Don't Mince Words

Kramer and Tex

I’ve had dead dog ashes for a while. When I look at memorials online, they are too stodgy and don’t fit the personality of Kramer or Tex.  My idea has always been a small picture frame with a little test tube of ashes glued on.  Much better than a small pine box with dates on it.

I’m creative, but I’m not crafty.  If you looked at my abandoned scrapbooking project, you would assume my godson is three months old.  But I still like to cruise the aisles of Michaels to pickup seasonal things.  This weekend I stumbled upon a heart-shaped magnet box picture frame pair.  For $2.39 I grabbed it.   When I got home I popped the lids, put the pictures in, dumped the ashes, and placed the magnets on the refrigerator next to other family photos and my “Hard ons do not count as personal growth” magnet.  Dixie and I then went to hike the cliffs and dump the remaining ashes.

Sometimes when there is no creative pressure, you can find solutions in between wicker baskets and apple-scented candles.  Kramer and Tex are finally “at rest” and I have more space in my nightstand drawer.

The challenge with any rescue dog is not knowing its history.  With Dixie, I’ve taken it very slowly and carefully and continue to learn what she likes and dislikes.

Men are on a case-by-case basis.  She’s size and race agnostic, but if a man has a hat, goatee, and/or sunglasses, the low volume growl begins.  With frequent visits, she eventually converts and tolerates the man.  Kind of like me.

Women she categorically likes and is not threatened by as long as there are no sunglasses involved.  That was until she met her first asian accountant.  I don’t know if it was the eyes, the straight black hair, or if she just hated the smell of straight line depreciation, but Dixie no likey.

Despite all this, I continue my love affair with Miss Dixie.  We keep the lines of communication open and take it one day at a time.  And now I know my Chinese will have to be carry out and not delivery.

I promise I won’t turn into a mommy blogger or a new mom who thinks she’s got the best baby on earth.  But until I date again, all I can do is sing the praises of my new rescue dog.

Dixie showed up as a stray at a SoCal shelter with pink toenail polish on.  That’s a sure sign she was living with a family or with a tweaker that wanted something to do.  She walks beside my knee on leash.  She always craps next to the curb.  She sits.  She lays.  She goes down when another dog approaches.

I knew Dixie was an alpha female the first time I took her to the beach.  I wanted to believe she was just socially awkward, but when I watched her play, she was the four-legged version of a bull-dyke field hockey player.  This was confirmed when she stopped squatting like a dainty lady to pee and backed up to telephone polls and squirted.  She enjoyed marking over the leg-cocking boys and making her own urine graffiti.

Friday I took her to get evaluated for doggie daycare.  I told them she was three, high energy, and liked to play rough, but I didn’t think she was aggressive.  She just needed to pick her playmates wisely.  After testing her two hours, she was approved to join the team.

Now I wait and see how many days before she’s fouled and put on the sidelines.  Even good babies have their bad days.

The other day I was searching on OKCupid.   There were six men between the ages of 37 and 60 that were my height or taller, held master’s degrees, and lived within 50 miles of me.  I’m serious.  Six men.  I decided I had better luck at finding love on Petfinder and adopted a three-year old american bulldog/boxer mix from my old rescue in Los Angeles.

After a Facebook dog-naming contest amongst my friends, we decided to pay homage to the late, great Tex by naming this girl after a region and getting an “X” in her name.  We settled with Dixie.  I wasn’t sure the name was the right one until I stopped in Petco with her on the way home and said “Hey Dix, come here.”  I’ve been saying “hey dicks, come here” for years now, so I kept the name.

We have spent the weekend bonding and she is settling in nicely.  At least a dozen guys have told me I have a “nice dog” this weekend.  Welcome, Dixie, you are my new dick magnet.

Tex, Spring 2008*

When I was very, very young, my parents has a fabulous farting Dalmatian named Zip.  From what I remember, she was your typical stupid, fence jumping Dalmatian.  But she was also known as my nanny.  Urban tale has it that she slept under my crib and woke my parents up one night when my puke overflowith.  I was still a single-digit age when my parents shipped Zip off to a “farm” in Great Falls, Virginia, where she could “retire” and chase squirrels.  It took many, many years before I realized that was my parents’ way of giving me the easy let down.  I never forgave them.  Until now.

I’ve never had to put a dog down until today.  Tex was recently diagnosed with severe heart disease (all ventricles clogged) as well as tumors on his heart and spleen.  While I have blamed his hip dysplasia on a lot, this diagnosis actually explained his monolithic slow down.  I knew fostering and eventually adopting a senior dog was going to be a short-term tragedy.  But Tex was seriously a gentle giant and so fucking cool.  I want to believe dogs like that deserve to live a very long life.

Everyone that has come into contact with Tex has been touched by his mellowness.  He also picked up where Zip left off.  Six months into our “relationship,” I had outpatient foot surgery.  When I came home, my girlfriend deposited me on the couch loaded on painkillers and she made sure my foot was elevated.  Hours later, the dog walker came in only to find Tex on top of me, like a hen protecting her chick.  That night, after I wobbled on crutches to go to bed, Tex snuck into my bed and watched me all night.

He’s slept with me every night since until recently when he took up residence by the front door.  His all-time favorite thing was a car ride where he could hang his head out of the window and woof air.  Now he’d just lay in the back seat, not even getting up to look out during stop signs.  Even food, his primary motivation, barely interested him.

And this is when I had to make the same decision my parents had to make decades ago    – where the zest and love of life has left the beast and the shell remains.  Tex left this world with me rubbing his pumpkin head and paws.  We’ve had a charmed 2.5 years together.  For better or worse, Tex has been the best date/relationship I’ve had in Los Angeles, and I’ve dated some real dogs.

There is never a good time to end an animal’s life.  I understand that, finally.  I feel Tex’ time was now and I can only hope, in his retirement, he gets to meet Zip, and those that followed, to talk about me over a few good bones and squirrels. Tex, you will be missed.  My walks and hikes will never be the same, but when I see a squirrel, I’ll think of you and your alert, squared off ears, looking up the trunk of the tree.

Marna and Tex, September 2010

*Photo courtesy of LA Woman Photography