An apology to Jehan and Farouk.

May I blame Pamela for what you're about to read? 


This morning, shortly after I woke up and before I could even have a coffee, I saw her post. Then Chandra's. Then Fern's.


From there, it was just a short and slippery slope down my own memory lane with its unruly unpruned hedges.


I don't know if you've heard of Lori's If I Die Today posts.Those of you who also follow her, will know what I'm talking about. I've always had problems answering the questions she poses. But I know one thing. 


If I died today, I would regret not telling you about Jehan and Farouk.

I was startled this morning, to see how similar Rook [on the right] was to Jordan and Georgia. And Han [on the left] to Rufus. 


I spent an hour, maybe more, this morning, digging up old pictures from dusty baskets that sit under a table. They're neatly organized into sandwich bags labelled Friends, Family, Brisbane, Sydney, Norway, Morocco and other places I've been lucky enough to visit in my life. My god. I was so young then! I had a crazy perm, a shape, legs and wore hotpants! 


Many of the pictures were stuck together or had turned brown. None of them were digitally clear. But those sepia shadows made me cry like I haven't in a very long time. 


Some things I don't like to think about because, quite frankly, they make me sad and they make me feel like a bad person. But I know there'll be no stopping now until I'm done with this post.

*

Jehan and Farouk were 2 dogs we had when we lived in Brisbane, more than 23 years ago. They were both pound puppies though I can't remember where exactly they came from.


Farouk was the first to be adopted. 
Even as a pup, he was neurotic and could be aggressive. He chewed through half our backyard and was particularly fond of bromeliads. He got spanked a lot for that.

We got Jehan about 2 months later from a different pound. 

He was about 3 or 4 months old, if I remember correctly, and had been dropped off by someone who'd moved to an apartment. When we first met him on a rainy day, he was filthy, had mangy fur, weepy sores, and the sweetest temperament you could hope for in a pup.


The first 2 years were uneventful. In those days, we didn't fuss over what kind of bones to give our dogs and whether their food should be organic. And [unlike some un-named pigdog], they never demanded that we walk them twice a day, rain or shine. 

Rook and Han mostly played in the 1/4 acre backyard. A few times a week, they'd get taken out for leash walks. I don't remember there being any leash-free parks for dogs in the area though there was a pine forest where we'd take them sometimes. 

Rook loved the smell of coffee and would sit by my side every morning, drooling as I had my morning mug on the back verandah. I thought he was a coffee addict reincarnated. I hesitate to say he was my dog because I know The Other Half will take exception to that. But I do think he was more my dog. We bonded over our neuroses.


Jehan was very devoted to [who else?] The Other Half. He would lie down by the gate all day, waiting for the man to come home from work. There was no shelter there and only gravel to sleep on, but he wouldn't come into the house even when it rained. This is the daft dog that once picked up a cane toad and lived to tell the tale.

In 1991, we made a decision to move to Sydney. There was just no work for us in Brisbane. We had no idea where we were going to stay and we didn't know if it would be possible to bring 2 big dogs with us to an unknown city and into an unknown future. 


So we decided the best thing to do would be to find them new homes.  


You see why it's so hard for me to tell this story?


We put up signs at the produce shop, the butcher's and the vet's. We called around. I wrote a long letter about their quirks and put it in an envelope to be given to the new owners. Or, in the worst case scenario, to be dropped off at the pound, together with our boys. 


Then, in the last week, with the worst case scenario looming, we realised we just couldn't do it. 


So we called our rellies in Sydney instead and begged them to take Jehan and Farouk. Just for a while. Until we were settled. We would look after them. And pay for any damage. Please. Please. Please.


None of them were dog people so it was very fortunate for us that one of them finally said, "Yes."


I can't tell you how relieved and happy we were, but I know you can imagine.


A week later, we all piled into the station wagon towing a trailer loaded with some clothes, our CVs and other essentials, and Jehan and Farouk's worldly possessions. The rest of our house contents were put in storage, waiting for a place to call home.


We started off at 5am. I remember that clearly. The journey took more than 13 hours, with many stops along the way for the boys to stretch and pee. They used to love going for car rides but after that epic journey, neither of them were ever keen on cars again!


It was dark by the time we drove into Sydney where we immediately got lost for another hour before we finally arrived at the rellie's.


And there we gratefully stayed for the next couple of months until I found a job and we got our own place. 

*

Our new home had a big back and front yard! 

Every day, the boys got to meet and play with other neighbourhood dogs in the oval and green field just across a side road. There were a few nature reserves nearby too! [I wrote about one HERE, not too long ago.] It was a happy time for all of us.

But it was shortlived because I suddenly lost my job. The circumstances of that loss still makes me angry today, but it isn't relevant to this story so I'll not write about it.


The economy was in bad shape back then and with a mortgage, we did what we had to. When I was offered a job overseas, I jumped at it. The Other Half stayed back to keep trying for a job, and to look after Jehan and Farouk. It wasn't an ideal situation, but it was the only way we could think of to keep our boys.


A few months went by. The Other Half had to have an operation to fix a perforated eardrum. I thought I'd come home to cheer him up. 


On the drive from the airport to the house, he told me that Farouk had been in an accident. 


On the morning of the operation, The Other Half  had wanted to give the boys a last walk before checking himself into the hospital. Rook had been hit by a car while crossing the quiet suburban side street to the oval. The impact was hard enough to fling him more than 3 meters away. The woman in the car stopped only long enough to raise her arms as if to say, "Why the hell did you get in my way!" Then she sped off. 


Should Rook have been crossing the road off-leash? No. Could the woman have stopped in time or swerved away? Yes. Why didn't she do it? We don't know.


Farouk's left front leg was badly damaged.

He couldn't use it but the vet didn't think it was time to amputate. So we fashioned a sling for him. [I now wonder about that advice. What was the point of it? The leg would just have atrophied.]




Eventually though [it may even have been more than a month later], the leg started to agitate Rook and we knew it was time to remove it.


I remember being amazed at how easily and quickly he adapted to his 3 legs! Before we knew it, he was running on them like he'd been born a tripod!

*

With no local jobs available,  The Other Half finally decided to join me. We would both be working long hours and staying in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in a crowded city. It wasn't going to be any suitable place for 2 big dogs that had grown up with space. 


So we decided to rent our house out at "a very good price" with the proviso that the tenant take care of  our boys. Looking back now, it seems an absurd idea. But we were desperate and in a hurry.  


In actual fact, everything went well for quite a few months. Then one day, we got a call from our neighbour in Sydney. The tenants, they said, were no longer looking after our boys well.


So we took a month off and the next flight home to sort things out. 

*

Some dogs are born into a good life or are lucky enough to find one. We had hoped to provide that life for our pound puppies, but it just didn't turn out that way.


The boys were only about 3 years old then. This time, we were able to find friends who agreed to take them. Though we tried our best to find them a home together, no one wanted 2 big dogs. So Jehan and Farouk had to go their separate ways.


Jehan stayed on in Sydney with a friend. A year or so later, that friend was offered a job overseas as well, and left Jehan with his sister. I managed to visit Han one time and found him in poor shape. His fur had become mangy again because no one was brushing him. He felt grimy. He didn't seem to remember me. I know he was sad. The Other Half never managed to see Jehan again, despite repeated requests. 


You see, the friend had, over the years, become heavily addicted to drugs and was no longer the person he used to be. Sadly, he didn't even tell us when Jehan died.


Farouk was luckier. He ended up with friends who lived on a farm in Adelaide. He grew fat, fell into the pool chasing the family cats, was loved and died in the late 90s. 

Neither I nor The Other Half ever saw him again after he left our family.


That last day, when the pet taxi came to pick Rook up to take him to the airport, I remember helping him into the van, giving him a big hug and telling him, "Don't be scared, Rooky. You'll be okay. I love you. Be good and we'll be together again soon." 


I was still hopeful at the time that we would be home, maybe in a year. And because the boys had gone to friends, I thought we'd be able to get them back.


But then, you already know how it ends.

*

Jehan and Farouk never got to see each other again. And we never became a family again, as I had promised we would.

And for that, my boys, I need you to know something, however belated it is.


I'll always, always be sorry for the way your lives turned out. I wish we could go back to make amends, but we can't. So we're just going to do the best we can with the dogs we now have. Thank you for the lessons you taught us. Sorry for smacking you for the bromeliads, Rooky! And for blaming you, Han!


I love you both very much.








Afterword.
I want to end this post on a happy note so let me tell you a little joke. It was told to me by the friend in Adelaide who gave Farouk a home.


When she went to the airport to pick him up, the person who handed Rook over said to her -


I asked what kind of dog we'd be picking up today and you know what I was told?


"A 4-legged one."


 And then the crate arrived and we opened it up.




Thank you for reading and good night x

9th February.

Being a mostly industrious person, I started yesterday with a laundry load.

Then, I took Georgia out for her morning walk. We met the usual suspects at Mort Bay. Ted, already on his way home though it was only half six. Pearl, Darcy, Aggie. I noticed Georgia's back looked a little stiff so I was very glad she wasn't in the mood to play. She'd probably strained something from her mad game with Buddy the night before. She's not so young anymore, but I don't think she realises it yet.

When we got home, I hung out the laundry. The day had started a little wet, but the sky had turned a patchy blue and I was hopeful.

I made Georgia her breakfast but waited an hour before giving it to her.

I shook out the blankets and cushions, vacuumed the floor and rugs (yet again). Summer's almost over and our easy-care, short-haired dog is still shedding. Her fur is as confused as we humans are, by the weather this year.

I swept the yard and did some pruning. The constant rain has made the garden verdant and mushy. I'm a little over walking into sticky cobwebs and being slapped by wet branches and dangly jasmine tendrils every time I step into the yard.

By late morning, I decided I had to write something to remember the day by. I turned the computer on, it gave a little creaky groan, some green lights blinked a few times, then it died. I was a little perturbed by the timing.

At 11ish, Rachel turned up. I don't see much of her these days though we live in almost neighbouring suburbs. I used to see her at least 3 times a week at capoeira class. That was a lifetime ago, before 2 babies. A few days ago, she messaged me about catching up yesterday. She had no idea that it was a significant day though, curiously, she always seems to be there for me on days like that. We had a lovely Japanese lunch of teriyaki chicken and tempura vegetables washed down by miso soup. Then we went to a cafe down Darling Street for cake, coffee and a juice with the unfortunate name of crapple, which fortunately didn't taste like crap.

When I got home, I tried the computer again. It was still dead.

The Other Half came home and took Georgia in to work.

I watched a recorded movie called Shaolin and managed to fall asleep somewhere during one of the bloodbaths.

5 o'clock rolled round. I went to my 3rd capoeira class this week. My thigh muscles felt like sludge. I felt old and deliciously happy.

When I got home at 8ish, The Other Half was working on raising the computer from the dead. I was hopeful that I'd still be able to write something because the man knows how to fix everything. But by 10, he finally called it. Exact cause of death, still unknown.

I turned on his iPad, this iPad, and tried to connect to the blog. I got the message "Unable to connect. Server not responding."

I turned on my iPhone thinking I could manage a really, really short post on it despite my stubby fingers and long-sightedness. I got the message "Unable to connect. Server not responding."

I topped up the citronella oil in the aromatherapy burner, turned off the light, pulled up my blankie and went to sleep.

The 9th of February had, in the end, become just another day. My best guess is that someone up there was telling me it's time to move on. There are only 365 days in a year after all (366 this year), and if we keep remembering the bad sad days, soon we'll have no more happy ones left.

It'll take a few days to get a new computer up. Meanwhile, I'm typing this on The Other Half's iPad which strangely has no problem connecting me to anything today. I don't like the feel of it, it won't let me use pretty colours or adjust typefaces (or I have no idea how) and I have no access to my pictures. But at least, I finally get to say this.

Thank you Jordan. Love you.




11.25am. BREAKING NEWS!
After a wild goose chase and meetings with mysterious unnamed contacts, Nacho was finally returned to his family about 30 minutes ago and is apparently in good health. Click on their Facebook link in the last post if you want to see the sweetest, most awww-inspiring picture of the old fella.

February 10th is shaping up to be someone's Very Happy Day :)


P.P.S. at one-ish.
I'm sorry if I'm missing from your blog. Today, I seem only to be able to leave comments on those without word verification. I see the same word to verify on every blog - senita. Of course, it tells me I'm wrong when I type it.

So Jean, if you're reading this, I know Justus has been found! A good day, all in all.

Loose ends and last words.

There are so many niggly things I've been wanting to write about but, to tell you the truth, I've enjoyed being away from the computer. More than 1000 unseen [and mostly crappy] pictures will now be moved to folders and the recycle bin because the moment has passed to tell those stories.

But I must sneak a few in.

Loose ends.
3 evenings a week, I get on the temperamental Balmain bus that turns up as and when it pleases, and pass this lovely view on my way to capoeira class.

Despite the press of too many bodies [some apparently unwashed] crowded into an overheated bus, who can complain?

The last few weeks of autumn have been beautiful. Too cold for my old bones and stinky knee, but sunny and dry. Perfect for meeting old friends in the park.

Molly, Scotty, Kody and Delle.

Scotty cut his face 2 days ago while playing at Mort Bay Park and had to have surgery. Poor baby [as in distraught dogmom]. Poor Scotty too.

***

 

Georgie the lurcher and her friend, Stella the seeing eyedog, on her day off. Apparently Stella's not terribly good at her job because she gets to play with other dogs.

I'm sure she's happier though.

*

 Coco, still the BGF. Still loco.

*

Old friend Banjo made a rare appearance one day.

*

And could this be Serious Boyfriend #3?

Only if Ms Pea doesn't play hard-to-get. And what kind of a dogmom am I? I don't even remember his name.

This week, the weather changed again, sunny skies giving way to fog, rain and gusty winds.

 

Unlike many dogs, Georgia isn't scared of wind.

 But I don't think she likes it too much.

The Other Half made a rare investment and is now ready for muddy winter walks.

 

More loose ends.
Remember the magic orange tree? It's grown.

I'll have to move it somewhere soon so it can have its own space and stop being just an unexpected guest.

The basil I inherited from my neighbour, which came from her mum, is thriving, despite having been unceremoniously ripped from the ground.

It's not pretty like the basil from the supermarket and has a much more pungent flavour.

It's already been blended into garlicky nutty pesto, popped onto homemade pizzas, and tossed into Thai basil chicken stirfry. Yum.

The courtyard pavers have finally been stripped off their slimey green moss.

The last reminder of a time when an old incontinent dog and daily hosedowns kept the place constantly damp.

The backyard and the frontyard have been tamed.

The flowering plum and tulip magnolia have dropped the last of their leaves [thank god] and are already budding. Winter is on its way.

The Other Half had a quiet birthday.

Ditto The Never-Before-Mentioned Reclusive Brother.

The capoeira batizado is already a distant memory. If only I could say the same about the aches and pain.

A short break to somewhere balmy has been planned. The holiday camp gulag boarding kennel, organised.

Research has already resumed for a longer holiday later in the year.

Because we haven't been able to travel for 2 years, Georgia has never been boarded [unless you count the time spent at the pound as boarding]. I'm not worried that she won't be able to tolerate commercially prepared dogfood because we're talking about a dog that eats vomit and dead things off the ground. I'm not worried that she'll freeze though she probably will, being A Dog Of Little Hair. I'm not even worried that she'll miss us.

What does worry me, is that she may react badly to being in a confined space with many other dogs, all of which will be unknown to her. Some of them will no doubt be yappy, and may lunge or look at her in some way she finds offensive. Miss Pea does not tolerate dogs that smirk at her these days, and has become quite standoffish with strangers.   

 "Oh! It's YOU, Muddy!"

We've picked a place that does the inverse of what most boarding kennels do. The dogs have free run all day of a large grassy enclosure [which no doubt becomes a quagmire when it rains]. They get to wander on long guided bushwalks in a happy pack. They only get kenneled when it's time for beddy-bye. Most importantly, the place appears to be run by people with a history of working with dogs. 

At least that's what the website says. I shall duly be able to make a report.

Meantime, I have visions of Georgia snoozing contentedly under some shady tree like Fernando, surrounded by equally dozy new friends.

Hope springs eternal.


Last Words.
Many people have been asking us how Georgia's doing.

I was having a chat with the ladies at our local dogfriendly Blooms Chemist just a few days ago. One of them made me weepy by showing me pictures of Rufus tagged onto the counter. Another reminded me of how depressed Rufus had been after Jordan died.

Jordan left the house one day for a trip to the vet and never came back.

How do you tell a dog his friend isn't coming home? Or why his friend isn't coming home?

Rufus didn't eat properly for 2 weeks. Every night, he would wander about the house, panting heavily. Sometimes, if I was up writing, he would keep me company in the study. Most nights, he'd be in the bedroom, checking on us. He would walk up to black dogs on the street, in case one of them was Jordan. He spent a lot of time looking out to sea. One day, walking back from the park, he heard a dog barking that sounded very much like Jordan. He broke from his usual amble and pulled me up the street to the house where the barking was coming from. He tried pulling me into the yard.

Rufus was depressed for 6 weeks. I can be precise because that's when we decided the best thing we could do, would be to get him another companion.

He immediately perked up after Georgia came to stay. In the presence of a cute young thing, his chest puffed up, he started to walk more briskly and to play. He became his belligerent old self again.

We've had no such drama with Ms Pea. She does look sad sometimes, but she's always had a sad face. She's no more clingy than she ever was. There's been no loss of appetite. No signs of anxiety. No grieving. If Georgia were human, I would probably call her heartless. Lucky I'm not silly that way.

In fact, I'm very grateful for the way things turned out and can only conclude that the vet was right in telling us it'd be good for her to witness the end. Georgia got the closure that Rufus didn't. Georgia got to say goodbye.

Having experienced these 2 very different endings, I know which one I would recommend to anyone facing the same situation, and who has a choice.

It's a month today since we let Rufus go. Exactly. Already.

And those are pretty much the last words I have to say on the subject because it's time to be happy again.