The DeSoto, Texas food pantry operates all year, every year. On Wednesday we received an urgent email - - there were four slips from the angel tree that had not been returned, could we help? And it had to be done immediately, the party was scheduled for today.
Let me digress for a moment. When my own daughter was small, we were a military family and money wasn’t just tight, it was nearly non-existent. I never knew until recently that daughter’s one desire at Christmas every year was for a ballerina tutu. But she never included it on her list to Santa, because she realized, even at that tender age, that Christmas gifts had to consist of shoes, warm clothes, a winter jacket with sleeves long enough to cover growing arms. Twenty years later, when her own daughter came along, a pink tutu was one of the first things she bought for her, and whenever anybody asked, it headed the list. Daughter today is a Neo-Natal Intensive Care Nurse, with a recently earned BS degree (HOORAY!!!). Granddaughter graduates this year from the University of Houston, on track for a future as a PA.
And so, when the angel request came in this week, I responded that I wanted to buy for the 7-year-old girl who said she wanted “anything for a princess.” Yesterday I took a pink tiara to the Food Pantry, and handed it to chairman Suzanne Phillips. Another donor had only moments earlier brought in a “princess” doll for the child.
The need for food and clothes is always there, and we respond with donations each month throughout the year. But there are those of us who also recognize that a heart’s desire for the frivolous is sometimes just as important as the head’s need for the sensible. And today, that child, along with hundreds of others in our area, will have a reason to smile.
Information about DeSoto Food Pantry at link below.
http://www.pegasusnews.com/news/2008/oct/23/desoto-food-pantry-seeks-community-support/
Friday, December 17, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
memoriam
Attended by the caring and compassionate staff at DeSoto VCA, and in the arms of the one who loved him most, Faithful Companion and Friend, Ernie "Puppy" Thibodeau, 15 1/2 years old, passed peacefully this morning into a world where backyard bunnies play with friendly canines instead of running at their approach, where hind legs jump and run the way they did so long ago, where the weather is never too hot or too cold, where diets are not an issue and it's chunky sirloin burgers for every meal. Puppy was preceded in death by step-brother Burt and is survived by close-cousin Kitty. He will remain forever in the hearts of those who knew and loved him. We were blessed to have been his friends.
Part two
For several months we’d been on potty patrol every four hours. This last couple of weeks it was down to every two. Each time I’d open the garage door and turn on the light, I’d wonder if his eyes would be bright with greeting. At 4 am yesterday, I found Puppy huddled in the middle of the floor, whining, unable to get up. From the looks of the shredded newspaper and poop, it was evident that he had managed to crawl to the potty corner a couple of times even as I slept. But then he just couldn’t manage anymore, and so was in a heap, his belly saturated with urine and sweat. It took an hour of him whining and me crying, my snot mixing with his fur, to get him on his feet. Once he was up, he knew that he could not lay down again. I shut kitty in the bedroom, opened the back door and just let puppy stoically wander back and forth as he chose while I made phone calls. At 8:40, he stood and looked at me silently, not in reproach, but only as if to say please do something. I said I know, Buddy, and put the leash on his collar. He made it to the car, but could not get in. And then, even between the two of us, we couldn’t get him onto the back seat. And so he simply sat on the floor and rested his head on his blankets while I drove the long six miles. He literally fell out when we got to the vets. And had not taken two steps when he lost control again. I just stood and stroked his head and talked to him while he peed the parking lot. He rallied enough to get into the office, and remembering the routine walked to the floor scale, but no need to weigh him today, and so into exam one, the room with no windows. He stood trembling, but calm, quietly eating puppy treats from my hand. After a short wait, an attendant took him away for a catheter in his leg. They were back in a couple of minutes. She put a soft blanket on the exam table, and lifted him onto it. But by now the hind legs were totally gone, and it took both of us to get him situated. She murmured her condolence and quietly shut the door, leaving us to our last few moments together. I stood with my right arm locked around his rib cage and petted his gray head with my left. He did not whine, just seemed, finally, content. The doc came in and asked if we were ready. I answered he was ready six months ago but I was too selfish until now. She cleared the catheter, and then pumped in the lethal dose. He was totally silent. No gasping for breath, no whines, not a single sigh. He simply laid his muzzle on my left hand and closed his eyes. She listened for a heart beat in three different places, at three different times, then simply said, “He’s gone.” I nodded, because by then I, too, was mute. She said she’d tell the clerk, and that I could stay with him as long as I wanted. But there was no need to stay for more than a couple of minutes. From the day he and Burt chose me at the animal shelter and they became my friends, I’d said it all throughout the years, and a thousand times in the last five hours. I came away from that place knowing that the heroics and dignity of Puppy will stay with me forever.
Gave his blankets to the vet, they're always looking for some. After I got home I emptied and threw away his garage water bowl, then cleaned the floor. His toys and brush lay silent in their place. I will throw them away as soon as I can bring myself to gather them up, but not just yet. Sent an email asking Denise if they can use the 1 1/2 bags of kibbles n bits for Tony. There's this gargantuan dog house on the back patio that stands in silently mocking; it weighs more than me and Jim combined, and there’s no way to do anything with it because he's not here. He emailed that he wished he’d been there to scratch puppy behind the ears one more time.
I had to run out for one errand about 2 pm. I got home, walked in, locked the front door, and then from long months of habit immediately opened the garage door. But there was no puppy to greet me. The rest of the day, kitty never let me out of his sight. No whining, no demands for food, just keeping silent vigil as we got through the day. He laid down when I did, got up when I did, and matched me step for step.
I had supposed the worst would be today when I wake at my normal 4 am and realized there was no reason to get out of bed. But I don’t think I slept much. Several times during the night I woke to hear the echoes of a dog tag rattling against the metal loop on his red collar. At 3:30 I stood on the patio and looked for Sirius, confident that puppy saw and smiled. And then was overwhelmed with anger. Anger at Jim for not being here, anger at an economy that keeps him away from home. I am angry at a world where puppies do not live forever. But the anger was temporary. The pain of loss a little longer. And so I write, for this is how I have learned to deal with grief. And I will get through it. One silent dawn at a time.
Part two
For several months we’d been on potty patrol every four hours. This last couple of weeks it was down to every two. Each time I’d open the garage door and turn on the light, I’d wonder if his eyes would be bright with greeting. At 4 am yesterday, I found Puppy huddled in the middle of the floor, whining, unable to get up. From the looks of the shredded newspaper and poop, it was evident that he had managed to crawl to the potty corner a couple of times even as I slept. But then he just couldn’t manage anymore, and so was in a heap, his belly saturated with urine and sweat. It took an hour of him whining and me crying, my snot mixing with his fur, to get him on his feet. Once he was up, he knew that he could not lay down again. I shut kitty in the bedroom, opened the back door and just let puppy stoically wander back and forth as he chose while I made phone calls. At 8:40, he stood and looked at me silently, not in reproach, but only as if to say please do something. I said I know, Buddy, and put the leash on his collar. He made it to the car, but could not get in. And then, even between the two of us, we couldn’t get him onto the back seat. And so he simply sat on the floor and rested his head on his blankets while I drove the long six miles. He literally fell out when we got to the vets. And had not taken two steps when he lost control again. I just stood and stroked his head and talked to him while he peed the parking lot. He rallied enough to get into the office, and remembering the routine walked to the floor scale, but no need to weigh him today, and so into exam one, the room with no windows. He stood trembling, but calm, quietly eating puppy treats from my hand. After a short wait, an attendant took him away for a catheter in his leg. They were back in a couple of minutes. She put a soft blanket on the exam table, and lifted him onto it. But by now the hind legs were totally gone, and it took both of us to get him situated. She murmured her condolence and quietly shut the door, leaving us to our last few moments together. I stood with my right arm locked around his rib cage and petted his gray head with my left. He did not whine, just seemed, finally, content. The doc came in and asked if we were ready. I answered he was ready six months ago but I was too selfish until now. She cleared the catheter, and then pumped in the lethal dose. He was totally silent. No gasping for breath, no whines, not a single sigh. He simply laid his muzzle on my left hand and closed his eyes. She listened for a heart beat in three different places, at three different times, then simply said, “He’s gone.” I nodded, because by then I, too, was mute. She said she’d tell the clerk, and that I could stay with him as long as I wanted. But there was no need to stay for more than a couple of minutes. From the day he and Burt chose me at the animal shelter and they became my friends, I’d said it all throughout the years, and a thousand times in the last five hours. I came away from that place knowing that the heroics and dignity of Puppy will stay with me forever.
Gave his blankets to the vet, they're always looking for some. After I got home I emptied and threw away his garage water bowl, then cleaned the floor. His toys and brush lay silent in their place. I will throw them away as soon as I can bring myself to gather them up, but not just yet. Sent an email asking Denise if they can use the 1 1/2 bags of kibbles n bits for Tony. There's this gargantuan dog house on the back patio that stands in silently mocking; it weighs more than me and Jim combined, and there’s no way to do anything with it because he's not here. He emailed that he wished he’d been there to scratch puppy behind the ears one more time.
I had to run out for one errand about 2 pm. I got home, walked in, locked the front door, and then from long months of habit immediately opened the garage door. But there was no puppy to greet me. The rest of the day, kitty never let me out of his sight. No whining, no demands for food, just keeping silent vigil as we got through the day. He laid down when I did, got up when I did, and matched me step for step.
I had supposed the worst would be today when I wake at my normal 4 am and realized there was no reason to get out of bed. But I don’t think I slept much. Several times during the night I woke to hear the echoes of a dog tag rattling against the metal loop on his red collar. At 3:30 I stood on the patio and looked for Sirius, confident that puppy saw and smiled. And then was overwhelmed with anger. Anger at Jim for not being here, anger at an economy that keeps him away from home. I am angry at a world where puppies do not live forever. But the anger was temporary. The pain of loss a little longer. And so I write, for this is how I have learned to deal with grief. And I will get through it. One silent dawn at a time.
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