Chet Baker's Last Run

For the past week, I've had a song running through my head, Carol Burnett's farewell.

I'm so glad we've had this time together

Just to have a laugh or sing a song

Seems we just get started and before you know it

Comes the time we have to say "So long."

Over and over. I hear her voice and see her tugging her earlobe. I wondered why. Now I know. I honestly think it was Ida, a great Carol Burnett fan, gently bringing me up to speed, singing in my ear. 

The trouble with Chet started a year and a half ago. It's a litany of ailments that started with a systemic tick medication I wish I'd never heard of, and wish I'd never given to him.  After only a few months, Chet got an ear infection, resulting in profound and permanent deafness in February 2016. While poking around with that, Dr. Lutz found Chet's thyroid was no longer working, and he had a heart murmur, too. Dominoes kept falling. In September 2016 he got a bad skin infection that was linked to allergies. He'd be on antibiotics for the rest of his life. The drug management of his maladies swelled until he was taking six medications, twice daily, and I rather swiftly lost my strong, vital, funny little running buddy to the dull, nagging drone of his ills. For his part, Chet's world contracted down to pill treats, meals, and slower and shorter runs that became lopes that became walks. I never saw a better 10-year-old dog--unfazed by 7 mile runs--until I saw him no more. 

I didn't write much about it because it made me so sad, and I didn't want to make you sad, but I have to say it's been hard to stand by, throwing pills at him from the sidelines, as my dearest friend faded. Keeping my blog and his Facebook page going was like being a press secretary to a beloved but ailing head of state.  How is Fidel today? Well, Fidel enjoyed his morning coffee...I'd scratch around and find something sweet or funny to share and then a long time would go by before I found another thing worth sharing. The writing was on the wall, and I had to read it every day for a year and a half. But that didn't mean I wanted you to have to read it, too.

It turns out that, even as I share some of my life here, and make people feel they know everything about me, I'm an iceberg. There's this huge lurking part of me that I won't allow to roll over and pop out of the depths. This thing with Chet has run me down, pushed my iceberg over, and it feels out of balance now.  I'm upended, the rotty icy part from deep down dripping in the unaccustomed light.

Doing wildlife rehabiltation for so long has given me a familiarity with the signs of suffering, and an intolerance for allowing it. I've played jury, judge and executioner far more times than I ever wished to. Who'd have thought that the child who wept over every black molly that went belly up in her 5-gallon fishtank would end up seeing so many creatures out of this world? Cue Carol Burnett. She's been singing in my ear for a week now.

He had a good two weeks in and out of Phoebe's arms. He was loved and cuddled and coddled. He gave her so many good kisses. On  Monday, August 21st, we took our Eclipse Night walk together.  I had a feeling it would be his last walk, but I didn't say anything about it. And the day she left for college,  the following Sunday, he started down a much steeper hill. By Monday afternoon he was breathing hard. Lasix, prescribed on another office visit Tuesday, had no effect. I heard the rasp in his breath Wednesday morning around 4 AM. And I knew when I looked into his eyes that Chet Baker's good long run had come to an end.  He was apologetic but firm. He wanted out. I wanted to let him out. I was not going to be the one to drag it out, to exhaust every possibility and spare no expense.  There may have been options for prolonging his life, but I had no interest in pursuing them, because the outcome would be the same, and the interim would hold only more suffering for him. I listened to Chet, and he spoke to my head, and my heart heard him too. I was grateful to know beyond doubt that it was his time. It's the doubt that will ruin you and bring you to your knees. I have watched too many friends walk this terrible line with their pets. No one is comfortable in this role, having to make the final judgement on a beloved one's time with us.

It wasn't a surprise. I'd had all kinds of warning. So I went into Deal With It mode, which keeps no room for drama, breast beating or hair tearing. I made Chet as comfortable as I could, and Bill and I picked a place and dug a sweet little grave in the front flower bed, just a couple of feet from the stoop where he baked his brisket on spring mornings. There, we wouldn't have to dig into turf, or mow around it. There, I could plant whatever I wanted in his honor. I set aside some daffodil bulbs we'd dug up to replant when we were done. 

 Liam got up and got the news and held his dear dog for a long time. He'd been so worried about him Tuesday night, but we hoped Lasix every 8 hours would perform a miracle.  He didn't believe my words that it was time until Chet told him it was so. I hated to see that sweet boy facing this, but I've tried, and I know now I can't make everything OK for my kids, not even close. All I can do is tell them the truth, always. 

 When Dr. Lutz's office opened at 8, I called, and they agreed to take us at 9:15. A blessing. I made Chet a breakfast of ham, eggs and cheese, but he couldn't take it. Just a little water. All right then, off we go. It was the longest half-hour ride into town I've ever experienced, except for when I was in labor with Phoebe.

Taken from the back seat. Bill drove. We kept our hands on him the whole time. 

Dr. Lutz gazed at him and said there are a lot of wonderful dogs, but there will never be another Chet, and she's right. Another heaven and another earth must pass before such a one comes again. We all wept and I wrapped myself around him and shared his last breaths, nose to nose, so he'd know I was there. His ears smelled like honey, his feet smelled like Fritos, and the harsh rasping slowed and stopped, and I realized that over the last three days it had become the soundtrack of my sorrow. In the unaccustomed silence, I wondered aloud. "Just like that. So fast. And he's gone. Who'd have thought?"

And yet most of us reading this have done this odd thing, or are looking at a time when we will. Only time will tell whether I'll ever have the strength to do it again. From where I sit, I don't think so. Finding another Chet Baker...it just doesn't seem possible, even if it seemed right to me. I think my heart has had all it can take for a good long while. That dog was there for me for twelve and a half years. He tried to hang in there, knowing how much I needed him, but his time came and too soon. I'm sailing alone without him now. I'll be OK, Bacon.  If I could just freeze-frame him at 9, and keep him that way forever, with his vast vocabulary of words and mutual understanding, with his training having come to full fruition, with  his hearing and eyesight and all his organs and wisdom and humor and strength intact, I'd sign a deal with the Devil. Give me the pen. Show me where to sign.

Midwest Birding Symposium, 2013. Photo by Jenny Bowman

I'd already signed a pact when I bought him, sight unseen; in utero no less! from my wonderful friend Jane Streett in the winter of 2004. And that pact was to love him without reserve or condition. It was not a performance-based love, not a jealous love, nor a possessive one. I remember wondering, when he was a young pup, when he'd turn to me and realize that my heart was his, and his mine. And I remember when it happened, when I saw him light up upon seeing me, when he started refusing to go anywhere unless I was along. And that was when I got the handle "Mether" and our love took off. 

12 1/2 years, and it never failed us, not once. We never fought, never went to bed mad. There was no no subterfuge, no duplicity. There was only love, the pure kind of love a baby has for its mother. Is it any wonder we love our dogs back so hopelessly, so slavishly, so openly, so fearlessly? 

February 2005. Small enough for a tubesock coat. Be still my heart.

I was searching for images to illustrate this. Yes, I could go back in the archives and sort through tens of thousands of Baker photos and find just the ones. But I don't have the time or the heart to do that. So I'll take you on Chet Baker's last run, only ten days before he left us. August 20, 2017, the day before the solar eclipse. 

At this point, when taking Chet for a lope, I was picking my weather and my routes. It had to be a cool day--this one started in the upper 50's. I didn't want a lot of steep uphill climbs. There had to be water for him all along the way. Duck Creek Road, on this sparkling August morning, it would be.

We had to stop and pick up a Little Soldier on the way. 

I carried him across, singing the song. My song.

Chet knows to wait in the car until Mether's done wriggling around in the middle of the road with her camera and the turkle. He's in the Chetspot, front pawdypads on the console, where Mether can kiss his cheek and throw her arm around him for the curves. Sometimes he'd put his left paw on my shoulder, leaning into me as we went around a curve. That was my favorite thing he did in the car.

Duck Creek Road was still misty, just like we like it. And there was clean water in the ditch from last night's thunderstorm. Perfect. 

This beautiful blackish horse was very interested in Chet, and he was happy to touch noses and exchange breath with me, too. 

Horses in the morning always do me good. The days when Chet would duck under the fence and try to nip a soft nose are long, long gone. He was one crazy-ass puppy.

I missed my palominos and the grullo--Buckeye, Daisy and Jesse--but these worked just fine.

I'd say I shot an unusual number of Bacon photos, but I didn't. I always shot an unusual number of Bacon photos.

We scuttled from shade spot to shade spot.

Chet was always a dog who looked up. As a puppy, he'd run after low-flying turkey vultures, jumping up to try to meet them. I'm thinking of all the posts I've done...Chet Baker, Birdwatcher...oh, I could go back and link to them, but I won't. It's hard enough to stay in the present.

In the last year of his life, any time I tried to stop take a photo of Chet going on ahead--his default mode when he could hear--he'd stop and turn right around to come back to me. He refused to walk ahead of me, because he couldn't see me then, and who knew when I'd take off to identify a butterfly? He wasn't about to lose me now, this late in the game. Plus, he always got kisses when he doubled back. So doubling back was a win for him. I could no longer take my distant inkblot photos that had become sort of a signature of this blog, but who cares? Things change. 

Here I come. You aren't going to get away from me this time.

We got to the Whipple Fish and Game Club, and found a shady bank where we could look over the pond. There was an osprey there, piping from a dead snag, perched above four wood ducks and a green heron. We settled in for some birdwatching and a nice long rest.

I love this picture of my little gentleman. Love the peaceful, careless way he's sitting, love his expression. 

Don't you think it's time to go home, Mether? It's past brunchtime. 

We took it slowly on the way home, with water stops and stretchouts in deep shade. 

While I waited for Chet, I found Small-flowered Leafcup!

Polemonium canadensis was one of the rare plants I looked for when I worked for The Nature Conservancy in Connecticut. I wasn't able to come up with its name when I found it, but I knew it was something worth knowing. A quick message to The Buckeye Botanist fixed that!

 I do love The Information Age. So much.

When we got back home I took a photo of Chet, waiting for me to give him his brunch. I was happy that, at 12 1/2,  he'd made the four-mile trip with me, but I remember saying as we came inside, "I think I've just taken my last run with Chet. From here on out, it's going to be shorter hikes. I'll take my big lens and take it slowly, pick my days and quit trying to run with him. All I do is keep doubling back to wait for him now."

Still...

 I'm so glad we've had this time together. 

The next night was Eclipse Night, and he walked almost two miles with me and Phoebe, to go get some more peaches. 

 Such a beautiful sight, that little white cow-face coming up over the hill.

Seems we just get started and before you know it

Comes the time we have to say "So long."

 This zinnia got good and trampled during the dig, but I've been nursing it, and it's coming back. Tiger swallowtail thinks so, anyway.

 He always loved to shuffle through this bed, looking for chiptymunks.

And another matchless little soul takes wing. 

He hears each soft word

Sees the rabbit and squirrel

Runs like black ink and

Stays like a good dog

in our hearts forever. 

Chet Baker, Boston Terrier

December 12, 2004-August 30, 2017

My Big Day

I hope I never forget May 10, 2014. I was itching for a long run. And it is the height of migration. So I left the house at 7 AM and headed out our paved county road with good ol' Baker. It was definitely threatening rain, but we weren't skeert. I was diggin' the spring skies. I hadn't had a thing to eat or drink. I wasn't really planning to be out until 12:30. Dang, I was hungry by 12:30. Could have eaten my left arm. 

Bacon, for his part, was diggin' the squirtles. I think he looks like Batman in this shot. This photo also reveals why I have poison ivy all up and down my arms. He romps through it, I hug him, c'est voila. Every durn spring. About to wash him yet again. But it doesn't help. I still get it off him. I can't not hug him. He's my little man, solid muscle and goodwill and the purest of uncomplicated loves.

This "long run" was a thinly disguised, on-foot-only Big Day. Which I vastly prefer to the kind where you climb in and out of a car all day. Those are fun, too, but ever so much more tiring. I took my tiny Vortex Viper binoculars, which have gotten out of alignment somehow. I can't give them up long enough to get them fixed, dammit. So getting them on a warbler in dim rainlight and deciding what I'm seeing mostly through one eyepiece is a challenge most extreme. 

Obviously, there will be no warbler photos in this post, since I can't haul the big rig and "run." 

But it was a delicious opportunity to use my ears. I flippin' love my ears. 

Had 44 species before I even made it out the driveway to our mailbox. Oh yeah. It was going to be a Good Day. I could hear the haunting tsit tsit tsit tsit of a blackpoll. Blackburnian, northern parula and two Cape May warblers greeted me halfway down the driveway. I fought to get looks at them all, especially the Cape May, since I hear that bird sing once a year if I'm lucky. But yep, I was right--Cape May. Witsee witsee see!

Chestnut-sided warblers were jingling everywhere. It was divine. What a wonderful bird to be surrounded by. Speaking of which, I couldn't get away from the galloping trree trree trrree of Kentucky warblers. Just as common as hoodeds around here in these Appalachian foothills. Just harder to get to, deeper in the woods, they are. Worm-eating warbler, a dry trill down the east slope.

I let the birds pull me on. If I run to the pond, I'll get this...Ahh!! Warbling vireos! I'd never heard them there before. Meadowlarks. A great blue heron flapping over, a lucky silent sighting. Orchard oriole, a young male, green with a black beard, impersonating a bobolink. My heart almost stopped when I first heard it. But no, it was that beautiful oriole. No Bobo for me.

I recorded it on my iPhone. Baker chased a bunneh into this barn. There was a bunneh-sized hole that the bunneh obviously knew all about. I was glad there was not a Chet-sized hole after that pursuit.

Offisa Pupp. 

Keepin' all the bad little bunnehs in line. 

We passed the Funks' house, and the Funks' hens were out and clucking on the lawn. Chet came to attention, trying to figure out what these were, and whether they were chaseable.

I gave him a low warning. Chet. Those are Mether's Birds. You leave them be. Leave them BE.

He looked longingly at them, knowing what fun it would be to race at them and scatter them, but also knowing that there would be a certain spanking in it. He knows the word "bird" and coupled with "Mether's," well, that's double off-limits. You can tell he wants to chase them by his little turd-tail, the way it's sticking straight out. But he was an excellent boy and he left them alone. 

Dogs can project their thoughts into the future and anticipate consequences. Hence, they can take warnings. Even without a lead. Most of the time.

The beautiful treeo I call The Three Graces, each one doing her own dance. The droopy one on the right, my favorite, and last to leaf out. 

Each tree has its own spirit. If anyone ever cut these down, a part of me would die with them. I love them so, the way they change through the seasons, with every change of light. I marvel that they were ever spared in the first place. Line trees, perhaps. 

Sometimes I muse about proposing my favorite trees and decrepit buildings as Washington County Aesthetic Landmarks.  Of high aesthetic significance. Irreplaceable. Do not remove. Or this woman dies.

The Grace on the far right is a black tupelo. I just identified her by her loose flower clusters today.  My favorite of the bunch, a bit quirky.