Emma has left for the Rainbow Bridge

Emma
December 01, 2004 - January 22, 2019

Tonight, my Emma is running free at the Rainbow Bridge. 

Emma was just a baby when her dad brought her home - a wiggling, happy, silly, plump little yellow lab puppy to be company for our border collie-rough collie cross Charley.  I was on sabbatical from work and would be at home for the first eight or nine months after Emma's arrival, a great opportunity to teach her and exercise her and bond with her.

Hai! Can I come live with you?

I promise I'll only chew things I'm supposed to.
I'd never, ever, ever, chew your shoes. No, never. 

Emma in snow

Mah big sister Charley can show me the ropes.
Sit!  I can Sit! 

Part of her socialization was to spend one or two days a week at doggy daycare, where she loved playing with dogs of all breeds and sizes, and went hiking for hours in the hills of the Fraser Valley. 

Emma (in front) and her daycare buddies on a spring hike

When Emma was about 18 months old, her dad and I split up.  We both desperately wanted Emma, but as we had two dogs and the law considers dogs 'property', we were given no choice but to each take one.  As Emma was bonded to each of us, but Charley only to me, Charley came with me, and Emma stayed with her dad, with an agreement in place for me to continue to see her regularly.

Emma grew from an exuberant pup to an exuberant teen to an exuberant adult.  There is a saying that labs remain puppies until they are about eight years old, and this was certainly true of Emma.  She had lots of energy and that legendary happy lab attitude, and would coerce anyone she could into throwing a ball or a stick for her, especially if treats were involved.

Food motivated, play motivated, happy happy happy Emma was a quick learner, and even as the years went by and distance made visits a bit less frequent, she still happily went through her routine of sit, stay, down, come, heel, fetch, etc. whenever I visited. 

The older I get, the more I like doing "down"

Emma remembered me from visit to visit, greeting me enthusiastically.  But when treats were gone and playtime was over, she quickly ran back to her door and her dad and her soft spot on the couch. 

Mom! You came! Hiya!

Emma love water - from the time she was a pup and right through her senior years, you could not keep her out of a pool or a lake or a stream.  And if you had a stick to throw for her, she would happily pursue it, using her strong lab tail as a rudder as she retrieved it and swam back to shore, head up and proud as punch.

Several years ago, Emma and her dad started spending summers in the interior of BC, where  Emma reveled in the attention of new friends and enjoyed frequent cooling swims in the streams and more time with her dad.  In 2017, they moved there permanently.  She had aged considerably the previous year, and I knew there was a good chance I wouldn't see her again.  Her dad kept me updated on her well being and activities and sent me photos of her enjoying her new life.

Emma having summertime fun in BC's interior

Emma and her best friend Abby

Yesterday, Emma went for a nice long walk with her dad.  This morning she got up as usual.  And then this afternoon, she appeared to have suffer either a stroke or a cardiac event from which she could not recover.  Her dad and a caring vet were with her at the end, and she peacefully slipped away.

Emma, you were the bestest, happiest, most loving lab in the world, and I smile through my tears just writing this.  You made me laugh with your antics, your expressions, your funny little wrinkles on your brow as you worked something out, your ball-crazy and water-crazy and stick-crazy energy. 

You had lots of friends, human and canine, but most of all you had us. A mom who gave you a good start, a dad who continued to love you and take care of you to the very end.  Run free, happy girl, run free at the Rainbow Bridge. 

Thank you, Emma's dad, for all the love you gave her and for keeping me in her life.  She was one very lucky and very loved dog and neither of us will ever forget her.

In life we loved you dearly, in death we love you still,
In our hearts you hold a place no one could ever fill. 
(Author unknown)  

Allie, in fields of catnip

Yesterday, Allie made her final meow and headed off to the Rainbow Bridge.  A few days ago, she took to staying hidden under her blanket, occasionally eating or drinking a little if I took it to her, and seldom using her litter box.  I suspected she had slipped into the fourth and final stage of the kidney disease with which she was diagnosed well over a year ago.

Our mobile vet, who has looked after all my animals for most of my time on the island, sedated my Wild Child in order to examine her, and determined that her kidneys had atrophied to the size of peas and, of great significance, her temperature was well below normal.  The conclusion was that her organs were shutting down and at most she had a few more days.  As she was already sedated, I chose to have the vet help her pass right then.   She slipped away without stirring.

I adopted Allie from the Abbotsford SPCA back in 2001.  She wasn't much more than a kitten at that time - perhaps five or six months old - but she soon let the dogs know who was boss.  Her favourite trick throughout her lifetime (and the lifetimes of at least a dozen or more adopted and fostered dogs with whom she shared our house) was to hide behind a piece of furniture or crouch on the arm of the sofa and wait for a dog to nonchalantly saunter past, then - whooop - swat said dog right on the rump with her not-so-gentle paws!

We all know who's the boss around here!

When we first adopted her, we lived on acreage where field mice occasionally found there way into the house.  Allie liked mice - she liked to play with them, swatting them this way and that.  But she never killed them.  It would be up to me to try to get them away from Allie and banish them from our residence.  One time, she chased a mouse up onto the washer, then swatted it down to my dog Charley who was standing below.  Charley promptly plopped her furry collie cross body down right on top of the terrified mouse and held it there while I reached under to grab it.  Great tag team those two made!

Caleb, my pitty cross, almost got the better of Allie, as his strong prey drive and her rather slight size were not a good match.  Adding a door to the foot of the stairs, and a cat door in the people door, allowed Allie to race up to the attic where she had a huge area to run and play and a chair to scratch and toys to toss.  Caleb sometimes stuck his head in the cat door, looking miserably up the stairs, and willing her to walk right into his mouth.  It took three months of constant management before the two could safely be in the same room without Caleb being off leash or out of his crate. A few sharp swats of Allie's claws on Caleb's butt or face, and he eventually learned to give her space.  They were never left together when I wasn't right there with them, but they did learn to have a healthy respect for each other. 

Respect me, or else! 

Allie could never be described as a 'sweet' cat - she was a petite and pretty torti with a lovely peach patch under her chin which she liked me to stroke (on her own terms, of course), but she was not a warm-and-fuzzy lapcat by any means.  Fifteen minutes of lap time in the morning, possibly a bit more at night and that was quite enough for her thank you.  Oh....except for when I was at my computer.  Then she was on my lap constantly - blocking my view, stepping on keys, 'helping' compose blogs.

Hey mom, let's write about how stoopid dogs are!

An inside-only cat all her life, she didn't seem to mind at all.  She had lots of interactive toys,  interesting birds to watch through the window, and, of course, dogs to torment.  One of the very few times she slipped out - shortly after we moved to the island - she hopped over the fence and right into the yard of a neighbour's three barking, cat-chasing dachshunds.  Never have I seen a cat fly back over a five foot fence and in through the patio door so quickly!  I think that cured her of any wanderlust. 

Oh, look, a birdie! 

She had a big personality, a powerful self-confidence, an unpredictable response to those who might try to befriend her - or to examine her.  She drew blood from more than one veterinarian or vet tech.  The critters at the Rainbow Bridge won't know what hit them!

As long as they don't try to dress me up in silly costumes - and remember that cats rule -
we'll get along fine! 

But perhaps the Bridge will mellow her.  I hope she is, as a friend wrote on my facebook page,  "in sunlit meadows of catnip, with dancing butterflies to caper after."

Run free, Allie.  You kept me on my toes for nigh on 18 years.  My home won't be the same without you.

Aren't I sweet?

Remembering Soda

Back in June 2007, when I was renting a very old farm house with a dilapidated  old barn on 5 acres of land, my friend Janice asked if I could foster two potbellied pigs that her sanctuary, Hearts on Noses, had been asked to take in.  The sanctuary was full, but my barn wasn't  - I had four dogs, a cat, and an alpaca, none of whom lived in the barn.  And I had grown to love piggies from my work at her sanctuary and another. So I said yes.

The pigs were part of an SPCA seizure, and they were in pretty bad shape - vastly overweight, living knee deep in filth in a crate barely large enough for two small dogs.  I have never forgotten the moment they waddled out of the trailer onto the green grass of my farm, and immediately began stretching and bowing and oofing (their happy noise) and kneading the lawn as they experienced freedom for what may have been the first time: 

First day at the farm

I named them Scotch and Soda.  Scotch was mellow, smooth, and leaves the mouth with an mmmmmmmmm smile. Soda was effervescent – I wouldn’t say bubbly but certainly she had “oomph” and attitude, with that sharp little edge of an unsweetened drink.  

Unbeknownst to us - or the the SPCA - Soda was already pregnant, and within just a few weeks she gave birth to twelve babies.  Sadly, one was stillborn and one died within a day or two, but the remaining ten were healthy and strong and so my two foster piggies became twelve foster piggies.  They lived with me for nearly two years, until I retired and moved away (as Janice had known I was going to do), and then the whole family moved to the sanctuary.

Newborn piglets

This Monday evening, Janice contacted me with the sad news that Soda had suddenly passed away.  She had been off her food a few days earlier, but seemed to bounce back, and then suddenly she was gone. Scotch and Soda were full grown when they came to us, which means they were likely 5 years old or more.  That would make Soda at least 16 at her passing . Her piggy family were with her in their cosy cabin at her passing, then they came outside. But when two of the volunteers went  into her pighouse to say their goodbyes, they found Scotch back  in there with her, straw on his nose where he had been rooting at her side, giving those nudges he was so prone to give to those he loved most.

Scotch and Soda 2007

Scotch and Soda were a truly bonded couple.  On the night that I separated Scotch and Soda for what was likely the first time in their lives – the separation being necessitated by Soda’s imminent piggybirth – I sat in the stall with Scotch and watched big wet tears silently slide down his cheeks. I sang him his favourite song and slowly the tears stopped and he lay there not understanding why his bunkmate wasn’t at his side. He was lonely and very sad. 

The next day I bought him a Soda-sized teddy bear and tucked it along side him, and he slept that way for several nights. One morning, I came in to find Teddy lying with his face in the water dish on the other side of the stall, nose and mouth immersed in water. To this day, I’m not sure if Scotch thought Teddy might be thirsty, or if he was trying to tell me a stuffed bear was no subsitute for his Soda.  Fortunately it wasn’t long before I was able to integrate Soda and the babies back into the main stall.

Scotch, Soda, and one of the kids.

Soda was a character - I'm quite sure Ms Piggy was her hero, and those that created the Muppet's character certainly captured the personality of a female pig, especially a female pig at that time of her cycle (which is every 21 days).  PMS is not just confined to humans!

Soda was bossy, pushy, funny,  sweet, bitchy, and one cool pig. In describing porcine communication, I once said:

Soda is the queen of the nasty noises: “arf, arf, arf” means “I’m pissed off,” and a very loud, very deep, very rude sound that is reminiscent of what happens when some people eat too many beans. It clearly means “I’m really, really mad at you, now BACK OFF YOU *&%%%”. This is accompanied by a facing off and a hard shove on the leg with the snout. It isn’t just [pig] verbal communication that amazes me but also the nonverbal communication of their emotions. Scotch arches his back downward, stretches out full length, raises his snoutie, and kneads the ground in pleasure every time he is let out into the big yard. Soda, I swear, tosses her head in the classic Ms Piggy move and with an exaggerated swivel of the hips, saunters past me with the message “I am QUEEN. Out of my way, peon!”. 

Soda loved food (okay, what pig doesn't) - but she had a knack for helping herself that surpassed all the others.  I still suspect her of instigating the Great Barn Raid back when the piggies were just little ones, though the piglets wrote the apology letter.  You can read it here.  Even after she moved to the sanctuary, she still found ways to steal a snack:

Soda helping herself from the feed bucket
as it was being prepared for the dinner rounds

And she was also the best mudwallow builder.  While Scotch would knock over water bowls, Soda would heave herself underneath the side of their kiddy pool and dump the whole thing onto the ground. She loved her mudbaths! 

Queen of the mudpacks

In recent years, when I visited Scotch and Soda and family at the sanctuary, I found it hard to tell Soda apart from her only daughter, Lizzie.  Soda never looked like an old pig (must be all those mudpacks!), and her daughter, now eleven years old, looks a lot like her.  It was a lot easier to tell them apart when I was fostering! 

Soda chats with daughter Lizzie, age three months.

Soda and Lizzie  November 2007

Fostering Scotch and Soda and their babies was one of the highlights of my life.  There wasn't a day without laughter, a day without amazement, a day without feeling great love for those funny, oh-so-smart, somewhat cheeky pigs.  And seldom a day with challenges! But Soda was the best mama ever.

Thank you, Janice, for entrusting me with her all those years ago, and thank you for loving her for so many years. My heart goes out to Scotch, who has lost his lifelong mate, and to Whisper, Toddy, Derby, Rickey, Swizzle, Spritzer, RobRoy, Fizzy, Tom and Lizzie, who have lost their piggy mama.  I am thankful they have their human mama to help them through the grief. 

You were a good, good pig, Soda.  You'll find your two tiny lost babies at the Rainbow Bridge, as well as so many sanctuary friends to play with and to boss around until the rest of your family joins you. And I'm betting there are lots of good muddy wallows and fresh green grass at there too.   Run free, sweet funny feisty girl.  You were greatly loved. 

Foster Mama
xxoooxx

Remembering Peter

Today would have been his birthday.  Fifty-four years ago, I became an auntie for the first time when my nephew Peter was born.  And last month, on May 28th, Peter suddenly passed away.

I saw quite a bit of Peter when he was a little boy, and took great delight in the antics of he and his brother - playing with them, learning to skate with them, reading them stories.

Playing with my nephews many years ago

I seldom saw him during his teen and young adult years, due partly to geographic distance, but my sister filled me in on his activities and whereabouts, and every now and then we touched base at family events.

A teenage Peter with his dog

Peter and I dancing at a family event, 2005

In recent years, however, and especially since the death of my sister in 2011, we both made far greater effort to keep in touch and to strengthen the ties that bind our dwindling family.  It was Peter and his family who took me boating in the Salish Sea near my home summer before last, who shared meals with me on their boat and a day exploring my home turf last summer.

Peter on his boat, visiting his favourite (okay, his only) aunt on Vancouver Island.

I last saw Peter just over a month ago at another family event, where we had a lovely conversation about his daughter's accomplishments, and his and his wife's hopes and plans for the future.  He was a content and dedicated family man, married to his amazing wife for almost 24 years, and a most exceptional dad to a fifteen year old daughter, my great niece Kaia.

Peter was Kaia's primary caregiver, a 'stay-at-home dad' for lack of a better term.  He was the one whose job it was to supervise her, to chauffeur her, to listen to her, to mentor her, to plan and cook her meals (and what a great cook he was!), to do her laundry, to be her guide and to support and celebrate her passions.

Peter dancing with his daughter, 2005

Kaia is accomplished in the performing arts, and spends many hours a day in dance and vocal training at the Caulfield School Of Dance, while doing most of her academic schooling online.  This weekend is the School's year end performances "Connected" at the Terry Fox Theatre in Port Coquitlam BC.  And the final performance, this evening, is being dedicated by the dance school to Peter,  with a special performance by past and current members in his honor, and a solo by Kaia dedicated to the dad she will miss so very much.

And so, yesterday morning when I captured this photo of a heron taking flight,  I could think of no more fitting image for this tribute to Peter, for the heron seemed to be dancing, feet pointed downward, wingtips fluttering gracefully, like his beautiful daughter and her dance company as they send him soaring to the heavens tonight. As you look at it once again, please think of  the fifteen year old young woman giving what may well be the most difficult performance of her life, and the dad for whom she grieves.

We'll miss you, Peter.

Pearl

Last night, just days before her 94th birthday, Pearl passed away.  Mother to my sister-in-law Bev, and mother-in-law to my late sister Carole, Pearl holds a special place in my heart.

I first met Pearl about forty years ago, when she welcomed me - a young single mom - into her home for Christmas.  And she continued to welcome me, to make me feel loved and cared about and special every time I saw her after that.

She made the best ginger cookies and the most delicious canned peaches.  She sewed wonderful gifts, and I still have a beautiful lap quilt she made for my mother, a stuffed mouse she made for me, and some amazing outfits she made for  the teddy bears who were always a big part of our family's story.

Peark having a chat with Henry W.,
one of several bears who often accompanied us on picnics. 

Pearl loved animals - her own and mine - and always asked after my dogs and cat by name.  She had the best laugh, a full-bodied, whole-hearted laugh that expressed her genuine delight in what had been said or what she had seen.

One of my favourite photos of  Pearl,
enjoying a good laugh.

But mostly, I loved her for how she loved my sister - unconditionally, enthusiastically, loving her like a daughter. I wrote the following poem for Pearl's 88th birthday, two months after my sister's death, to express how grateful I was for the relationship Carole had with Pearl.

                                                              For Pearl, on her 88th birthday

With loving thoughts, from Jean.

If my sister was here, she would say

“Thank you for being my second mom.”

If my sister was here, she would say

“You have given me laughter and love”

If my sister was here, she would say

“Thank you for accepting me for who I am,

For supporting me when I needed support

And for loving me like a daughter.”

If my sister was here, she would say

“You make the best canned peaches and ginger cookies.”

(Okay, maybe that is what I would say…..but I’m sure Carole liked them too!)

If my sister was here, she would thank you

For being such a big part of her life.

If my sister was here, she would give you a hug,

And a bag of silly little gifts that she’d bought throughout the year and stashed away in boxes and drawers and closets, but each bought because she’d been thinking of

YOU.

But my sister’s not here.  So trust me…..

She still thanks you for all that you are,

For all you have done for her,

For all the fun times you had together,

For your laughter and smiles and hugs and love.

And on this special day of yours,

 Please feel her arms around you

As her spirit hugs you tight and whispers in your ear:

“Happy Birthday, Pearl.”

Yesterday morning, when we knew the end was very close, Bev and I talked about how we could feel, could see, Carole reaching out to Pearl, ready to meet her and guide her on her journey.   And last night, she did just that.  I know there will be tears and hugs all round - both here and on the other side.

Rest easy, Pearl.  You are forever part of my heart, my memories, and my family. 

The Dogs of the Blog

I'm still limited on the amount of time I can spend on the computer (or doing other tasks) because of my arm, so I've been choosing things I can work on a little at a time. I have a Rogues Wall in my home with photos of many of the animals who have shared their lives with me, but it was missing some of the most recent ones so I surfed through my digital photos today for suitable images. Then I became sidetracked using some of those images to create a new header for my facebook page, using a photo from a recent hike, a rainbow, and my dogs who are now at the rainbow bridge.

As you may notice, it includes just those dogs I've lived with since beginning this blog, which was shortly after I moved to acreage and took on adopting senior and special needs dogs. The picture does not include the pigs or alpaca from my farm days, nor my numerous short and long term foster dogs, nor does it include dogs who went to the bridge before I started the blog or lived at the farm (Brandy, Shamrock, McDuff, and Muffin). And it doesn't include Emma, who is still alive and thriving at her Dad's place. Allie would like to point out that it also doesn't include any cats, past or present.

I'm not sure I could make up a photo that includes all the animals that have been part of my life. But I do know that they each stole a piece of my heart - and gave me part of theirs. I miss them all.

(If you want to refresh your memory on their life stories, try clicking on the labels below. I won't guarantee it will work - it doesn't always - but worth a try). 

Forever in my heart, forever and a day.

This morning, at just over sixteen years of age, my beautiful sweet funny Mitzi left God's waiting room and entered the meadows of the Rainbow Bridge.  She went gently, resting in my arms, secure in the knowledge that she had been loved her whole life.  She spent 12 wonderful years with my late cousin, Anita, and then graced me with four more.

I never expected to love her as deeply as I do.  I'd only met her once before she came to live with me, and never felt much draw to small frou-frou dogs.  But she belonged to my cousin, whom I loved very much, and this was one last gift I could give Anita before she died - the knowledge that Mitzi would always have a home where she would be well cared for, loved, and respected for the rest of her life.

Mitzi as a young pup at her Mama Anita's home

I don't think Mitzi was in my house for more than 24 hours before I was totally besotted with her.

She wasn't crazy about having fur siblings, especially not klutzy, crazy, bowl-her-over ones like Eddie.  But she survived him and the others by trying to keep out of their way, staying quiet, and never picking any fights with them. She got her one-on-one time with me on our walks around town, and occasionally on hikes with friends, though sometimes she hitched a ride part way.

Mitzi on the Crofton Sea Walk

Mitzi and friend Keeghan at Swallowfield

Pooped Pup

She loved her daily walks, even when she could no longer go more than a few blocks around town. The best part of walking, according to Mitzi, was sniffing - she loved to follow smells from one place to another, in the garden, along the seawalk, in fields, around the block.  Her nose was always leading the way - sometimes doubling back if she lost the trail.

Sniffsniffsniffsniffsniff

When she became the only dog in the house, after the others had passed away, her true spirit came out and I began to see the impish, playful, funny girl my cousin had so often told me about.  She chased me around the house, barked at me, puttered in the yard with me, accompanied me on vacations and horse-sitting jaunts.  In fact, she soon showed me that she especially loved being a farm girl, spending hours wandering the fields, checking out all the great smells.

The Li'l Cowpoke

Despite being a farm girl at heart, she also loved going to the groomers - a cowgirl luxuriating in a good massage and a pedicure. Whenever her fur became dirty, she sulked - becoming sulkier and sulkier until that magic day when we headed to her groomer for her monthly spa day. She returned a happy, lively, beautiful Princess.

She wasn't one for getting dressed up, despite being a princess, but she tolerated the occasional outfits I produced - hats and dresses and hallowe'en costumes, and came to love her red sweater which she wore constantly these past few months.

She struggled with her health for the past two years, as kidney failure took its toll and left her without appetite.  But a few days rest and a little medicine, and she would bounce back and once again run in the door from our walk, race down the hall, flip herself around and play bow to me, with a loud bark that declared "play with me, Mama Jean, play with me".  And the game would be on - around and around and around the house we would go, first one way and then the other - tiny eight pound Mitzi chasing me, and me chasing her, each hiding around corners and jumping out at the other, until she eventually stopped, panting, and headed for the water dish.

Mama, play wiv me!

Ha!  Dat waz FUN!

She was still playing her little game on her birthday mid-January, but a few days later, she stopped. In early February I called her vet and we re-ran her numbers and knew that the kidney failure had progressed to the final stage. And though she had bounced back many times before, this time she did not.  She stopped barking, she stopped chasing me, and a couple of weeks ago, she made it clear she no longer wanted to go for even short walks. Instead, she started asking for something she never in her life had been interested in - being held, cuddled, wrapped in a blanket on my lap for hours on end. She became weaker, yet every couple of days she would eat a little, or wander around the house looking for me, or sit on my lap watching me as I sang to her. She looked at me with her clouded eyes once dark black, and sank her wee head into my shoulder.

Ahm tired, Mama Jean, ahm very tired

I knew yesterday it was time.  It was in her eyes, and it was in my heart, though I did not want her to go.

I knew that she could see the Bridge, could see her Mama Anita, and my sister Carole who also loved her - they were watching for her, waiting for her, arms outstretched.

Ah think it's time for me to go now, Mama Jean.

And this morning,  surrounded with my love,  she raced across that meadow to them, barking and spinning and play bowing as she went.

Run free, my most special little girl. I'll love you and miss you forever and a day.