Pebbles...

On 12/3/2018, I had to help my little dog across the Rainbow Bridge. Out of nowhere, she couldn't stand. I carried her to the vet and upon xraying her, he found a huge mass in her abdomen. He said it was 95% certainly malignant. best case prognosis with surgery and chemo was 12 weeks. And they wouldn't be good ones. When has chemo ever treated a human, let alone an animal who can't understand, well? I did the only thing I could do for her. And I hated every second of it. But how much worse as a human would I be, if I selfishly made her suffer, with no real chance of recovery? I hugged her til she was gone. It will be a long time, if ever, that I have a pet again. Every time they must leave, I lose another part of me. I will cherish her memory. She was a good dog, even tho she was loopey as hell. Little Girl, you are loved and missed. I hope to see you again one day. I love you.

Another little friend passes...

Mr. Snickers. You were a blessed little soul. I shall miss you and your quiet ways. I never had a guinea pig. Mr. Snickers was exceptional, I think. He was quiet and liked to be petted. He recognized me every morning when I would check on him, and would usually come out of his little house to be petted. Rest in peace, little guy. Wait for me by the Bridge.

To Sleep. Perchance to Dream...

I've said before, I really don't dream much anymore. The stress of everyday life, I guess, just being damned tired by the end of every day. Don't know why. Maybe I do dream, like the doctors say, but I just don't remember them upon awakening. Maybe I don't get deep enough in to sleep, to have dreams.

That being said, every once in a while, I have this one. It is both terrifying, yet a huge comfort to me...


I am being chased. All around me is nothing other than black. No ground, no horizon or sky. I imaging this is what it would be like if I were blind. There's just nothing. WHICH of course makes it damned difficult to run and escape from whatever the hell is chasing my sorry ass...

No clue where or when I am. Just overwhelming fear of whatever is behind me. Even though I can't see it, I know it's gaining fast. Finally, I turn to face it. Whatever it is I KNOW is almost upon me, and I'm winded. Never was a runner. Too damned big. If I couldn't stand and fight whatever it was, and kick its ass in 15 seconds or less, I was a deadman anyway. I've always known that.

Okay. Wolves. I'm being hunted by a pack of very large wolves. These guys look rather well-fed. Not starved at all. Not good. not for me anyway. They appear out of the blackness. Looks kind of like ink receding around their bodies as the come into full view. BIG. Big. Like 150lbers. Timber Wolf? Grey Wolf? Dunno. Big. They look hungry.

They are closing in, cautiously but steadily. Every one of them is looking me directly in the eyes. That in itself makes it even more unnerving. They know I've accessed the situation and know the inevitable outcome. I'm dinner.

Then, they stop. They raise their heads and sniff the air, watching the inky blackness behind me. I know something ELSE is coming. I don't dare turn around. Although I'm not sure why it matters.They can grab me just as easily from the front. I hear the growling. It's not coming from the wolves. And it's far deeper...

Finally, I can't stand it anymore. I spin around to see this threat, which makes wolves nervous. And I fall back, on my ass.

Candy. Jo Jo. Ginger. Rosie. Jack.

My animal friends. My pets. They've come to help me. And they are NOT what they were in life. Each of them appears to be roughly the size of a full grown cow. Weighing in at 1500-2000lbs. They are not really looking at me, but at the wolves. The dogs advance, while the two cats move in close and guard me.

Candy, was my first dog, that I can remember as a child. She had been abused. When we got her, she was maybe a year or so old. Mom and Pop couldn't get near her. Even to feed her. She was terrified of adults. Men especially. My sister and I fed her for the first several weeks of her life in our house. She was a wonderful dog. Her life with us stretched 19 years. She grew blind in one eye, but still faithfully followed my father out in the garden as he did his work, weeding and watering. She would lay down at the head of a row, and move up, when he was halfway done, and then again when he would move on to the next. After almost 20 years, her hind end gave out and she could no longer stand. She still had an appetite though. Right to the very end. We had to have her put to sleep. I felt guilty. Still do to this day, because I was not there. Can't deal with death. Pop had to bury her, on a cold, snowy morning. I wasn't there to help him dig her grave. Still, she had come to save me. I don't feel that I deserved it.

After Candy, it was quite a while before we had another dog. I came home from work one day, and Pop had this ugly little mutt sitting happily in his lap. Her name was Ginger. She was a pure blood Boston Bull Terrier. Mom didn't want another animal, but, Pop insisted. So, he took care of her. She was a wonderful little dog. Rode everywhere with him, in the car. Was a good watchdog. Thought she was the size of a Great Dane, even though she barely weighed 18 pounds. She outlived my father, by 3 years. Those last few years were hard on her. First Pop vanished, and then Mom. She was home alone a lot, cause I had to work. I paid a neighbor lady to come over and let her out and sit with her for a bit every day. But she was always beside herself with joy when I would get home from work. Little Ginger had a brain tumor that I didn't know about, til it was far too late. She was 13. The vet said she would never survive the surgery, even IF the tumor turned out to be operable. One night she had a seizure in my arms. She died screaming. It was the most awful thing I have ever witnessed in my life.  There was not a damned thing I could do except hold her and cry. I lay beside her on the floor that night she died, her body in her little dog bed, my hand resting upon her still form, feeling the coldness creep in.

I had no more pets after Ginger. Until Jack. Fuzzy-Boy was a pure Aussie Shepard. A Blue Merle. Down to having one blue eye and one brown. He was a funny creature. Not really much of a barker. But he would Harumph, quite often when he wanted something. Was funny as hell to hear. Like he was annoyed you weren't paying attention, or didn't understand what he was saying. Jack was Shanna's baby. When she came into my life, he naturally came right along too. I loved him as much as she did. Jack had a tattoo on his inner ear, indicating he had been neutered. Seemed a funny thing to do. But we later learned why; Fuzzy Boy had a genetic, degenerative spinal problem. His vertebrae were fusing and he was slowly and painfully losing the use of his rear legs. By Christmas of 2010, he could barely move. We had to have him put to sleep. I didn't want to do it. I would have bankrupted myself, if someone could have offered an option to save him. He passed from this life 12/21/10. I have missed him sorely, even though he was not in my life as long as some of my pet friends. We had good times together and some tough ones. But he was always a loving and faithful family member. I miss him to this day.

I was not really a cat person. *shrugs* I don't dislike them. dogs just appeal to me more. Always have. We rescued a kitten, when I was little. A mother cat, had her litter in the grass catcher of my Pop's riding lawn mower. He found them and moved them into a box. Well, momma cat didn't like that, and moved her children, leaving behind the smallest and weakest. After a day of listening to the tiny kitten wailing for its momma, Pop couldn't take it any more and brought the animal in. Mom was NOT happy. He called the vet and asked how to raise a kitten whose eyes weren't even open yet. We fed it with a tiny baby bottle, every few hours. Amazingly enough, it survived. Sis named the female kitten Jo Jo. Which I kinda found dumb. So I called it Dummy. I don't think the poor creature ever really knew its name. lol. It remained mostly feral. It didn't like being petted, except by my Mother, who was the one person who didn't want it in the first place. Jo Jo/Dummy was grey and white. And very cranky. She attacked feet, hands, whatever was nearby and moving. Even though we fed her. I guess it was just her way. She was with us a number of years, til she got cancer. My sister had to have her put to sleep. I missed that goofy cat, even though we never really got along all that well.

Pop never could stand to see an animal suffer. He was not a cat person, by any stretch. But no animal would suffer or go hungry on the Hall property. One day, while puttering around outside, he spied a pair of eyes peering out at him from beneath the tractor in the garage. On closer inspection, he could see it was a small, dark colored cat, who hastily withdrew farther into the darkness, to avoid Pop. He made his way back to the house and cooked up a piece of minute steak, figuring the cat was cold and hungry. He put it on a paper plate and went back out to the garage. His intent was to place the meat where the cat could see it, and back away so it would come out to eat. He never made it that far. He put the plate down, beneath the tractor and started to back away. Rosie came shooting out of the garage and wound herself around his ankles, meowing loudly and rubbing herself against him. After doing this thoroughly, she turned and ate the food he had placed for her. That was that. Pop had a cat. She was a dark calico. Multi colored. He wanted to bring her in. Mom said NO WAY. lol. So, she was an outdoor cat. Pop would take food out to feed her, and he would sit in an old metal lawn chair and talk to her while she ate. When she would finish, Rosie would climb up and sit in his lap and purr endlessly. And drool. Pop was concerned and though she might be ill. He'd never heard of a cat drooling. It was Sis who told him that was a sign that Rosie was ecstatically happy. He wasn't sure how Ginger would react to a cat, so, he started walking her out front, and going out back then, by himself. When he would, Rosie would come out of the garage, and follow him around in the garden, just like any faithful dog. She knew where her bread was buttered. lol. One day, Pop forgot and took Ginger out the back door. Rosie came shooting out of the garage as usual and ran right up to Pop... and Ginger. The little Boston Bull barked furiously at the cat, straining on her leash as if she was looking to eat the cat alive. Pop was just about to drag her inside, when Rosie walked up to her, laid down and rolled onto her back, placing one paw gently on each side of Ginger's face. Well, the poor dog swallowed her own bark. She didn't know how to deal with that. She kind of turned her head away in disgust, and shut up. After that, the two were fast friends. When Pop took Ginger out, Rosie can right along and the two would play together. It was funny as hell to watch, really. After Pop passed, I too, wanted to bring Rosie in. Mom still wouldn't have it. So, I elected to find her a home, where she could be an indoor kitty. She obviously had been at some point. My sister DID find her a wonderful home. But, her time outside, had poisoned her. Not 2 years after Pop passed, Rosie followed him into the dark. I was very, very saddened when Sis called to tell me the news.

I did not, do not, and never will understand, why god would give such sweet, wonderful creatures so short a time upon the face of this world, and yet give humans, who have a natural propensity and inclination towards evil, so many years.

The wolves were definitely spooked by the sudden appearance of my cadre of defenders. The three dogs probably massed more than 20x what the pack of five did. Then, the wolves attacked.

It was over in seconds. The dogs were faster and far more massive. They simply threw the wolves backwards into the inky blackness. The leader of the pack made an end run around the dogs and found itself carelessly swatted away by a massive cat paw. I could feel them give up, and turn away into the darkness. They knew after one short encounter, that they were hopelessly outclassed.

I stood, and wrapped my arms around the nearest cats neck, Dummy/Jo Jo, and hugged her tightly. She made no move to pull away. When I let go of her, she looked at me and yawned. Her maw was so large, it seemed as if the entire upper portion of my body would have fit in there in one bite. Then, I turned and hugged Rosie. She purred loudly (it sounded kind of like an old Dodge pickup truck with a 440CID and a set of sidepipes at idle) and nuzzled me. When I let go of her, Candy was there and I started to cry. I held her tightly and told her how sorry I was, at not having been there for her and how I missed her. She licked me repeated (getting my WHOLE face in one swipe, several times...) and whined happily. I turned to Ginger and did the same, saying how I missed her and thanking her for coming for me. And finally, Jack, who licked me also and grumbled low, like a mumbling old man.

Then, they turned to leave. I stood there, watching. They did not fade into the inky blackness. Instead, the dark gave way around them and they seemed to be bathed in a soft but steady glow from within. The nothingness which surrounded me retreated from them. My friends stopped and looked back at me. I took it to mean, Well??? Are you coming or NOT?? I hurriedly joined their group, laying an arm on the backs of Jack and Ginger. As we walked forward, the blackness retreated. I saw blue and green start to appear; sky and grass. And off, in the distance, a beautiful, beautiful bridge...

Jack...

Fuzzy-Boy, you're gone 2 years. I miss you still. You were a great pup. We won't see your like again.

Mom and Pop...

The holidaze again. You are loved and oh, so very, very missed...

Mr. Howell's dog...

Paranormal? I like to think so. True? Most definitely.

                When I was younger, and still living at home, my Pop’s best buddy was Bill Howell. Mr. Howell was an old bachelor. He lived in the same house he was born in. He was somewhat older than Pop. Maybe 10 years. He lived alone, except for his dog; a nondescript mutt of a bit more than medium size. But she was fiercely protective of him. If she didn’t know you, you WEREN’T getting into the house. Period.

                Mr. Howell’s house was situated directly across the street from the graveyard, where his parents were buried. There was an open spot right next to them, where he one day intended to be, himself. He could look out his front door and see their headstones, standing beneath the cool shade of a maple tree.

                One day, we received a phone call. Mr. Howell was ill and needed help.  Pop and I raced over to his house. Pop went inside and made me wait, because I had never met the dog before. She wasn’t good with strangers. In a minute, he called me inside. Mr. Howell was sitting in his chair, the dog laying across him, protectively. He was stroking her fur. We called the ambulance. They arrive quickly, and Pop held onto the dog, as they loaded her Master up and took him away.

                Mr. Howell it turned out, had advanced stomach cancer. He wouldn’t be coming home. Pop made arrangements for the neighbor to take the dog. He wanted to bring her home, but he was scared because she was not used to multiple people. The poor animal never saw her Master alive again. Mr. Howell passed away in the hospital a few weeks later.

                It was summertime, when they buried him across the street from his family home, next to the graves of his parents.  We went to the funeral and to the graveyard for the burial. Pop was sad. He had known Mr. Howell for many, many years. They worked together at Sheildalloy Metallurgy.  We stopped at the neighbors house, and Pop checked on the dog, and gave the man his phone number, in case there were any problems.  A very few days later, Pop got a phone call.

                “Mr. Hall, you better come over here.”

                “Why? What happened?”

                “There’s something you need to see. I’m not sure what to do about it…”

                We went over to the neighbor’s house. He was waiting outside for us when we got there.

                “Where is she? What did she do?” Pop asked, noting the paleness of the neighbor’s face.

                “Come on.” So saying, he walked down his driveway and crossed the street, into the graveyard.

                He stopped and pointed beneath the spreading maple tree. There she was. Laying atop the freshly turned dirt of her Master’s grave.

                “What should I do?” the neighbor asked quietly.

                Pop stood there, tearing up. 

                “Leave her be. Bring her home at night to sleep. But if she wants to come here and be with him during the day, just let her be. If the caretaker has an issue, have him call me. I’ll take care of it.”

                That was the way it went. As far as I know, Mr. Howell’s dog spent the rest of her days, laying faithfully on her Master’s grave. 

                Anyone who says animals can’t love, has no soul themselves. 

My Pop, WWII and his love of animals...

During WWII, my father was stationed in the European Theater of operations. He was a member of an Anti-Aircraft unit. That didn't mean they saw no ground fighting.

He told us this story; One night, he was in a foxhole, waiting out the shelling from the Germans nearby. Over the sounds of shells hitting and bullets whizzing, my father heard a dog, crying piteously, somewhere in no-man's-land, between his foxhole, and the German lines. Disregarding his fellow soldiers telling him he was an idiot, Pop crawled on his belly, out into the warzone, trying to follow the sound of the dog. He found the animal, after searching for a period of time. It was (of course) a German Shepard. NOT an American style Shepard. THIS, was a Nazi Police dog, that had become separated from it's handler. It was huge. Pop crawled up to the terrified dog and spoke to it in German. He got ahold of it's collar and leading the dog, crawled, back to his foxhole.

That was that. Pop had a dog. It went with him everywhere; on patrol, to the mess tent, to the latrine. Pop saved him and he KNEW it, and showed his devotion accordingly. Unfortunately, the dog only knew German. The Captain of Pop's unit confirmed by the animal's tags, that it was indeed a Nazi Service Dog. My Pop was the only one who could communicate with the animal. Which lead to some disturbing situations with his buddies in the unit. It was not uncommon for them to not be able to get back into the foxhole, or tent, or bombed out farmhouse they were staying in, unless my father called off the dog. lol.

Pop fully intended to bring this massive animal home with him. He had already informed Mom and his own family. The Captain of the unit was going to assist him with the paperwork.

One day, Pop can back from an errand, and the dog was gone. No one knew anything. Pop knew one of them had killed his pet. He never did find out who. My father would tear up when he told this story. It took a lot to move my father in such a manner. I know he loved that dog.