many years ago I experienced immense loss and rather than express my grief, I internalised it. I wept in private, I didn’t speak of my grief, rather, I spoke of Meg’s death in clinical phrases. I could explain in detail the intricacies of her heart defects and the consequential operations. If you asked, I would tell you. Yet if you asked how I felt, the wall would immediately build. Feelings were off limits.

After keeping my true grief private for 16 years, a small issue sent me spiralling into a breakdown, which thankfully forced formal counselling. From that, I now know internalising grief or pain is detrimental and if you can find a way to unburden if you will, only good things can result.

So I write. And now, I write about the despair and all consuming grief at having lost again, and this time he was one of my best friends and my soulmate.

There are many who may baulk at that last sentence, for my best friend and soulmate was a dog. But to me Oscar aka Bear Dog was my best friend and my soulmate, and his loss is immeasurable for me. And this grief I feel is real, it is intense and at times, it hurts so much, and is comparable to the loss of Meg. That may be hard for some to understand, but that’s okay. Views differ and always will.

But Oscar’s loss has truly broken me.

The following words were written a few days after Oscar’s spinal surgery. I believe a part of me knew I was losing my friend. I tried to fight the negative feelings. I tried to tell myself that he would not be in that 5% who would succumb to myelomalacia, following Grade 5 IVDD, but like Meg, I somehow knew. I knew goodbye was looming on the horizon. I didn’t want to say goodbye, but in my heart, I knew goodbye was coming. And it did.

For Bear Dog

Your morning ritual of waking, shuffling over to the carpet, having a big shake which made your collar jingle, then you’d roll for ages and make your bear sounds:  ah kar kar, before leaping onto the bed, and onto me and showering me with your unique ‘chin chews’.

At breakfast you’d always come into the kitchen and make more Bear noises, voicing your impatience at the time it took for me to make your breakfast. They were unique and so you. Arhharhhh

After eating you’d walk around and check the other bowls, then often you’d go onto the verandah and look at what was happening on the street.

You’d shuffle over to the bean bag and make a leap, it would take a few shuffles before you got your spot.  Then you’d sit like a human and look sideways at me with those beautiful, brown eyes.

The moment I sat down on the couch with my coffee, you’d rush over and ask for help to get on the couch.  You would sometimes do little half jumps and your front paws would tap, tap tap on the floor. Once up, you’d often snort at me if I’m in your way, or if I am in the ‘best’ spot. Yet you always, always would sit directly beside me. I could always feel your gentle breath against my leg.

You would come into the bathroom, peer around the door, see me in the bath/shower and give a short, loud snort before leaving. As if you’re saying pffff, guess I’ll go out here.

You would sit like a human in the front seat of the car, and the joy you’d get from having the window down was pure bliss.  If I put it up, you’d shuffle and the turn your head to look at me and give me the white eye, downward look.

The soccer fields was one of your favourite places, besides the car.  All I’d have to say is run and run and run and run…  and you’d run, then you’d find the best place to roll. The cricket pitch with its fake grass was a favourite.  But if you’d find bird or kangaroo poo, that was the best place for a roll.

You’d always want me to share my breakfast, that was a given. None of the others do, just you.

Down in the backyard you’d always help Stanley search for lizards, then if you got bored with that, you’d find a good digging spot for eating dirt.  If I pulled out the piece of shade cloth, you’d run over, step on it and try to bite it as I pulled you along.  When I stopped pulling, you’d roll and roll; the look of joy on your beautiful face was priceless. It was one of your favourite games.

If I mentioned the car, your ears would prick up and you’d start your Bear noises, and if I put my runners on, well that that was pure bliss and signalled more intensive Bear noises.

You are the one who loved cuddles the most, and I loved running my fingers through your shoulder hair, it was so full and fluffy. And you loved your head being scratched and if you wanted more, you’d raise your front paw, look at me with those eyes and head cast downward and demand more pats.

 You had a funny way of eating.  You would curl your neck, so your ears flopped forward, then you’d sniff, walk around the other side, sniff again, then begin eating. Your way of drinking was unique, I always knew it was you drinking even if I couldn’t see.  There was a rhythm, lop lop, – lop lop lop, – lop lop.

You were and still are one of my greatest loves Bear Dog. You are my bubba, my Bear, my best friend.

Oh Bear, I’m broken, truly broken.

My Bear Bear, I love you so much and I will miss you forever…

https://videopress.com/v/jyH8ikrE?preloadContent=metadata
dogs, life

A walk? No thank-you, I’ll take the car…

stanley & bear

FOR those of you who love your four-legged friends, particularly of the long dog, sausage variety, I hope you get a giggle from this little anecdote.

It’s dedicated to my very first wire-haired dachshund, Kiri aka Sausage. She was a precious soul who came into our lives when we rescued her from a puppy farm at age three.

She was a joy and made us laugh every day with her funny, quirky and wondrous ways, particularly when it came to ‘walkies’.

For most dogs the rattling of a lead, or the mention of the word walk sends them into a wild frenzy. Some do circles, some bark excitedly, while others run for the front door before you get a chance to change your mind.                         

Not Sausage.

The mere mention of that filthy word was enough to send her high tailing it back to her cave bed, slip through the opening, bury herself and not be seen. We’re sure she believed that if she couldn’t see you, then it was very obvious you couldn’t see her.

I tried in vain to get her excited about a walk, even tempting her with a piece of cheese, one of her great loves. This small act of bribery was mildly successful as whilst she munched excitedly, I slipped her lead on and got us both out the door.

It was highly possible that remnants of cheese lingered in her mouth and as such, put her into a cheese induced dream, which in turn, allowed us to walk for approximately 50 metres or so. But once the spell broke, the brakes went on, and no amount of pulling, dragging and kind loving words would budge her.

As I was in fear of the neighbours reporting me to the RSPCA for cruelty at seeing me pull, albeit gently, a small, grey, fuzzy and extremely stubborn little dog down the road, I resorted to carrying her.

Once in my arms, the demonic dog who only moments before had obviously been on the end of the lead, was replaced with my loving Sausage. As I’d obviously rescued her from an horrendous and traumatic experience, her immediate action was to thank me amorously by showering me with smelly, gag -inducing, slurps.

And whist the idea of a walk sent chills down her long, wiry spine, she still loved to get out of the house, provided she didn’t have to use her legs.

Remember I mentioned about dogs’ who go into a frenzy at a mere rattle of the lead?

For Sausage, the mere rattle of the car keys saw her go into a frenzy, and trust me when I say her short legs could cover some serious ground, with lightening speed when the mood suited. Before I’d finished putting on shoes she’d be at the door, patiently waiting for me to it so she could race to the car.

Once at the car, there was a perfectly choreographed ritual of getting herself inside. For some reason she’d only get in through the driver’s side door, and as she was short, getting in was a two step process. Firstly, a few moments of rocking back and forth on her haunches, similar to a high jumper working up to the big jump was performed. This was followed by swift forward leap onto the floor and as she’d become quite good at this manoeuvre, she always avoided injury on the pedals by ensuring her landing was precise.

Once there, another few moments of rocking preceded a deft leap onto my seat then one final leap over the centre console saw her finally sitting proudly on the left hand passenger seat, a place she felt was hers, and hers alone.

If my sons’ had friends in the car and happened to sit in her seat, she’d throw herself on the floor and as a mark of disgust, pant her fish-infused breath in their direction. But the madness in all of this was that once we reached our destination, she’d run for cover and hide under the seat. There was no way would she get out and walk anywhere.

Here’s a perfect example.

One sunny afternoon we decided to head to the beach, my sons were teenagers at the time and keen bodyboarders. As mentioned above, the moment the car keys were rattled, Sausage was at the back door before the rest of us had even made it down the stairs. Having settled into her spot, she looked quite smug during the 15-minute drive to the beach.

When we arrived, she eyed me suspiciously and when I reached for her lead, she swiftly launched herself under the seat. This action meant I had to then try and manipulate her firmly wedged little body out from under what she probably considered her safe from walking spot.

I finally won the battle, attached the lead to her collar and we set off to the beach, although not as you may be picturing. Rather than being accompanied by the sound of little paws walking alongside me, she was in my arms, and if dogs could actually smile, I believe hers would have been wider than the Grand Canyon.

After finding a spot under the trees to watch the boys’ surf, I think she quite enjoyed lazing on the towels, watching other dogs walk along the beach.

dogs

Living a Sausage life..

stanley & bear

A dear friend messaged me the other day and spoke about how the best ideas are those that come from the heart. And when you follow those ideas with passion, those ideas are more often than not, successful.

For a very long time I had an idea, one that was born from love and driven by my passion for animals, in particular dachshunds, aka Sausage Dogs.

My idea was to create a space for Sausages to come and stay whilst their humans are away.  A place where they feel loved, secure and a place where they socialise with my own beloved Sausages.

So I took my idea and made it a reality: Stanley & Bear, a hotel for Sausages is open and thriving. 

dogs

the serious business of being a dog…

stanley & bear

Being a dog is a very serious business.

It’s a dog’s business to inspect, sniff AND sample all foods a human consumes.

It’s a dog’s business to always accompany the human to the bathroom.

It’s a dog’s business to occupy 2/3’ds of the human’s bed.

It’s a dog’s business to always travel in car with the human.

It’s a dog’s business to love and be loved.

Ah, the serious business of being a dog…

dogs

Dogs do speak, just listen to their ears…

stanley & bear

Dogs can speak. Just as humans use sign language, I believe so do our 4-legged friends, but instead of using their paws, they use their ears.

If you take the time to listen to their ears, you’ll see they actually speak volumes.

I decided to gather a few images of doggy speak, and who better to demonstrate that speak than my beloved Stanley, Eddie and two other 4-legged friends I met on recent travels?

As I went about my business, so did they: sniffing, sleeping, catching a few winter rays, or simply going about the important business of being a dog.

But I did manage to capture a little of how their dogships communicate – with a little caption ‘translation’…

 

Mum, left at the next set of lights.’
What, is there a problem?
Mum, I don’t think that’s a good idea”
That’s close enough thanks’.
‘Wait, is that Frank over there”.
‘I’m sorry’
‘Santa Claus is coming to town, la la la la’

dogs

A house full of Sausages…

stanley & bear

I have a house full of Sausages. Not the greasy, squishy, edible variety, but more precisely, the loveable, quirky Dachshund variety.

Having my home filled with sausage dogs was not something I’d ever planned: it just happened.

And it all started with Kiri, or Saus as she became affectionately known.

Saus was a beautiful mini-wire haired dachshund who came to live with me by chance 16 years ago, after Mum had heard about her through the show dog network. 

At just 3 years old, she had had 3 litters, needless to say, her life had not been ideal. And whilst not part of a puppy farm per say, she was apparently no longer of  any ‘use’, and now in desperate need of a new home.  On hearing her story, I wanted to meet her.

sunset and dogs 033

On meeting her, I could see her spirit had been severely broken at some point, she was timid, and frightened, however with love, patience and a nurturing home, she began to trust me, trust my love for her and slowly we became one. 

The depth of her beauty and my love for her was immense. She was simply Saus, a beautiful, yet incredibly shy being who gave me permission to be the centre of her world.

I am, and always will be, humbled by her trust.

We shared 5 magical years together, years filled with so much love, so much laughter and so many discoveries of her quirky, sausage ways.

Her passion for cheese. Her need to burrow into her doggy sleeping bag and most of all, her great love of being in the car. She didn’t have to go anywhere, just getting in and being in the car was her pleasure. It was the getting out and walking bit she didn’t fancy: and her hilarious antics surrounding getting in and being out of the car can be read about here.

But sadly, on one tragic summer morning, I lost my precious girl to a previously undiagnosed, severe heart condition.

mudjimba 07 094

I was devastated. In losing her, I too was lost. She had become my world and when she died, part of me died with her. I was inconsolable.

The following day, Mum called to say she had a call from one of her friends asking if she knew of anyone who may be interested in re-homing a 9-month-old male, mini-wire.  Whilst she knew my grief over losing Saus was absolute, the serendipitous timing of her friend’s call propelled her to ask me. My response was instant. No, I could not imagine adopting another right now.

Yet a good friend had other ideas.

Despite my inconsolable grief, my friend talked me into going to meet this little fellow. I remember his words: ‘Jen, you might need him as much as he might need you…’. He was adamant, so together we went to meet him.

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Later that afternoon, as I sat on the grass in a local park, I watched Stanley (then known as Joey) jump out of the car and cautiously walk toward me.  With his little wiry head darting from side to side, his body language screamed fear, and he was clearly terrified. I noticed him cower in front of the man who held his lead; was he terrified of that man, or the unknown? In the years following, I’ve noticed Stanley does not like strange men, so I believe his fear back then was indeed of that man.

I said his name, and he tentatively walked toward me, and on reaching me, he cautiously sniffed the area around where I sat.

I didn’t speak, I simply let him do his thing.  Then without warning, he climbed onto my lap and buried his head in my arms. I was completely taken aback, yet held him close, hoping my touch would lessen his fear.

We sat together for some time and a little while later I placed him gently on the grass, stood up and walked toward the picnic table to retrieve a bottle of water.  Stanley immediately followed and would not leave my side. At that moment I knew he had made his decision, I was his person. So Stanley came to live with me, and just as my friend said, we needed each other. In his company, my grief over losing Saus slowly eased and for Stanley, he began to experience a life filled with so much love.

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Twelve years on, his loyalty has never waned. He is my best friend, and I love him with all that I am.

However in the first year or so, because of our special bond, I began to notice he suffered from separation anxiety.  Family told me that in my absence he was sad, uninterested and would simply sit by the window, anxiously and eagerly awaiting my return.

And it was this anxiousness that led to Oscar’s arrival.

At the time, I was worked as cabin crew for an international airline, which had me jetting off to various destinations in the world for up to 4 -6 days at a time. This was hard for Stanley (and me, I might add), so I decided a companion may help ease his separation anxiety.

Enter Oscar aka Bear.

Again, through my Mum & Dad’s contacts in the dog world, Mum knew of a lady who had a 9-week-old standard wire-haired male available. Along with Stanley we went to meet him and in an instant, Stanley fell in love with his new brother and with time, Stanley and Bear were inseparable. As a standard wire-haired dachshund, Oscar grew to be quite a bit bigger than Stanley and ‘gloompfed’ along like a big ole bear, which is how he came to acquire his nickname, Bear.

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About two years after Oscar’s arrival I began to foster for the rescue group, Devoted to Dachshund Rescue (D2DR) and they called to ask if I would foster a smooth haired, black & tan male.  At nine years old, Simon had only known one family, however within minutes of him entering our home, it was as if we were that family.  Simon loved being with his new brothers, seemed to simply fit with our family and so the decision to adopt him was unanimous.

A year later we were asked to foster another, however this little soul was in a very, very bad way. Eddie, as we later chose to later name him, was found in an industrial waste bin, bound in wire. Extremely emaciated and terrified, whoever found him, took him a pound where he stayed for 6 weeks before the pound called D2DR. Whatever had happened to this beautiful soul was beyond tragic. You have to wonder what possesses someone to subject a defenceless, sentient being to such obvious cruelty.

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When I first saw him, the fear is his beautiful, amber eyes was absolute. Ribs and spine protruded through his rich, copper coloured coat and his severe overbite, gave him somewhat of a comical expression.

I knew that in time, and with loving care his physical issues would mend,  yet the emotional trauma he so obviously experienced was another story and would take time and patience for him to begin to heal. His fear of people was deep seeded, but interestingly, just as Stanley made me his person, it was my son Max that became Eddie’s person.

Eight years on, Eddie’s intense fear of strangers remains, despite our ongoing training. He fears being outside of his home; even going for walks brings on anxiety, as does being anywhere strange with people other than his own.  He is content to be at home, with his family. He is a delightfully funny and extremely smart little guy, who idolises my son Max and his partner, Kassie. She has taught him to ring bells to go outside, she says ‘speak’ and he barks and if she says ‘whisper’, he will give a little, ‘hmmpf’ – so adorable.

And so we lived harmoniously and happily until March, 2020. We noticed a small lump on Simon’s face after which Simon was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive form of cancer. At 15, surgery to remove the lump in his right, lower jaw was not an option, as the surgery required long anaesthesia and due to the severity, the margins needed to ensure all the cancer was removed would mean removing part of his jaw. Our long term vet knew Simon well and he suggested the best course of action was to simply allow Simon to live these last few months showered with love. He told us to he had approximately 3 months. Whilst his tumour grew at an alarming rate, Simon continued to be Simon: a funny, quirky, very opinionated, toy stealing sausage who lived to love. On August 19th, our beautiful big-bigs crossed the rainbow bridge surrounded by his beloved family.

We were devastated. We knew his passing was on the horizon, yet when he left, his loss was immense. Max was inconsolable as Simon was his boy, and to see my son be so heartbroken was awful.

We had barely begun to process Simon’s loss when 3 weeks later, on September 16, 2020, I woke to find Oscar aka Bear, unable to walk. After rushing to the vet, Oscar was diagnosed with Stage 5 IVDD, which required immediate surgery. Despite the best efforts from our extraordinary vet team, on September 22, my precious Bear crossed the rainbow bridge. To say I was devastated is an understatement, and the grief I felt was immense and raw. I wrote a detailed post about him, which you can read here.  

So in a matter of weeks, our two beautiful, special and dearly loved boys crossed the rainbow bridge, which left us feeling raw, alone, and totally lost. Stanley and Eddie felt it too. Their grief was absolute, you could see it in their eyes, feel it in their mannerisms. Stanely in particular was lost. He was bereft, Oscar was his soulmate, his brother, his everything. I could sense Stanley’s sadness. He seemed to have little motivation and I was concerned. Thankfully I wasn’t working at the time, so I was able to put all my energy into ensuring his welfare was paramount, yet we were both so sad. We dearly missed our Bear Dog.

I made a call to Oscar’s breeder to see if she knew of any wire’s in need of adoption. As it turned out, she did know of a 23-month-old standard, wire girl who had recently retired from the show ring and could possibly be available for adoption.  A couple of weeks later, we met Freida and fell instantly in love.

Stanley adores her, we adore her and she has brought so much to our little family. She is my light in grief’s darkness, and like my precious Stanley, I will be forever grateful for her presence in my life.

We will always carry grief from losing Saus, Simon and Oscar, yet through their loss, Stanley and Frieda came into my life and these two beautiful souls eased the pain of our loss.

Beautiful things can definitely bloom from the seeds of the most difficult times.

So I have a house full of Sausages, and what a house it is. 

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Changes…

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For a number of years my blog was called Quite Simply, but I came to the realisation that just as I had grown and changed over the years, my blog needed to also.

I knew the new name needed to reflect the true loves of my life, and it also needed to be flexible and not limit ways in which I could document and share those loves: animals, photography & plant-based eating.stanleybear (1 of 1)-21

So just who are Stanley & Bear? They’re dachshunds, and incredibly special ones at that.

Stanley is the 2nd of my four dachshunds that have come into my life, following the passing of my beautiful Kiri. He is loyal, loveable and the silent leader of our sausage pack.  Oscar aka Bear, arrived into our home not long after Stanley, and like Stanley he is a wire-haired dachshund with a gentle nature and loving soul.

Simon & Eddie complete our foursome, yet unlike S & B, they are of the smooth-haired variety and came to us as fosters with sad backgrounds. We chose not to re-home them with strangers and instead adopted them to complete our Sausage family.

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When it came to re-naming my blog, using Stanley & Bear seemed to fit as the name enables me to encapsulate what I love most in life. Animals, photography and plant-based eating.

You may ask how photography and plant-based eating falls under the Stanley & Bear umbrella. Firstly, S & B are simply incredible ‘models’ from a photographic perspective and they are always willing to help if I’m setting up a photo shoot. That’s Bear on the left doing a spot of quality assurance checks on a batch of freshly made vegan mayonnaise: recipe in a post soon.

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Secondly, they are sentient beings whose right to live a life free from harm is of the utmost importance. Just as it is of the utmost importance for me to eat a healthy, wholesome plant-based diet.

And lastly, it would’ve been a mouthful to have included all the boy’s names in the title, so hence, Stanley & Bear was born.

I hope to take my blog to a new place: sharing images, plant-based recipes and the antics of my beloved Sausage boys.

Enjoy…

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Simon, Oscar (aka Bear), Stanley & Eddie