We were coddled by a mild December Spared the snow and cold that we remember But the new year brought a frigid change Which made the winter not so strange
I bundle up and trundle out to live this life I’ve chosen With gratitude for thick warm socks and boots to slide my toes in The weight and bulk of extra layers make daily chores take longer But I muddle through and I’m still here, so I guess I must be stronger?
Ruff and Rowdy are always game to hike the trails at the park But our daily treks are shorter now, to be sure we’re back by dark They like the rhythm of routine, how it connects to time to eat They recognize it’s mealtime, and when they get their treat
Youthful Fennel still patrols the perimeter of the grounds Frosty footing shall not stop him from his self-appointed rounds But oldster Mace stays in the barn throughout the winter season With food and heat and comfy beds, and horse stalls that he pees in
Chicago and Moe in shaggy coats survive the frigid weather In their shelter full of forage, standing close together For snack they head to pasture, with its scattered piles of hay To ensure they move a little bit, every single day
The outside chores begin and end within the hours of sunlight Except for final barn check in the dark and peaceful night When I plant a couple kisses on a couple frosty muzzles Then head back in to settle down, with a beverage and some puzzles
This longer stretch of darkness grants permission to just be To read and dream and organize and maybe watch tv Our winter standard time is not so governed by the clock A season of serenity, I try to pause and think, relax, take stock
When you don’t yet trust your golden to behave himself when home alone, you will teach him to wait comfortably in a crate for your return, so everyone and everything will be safe.
When that crate is made of metal and your floors are made of hardwood, you will set the crate on a throw rug so the floor will be protected.
When your golden grazes on that throw rug, he will take a liking to the flavor of the fibers, so he’ll trim off just a bit around the edges.
Then he’ll find a piece of landscape edging in the dog yard that pairs nicely with the carpet.
Then he will vomit his breakfast and everything else in his belly, so you will spend the next 2 days withholding food and water, worrying, watching and waiting for a bunch of barium to travel through his GI tract.
When you take him to the clinic on December 13 to find the barium hasn’t passed, you will leave him there for surgery, and your vet will call while you’re sitting in a meeting at work, to tell you that the pre-op checkup revealed a previously undetected heart murmur, so you will approve additional blood work and x-rays as needed.
Then you will learn that his heart is perfectly fine, just a little stressed by the cluster of rug remnants and piece of landscape plastic lodged in his stomach, so he will come home from the hospital with an 8-inch seam of surgical staples on his shaved-to-the-skin abdomen, and a dispensary of medications – antacid, stomach acid protectant, antibiotic, anti-nausea, anti-pain – to be strategically administered for the following 5 to 14 days. When you go to bed that night and the next, you will lie awake for hours, wondering if you’d recognize the signs of GI infection, inflammation, irritation, or other impending disaster.
Then the post-surgical anesthetic haze will lift and he will assume to resume normal pursuits but will be limited to on-leash activities, with food and water intake increased only in infinitesimal increments, so you will appreciate the mild winter weather when you stand outside on yet another potty break, pondering the disproportionate ratio of limited input to limitless output; and you will become a vigilant sentry of the stairs and creative distributor of distractions.
When that 8” seam on his belly begins to itch, you will put a plastic lampshade around his neck which will render him motionless and gagging in a sea of stress saliva, so you will find a newfangled inflatable collar that resembles an old-fashioned life preserver, and he will learn to ignore the incision.
Then he will escape from the metal crate, so you will move to the maximum security of a giant plastic travel kennel which he will not trust, so you will spend a lot of time, including twice daily crawls inside to set his food bowl at the back, training him to relax in the confines of the spacious new digs. And it will work.
When you take him to the clinic on December 27, the staples will be snipped, the healing will be heartening, and permission will be granted for gradual transition to normal activities of daily living, so you will, finally, breathe.
Then you will resign yourself to the reality of keeping the big tan Vari-Kennel in your bedroom for an undetermined amount of time, so you will search for something to set underneath to protect the floor.
From Four Sticks Farm 