Tamurand the Ridgeback
czechsix on Well, so much for keeping this… Ginamarie Austin on Well, so much for keeping this… mcclintoch on Yep, at one time I was a Shove… czechsix on Yay! GL1100 carbs are don… Brigid on Yay! GL1100 carbs are don…
- June 2017
- May 2017
- April 2017
- March 2017
- February 2017
- January 2017
- December 2016
- December 2015
- July 2015
- June 2015
- April 2015
- February 2015
- August 2014
- June 2014
- May 2014
- April 2014
- March 2014
- February 2014
- January 2014
- December 2013
- November 2013
- October 2013
- August 2013
- July 2013
- June 2013
- May 2013
- April 2013
- March 2013
Winter Solstice, 12:15 PM, Pacific Time.
Her passing was quick and easy, the time leading up to it, not so much.
15 years and three months, born September 2000, and gone today.
Bravo Zulu Millicent A.K.A. Millie, Millery, Millie the Destroyer,Shit Trumpet, Whistle Pig, Short Round…..truly the heart of a Corgi. Tough dog, and a great pack member.
I’ll tell stories about her in the future, but for now, and before I add pics…..this is a placeholder.
I’m thinking that I’ll be contracting someone over at DeviantArt to do a custom memorial art piece about Millie – which will go onto the Puch Haflinger front panel. I’ll post up when it’s done.
Been a tough Christmas…..but I hope everyone that reads this has a good Christmas and New Year.
Give your dog a treat and a pat, say it’s from Millie.
Consider donating and getting Vince up and running on a new video series dealing with those unique vehicles and owners.
He’s been running an Indiegogo campaign, trying to drum up funds for the series, but it’s slow going.
The thing is that he really doesn’t need much, as compared to similar projects.
Anyway…go donate if you can. Vince is a good guy, and it’ll be a good video project.
Photos and audio to be inserted later, for some reason WordPress is being a bastard about that right now…
About a year and a half ago, Tamurand the Ridgeback took her final trip,
At the time, I really thought that her good friend and pack mate, a Yellow Labrador by the name of Kaya, would follow her fairly soon. Broken heart, depression, not eating, etc.
But Kaya…ah, Kaya….she stuck it out with us for many a month after Tam passed on. Of course, Time doesn’t really give a crap how much a dog can learn, or become a family member. Doesn’t really matter how well that canine family member can understand things, communicate, or just plain love life.
Soooooo…..Laryngeal Paralysis. Megaesophagus. Myasthenia Gravis. Not a great trilogy of syndromes to have happen – to anyone. Less so when it’s a good and true friend.
She became very weak, started vomiting. So we took her to the vet. She was stabilized, and spent the night there, under sedation. In an O2 kennel. The vet told us what was happening, and requested permission to do a radiograph, and possibly an ultrasound.
No worries – do them, we said. Make her comfortable, keep the pain and anxiety at bay. They did, and we went home for the night. As the vet said “No news is GOOD news, and we won’t contact you unless there’s an emergency”. Fine, and off we went.
Back home, feed the Corgi, who’s puzzled as to why her pack mate and guide isn’t around. It’s not easy finding your way to the food bowl, or the door when you’re blind…yeah. Guide Dogs for the Dogs, that was the name of our game.
We went in the next day, to the vet. Initial diagnosis was confirmed – the megaesophagus was a bad one, and the definite suspicion was also that the Myasthenia Gravis was rapidly getting worse. The laryngeal paralysis could have been easily taken care of, with the tie back procedure…but what would that get the old girl, KayaMyKaya, eh?
A long recovery period? Accelerating muscle and nerve deterioration? Choking every so often? Falling down and the inevitable lumps, bumps, bruises and joint pains?
Then again…just one more day in the garden, being able to smell the roses and where the other dogs have gone….
No. Not to be.
Kaya, one wonderful Yellow Labrador, was given the two part injection into her line. First was the propafol, and about ten minutes later (ten minutes? either forever, or an instant…or both at the same time), the final injection.
Even with her weakness, laying on her side, once she knew we were with her, she tried…really tried to get up. We told her it was OK, to lay down, OK to rest.
I managed to smuggle in some of the grilled pork chops she’d missed the night before. I had cut a few pieces up, ziploc bagged them, and shoved them in a pocket on the way in.
I asked the vet if it would be alright to give the treats to her…..before what was going to happen, happened.
She said “it’s the last time she’ll be able to experience that….go ahead, make her happy”. She’s a good vet. Cares a lot about the animals, you can tell.
Those chunks of pork chop, pecan smoked, brined and slow grilled…oh, they went fast, for sure. Kaya chowed them down. But accepted there was no more.
And then the injection….and the lassitude….and the respirations…..and…stillness.
Silky Sullivan (I still don’t know why the wife called her that…)
Thanks for all the memories, the protection, the companionship, the love. Travel safe, join Tam at the Watching Place.
That’s all there is…there ain’t no more. (I used this phrase for the last thousand days, or so. 10:30 at night, without fail, starting with Tam and her meds. Had to give Tam some meat or cheese to get the pills into her, and of course the other dogs would sit there and go “where the hell is ours? quit being a stingy bastard!”. So all the dogs would get a few bites of cheese, or meats at 10:30, every night, without fail. Easily for the last thousand days, could be longer too. After everything was gone….The Giver of Good Foods would say “That’s all there is, there ain’t no more!”, and that was the signal to head out the back door and take a leak, or drop a deuce. Whatever the dawg felt like….but it’s become a habit, and a household practice now. We called it, in jest, “Tammy’s Crack Time”, because, I’d swear, those dogs were more accurate than clocks. They’d all gather around, while alive, and wait for that doggy crack (ham, turkey, pastrami, cheeses…oh yeah baby….BACON!) to appear from TGoGF…) Now it’s become “Tammy’s, Kaya’s, Alby’s, and Kitty’s Memorial Crack Time”. Lots of loss, lately.
I’ll see you tout de suite, yes indeed Kaya…in the blink of an eye.
Good Girl, Bravo Zulu.
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
But when we are certain of sorrow in store
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
And while we’re at it…what’s the watching place?
“There’s a wide place on the road to Hell where warriors stop to sit a spell.
They wet their whistle and rest a bit before Satan rings the closing bell,
they then ruck up and go to Hell.
This place is called Fiddler’s Green.
Some clever Sergeant built a bar, then stuck the bell inside a jar.
Then working with a clever Warrant, they sucked the air out in a torrent.
No one can hear that cursed bell.
Now warriors never go to Hell.
They rest and wait at Fiddler’s Green, hanging with soldier, sailor, airman, Marine.
They talk shite at the bar, hands low and high, for “There I was about to die…”
Or at the tables, eating pie.
But somehow no one hears the bell, at that wide place on the road to Hell.
On the other side of that road to Hell, there is a green and leafy dell.
It’s reached by a tunnel that goes under the road.
This place is called Piddler’s Green.
Fire hydrants everywhere, lots of toys and the scent of kibble fills the air.
The mice are fat, sassy and slow, always a warrior with a Frisbee to throw.
A knotted rope for tug-of-war and tennis balls by the score,
And always, always a warrior who wants to play, until your own warrior comes, on that sad/glad day.
As most surely he or she will.
No one minds if you cross the path, and take a nap and not a bath.
You can always swipe a scrap from a table, every warrior there’s watching sports on cable.
There’s ear skritches, face skrunches and bellyrubs aplenty.
Most important –and mark this well – for only you can hear The Bell.
The Bell that rings not for Hell, but the one that rings and makes you yell,
and causes your heart to swell with joy.
The one that says your warrior has come, the one that says you can be at peace.
So my friend who has four feet and is gifted with that special sight,
at that wide space along the road there are two clearings, left and right.
One’s a bar, the other a glen, and no one spends a lonely night not knowing if much less when.
For just over there, when the moon is just right, is a place on the corner where you can catch a sight… of your warrior, asleep at night.
‘Tis the Watching Place.
So you know that they are safe, and if they should stir, oh, just a bit,
it’s because a tongue, ever so gently, on their cheek just alit.”
-John Donovan, with a liberal sprinkling of Bill Tuttle.
If you’ve ever been a Shovelbum, or currently are one – this’ll bring back memories. Maybe even some PTSD, come to think of it.
For those of you that haven’t had the distinction of actually wearing a Marshalltown #52 out, it might not be quite as entertaining. But you’ll get a glimpse at what life is like for an archaeological field technician.
Even though I was active in California and Great Basin projects, there’s lots of cross over information. The author, of course, bases his work on personal experience – Arkansas, Washington, Alaska, etc. But paging through his zine, one can definitely see the commonality of the experience. The same crew chiefs, PI’s, vehicles, parasites, crappy food, and whacked out crew members seem to be encountered, wherever you work.
Good fun, and a good read. But best if you have some field experience, otherwise……well, you had to be there.
Yeah. Life and all that.
In other news, Yamaha TW200 might be the perfect small bike survivalist design. I’m working on one now, and it’s quite impressive. Lots of aftermarket support, and it’s a simple design.
Years back, I had a good buddy by the name of Mzirand. Pure blood Rhodesian Ridgeback, first generation from African stock.
Quite the petite female – only 128 pounds.
No, she wasn’t dainty. At all.
The pic is of her, about two weeks after an encounter with a pickup truck. She’s the only dog I’ve ever seen that had an honest to God tire mark diagonally across her back. That shoulder laceration you see went to the bone. That scab on her head? Remnant from a scalp peel back.
End result from the “evil wheeled beast fight”? I’m convinced she thought she won it.
After all….the truck ran away.
What a helluva dog, LOL, what a helluva dog.
She lived to a decent old age, about 12 years. In the end, pyometriosis got her.
She had an adventurous life though. I used to take her out on archaeological surveys. Maybe one of these days I’ll post up some of those pics, as I dig them out.
Rest easy, Z…and say howdy to Tam, Barkley, and all the rest of our faithful friends.
….mostly. Still need to do float levels, bench sync them, and double check fasteners. Then I’ll fuel test them with a syringe, and if that checks out OK, I’ll shoot a coat of paint on them, then mount.
Getting closer to actually firing this bike up, and if it works, then it’s on to the modifications that need doing.