Que Sera, Sera

Wildest, craziest, most sociable, most-people-friendly dog I ever had. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“So long Killian!”
Yesterday (August 31st) we said goodbye to the most fabulous Irish-Setter I ever owned; “we” being me and Killian's previous owner, *** *****.
That would be “Killian:” Irish-Setter #7, rescue #5.
We dispersed Killian’s ashes along Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail, in the “Cathedral-of-Trees,” where Killian would drag me off-path so he could bark into the woods.
I never saw anything, but CRITTERS BEWARE!
*** had Killian nine years, me Killian’s final two.
“Sorry ***, I’m gonna be a blubbering idiot. Killian was incredible.”
Killian was a people-dog. He was leery of other dogs, but with people he’d rush up and lean into them = “PET ME!”
I always say Killian was the one who got me able to talk to pretty girls.
As a child I was convinced I was disgusting. No pretty girl would ever talk to me!
For 70+ years I was scared of pretty girls, but Killian wasn’t, so I shouldn’t be either.
Lunge — nuzzle! Followed by “oh what a friendly dog;” then “here I am talking to yet another pretty girl.”
Now I can do it without Killian = childhood reversed.
70+ years late I charm the ladies. I’m not scared anymore.

From dust to dust.

• Killian was my fifth dog lost to canine cancer. (I also lost my wife to cancer; eight years ago.)

Cancer always wins

—What follows is what I’d say to *****, my cute little 19-year-old contact at the kennel where I daycared Killian.
I haven’t seen ***** in a while, so I worry.
She probably knows Killian is gone; her coworkers probably told her.
***** seemed to love Killian.
I took Killian to my local pet-supply before I put him down.
Killian always loved going to that pet-supply. He’d bounce out of my car, then drag me toward the entrance.
The door opened automatically, then “pets, please keep your parents leashed.”
And in we’d go, thrilled to greet his many friends. Everyone at that pet-supply loved Killian.
“Such a ham,” followed by, “pet me!”
I’d try to shop, and Killian dragged me back to his friends.
Nuzzle-nuzzle! = “Why’dga stop?”
But this time was different.
There’s a small rug near the entrance; I’d keep him on the rug so he didn’t fall on the slippery floor. He was only on three legs.
I got him inside, but he wanted to return the car.
The fire was gone; no longer a spunky dog.
This would depress my 19-year-old friend, who may be 20 by now.
She was thrilled a week ago to bring out my Spunk-Meister. Smiling broadly, and I melt when she does.
But now the fire was gone = no more Spunk-Meister.
“I just wanna go home, back to my sofa.”
Cancer always wins! I lost my wife to cancer, and now five dogs (outta seven).
How I ever made friends with a 19-year-old I have no idea. But I think Killian helped.
No Killian if I meet her again. And if I do I’m sure I'll just cry.
We lost a really good one. Cancer always wins!

A sad and sorry end to my chick-magnet

—“Since the late ‘70s I’ve had seven Irish-Setters,” I said to the veterinarian at Emergency Veterinarian Services near Rochester.
I was there to put my beloved Killian down. He had bone-cancer, among other ailments. The cancer had already metastasized into his chest.
“Two Irish-Setters were standouts, and Killian was one of them.
What I’ll miss most is that long nose, plus all the long walks we took — often over three miles.”
Wildest, craziest, spunkiest Irish-Setter I ever had. My previous Irish, Scarlett, was spunky, but Killian spunkier still.”
I always say Scarlett was the one who got me through the worst thing that could happen, the death of my beloved wife; BEST friend I ever had.
Scarlett, like Killian, was also rescue, but from a failed backyard breeder. Killian came from divorce.
My wife and I got Scarlett years ago. “Do I really wanna take on a dog this spunky at my age?” I was in my 60s then.
My wife died eight years ago — we both were 68.
Scarlett lasted five more years, and hung with me despite how messed-up and outta touch I was after my wife’s passing.
Scarlett and I were extremely attached. I was “the Boss,” and Scarlett my side-kick.
I had just turned 74 when I got Killian, and he was even spunkier.
Thanks to Scarlett I learned how to walk a spunky dog.
Let ‘im pull! That way he’s not charging out to the end of his leash to yank me to the ground.
Trainers go nuts seeing my dog pulling. “You gotta show that dog who’s boss.”
Baloney! Let ‘em pull! That way they don’t throw me down.
Scarlett threw me down a few times, but Killian only once.
More than anything they’re an Irish-Setter.
Let ‘em lead; they love it. Yank-a-pull; lunged left-and-right. As long as they’re ahead I can offset a yank.
What I say about Killian was he was a chick-magnet; the one who reversed my childhood.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU” versus “OH WHAT A PRETTY DOG” followed by “here I am talking to yet another pretty girl.”
“If I’d known you were out here, I wouldna come out here.”
Then “oh what a pretty dog! Can I pet him?”
Young and gorgeous — my parents, et al, convinced me I was unworthy. Not too long ago I woulda been scared.
Killian was very much a people dog = looking for human attention.
He dragged me into meeting pretty girls, and I got used to talking to pretty girls.
Go ahead! Say something; let the pretty lady pet the dog.
“What’s his name?” “Killian, as in Killian Irish-red.”
(Say that, and I won’t hafta repeat the dog’s name.)
The ladies love it, especially since I’m not a Harvey Weinstein.
“Oh look at that pretty dog!” followed by “Do I dare come over there?”
“Sure;” and off-we-go to meet three pretty ladies.
Years ago I wouldna said anything, but with Killian I got the hang of it.
Gorgeous and cute and attractive; not the frumps my parents, et al, approved. Most cutie-pies are happy to talk to anyone other than some lecherous geezer.
Ladies make great friends — hardly the trophies Trump and his legions prefer.
Seventy years late I learn this. Contrary to my parents, et al, I’m not disgusting.
And Killian is the one who triggered it. He wasn’t afraid of pretty ladies, so I shouldn’t be either.
The vet probably wondered why I was so distant as Killian was put down. I’m told Killian knew I was there, but he was so drugged he was off in the ozone.
I'm even more alone now = no more second beating heart in my house. No more eyes-on-fire and sonorous barking as we set out for Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
I’d see a deer, and point it out to Killian. “Lemme at ‘im; I’ll get ‘im!”
On the way home from Canandaigua, I’d pass a herd of black-Angus cows. I’d point them out to Killian, and he would send them packing: “get outta that pasture!
I get up from my supper table, and glance into my living-room towards Killian's sofa. No Killian.
I’m alone, and I sure miss that silly dog.

• Seven Irish-Setters, five of whom were rescue, five lost to cancer. (Four out of five rescues; one rescue ran away during a thunderstorm.)

ACL injury

—“Wait just one cotton-pickin’ minute,” my dog said as he hobbled toward my door. “You’re not hangin’ that flag out without me helping!”
My dog has a torn (or sprained) ACL.
I had to Google “ACL” = anterior cruciate ligament: the ligament that connects the thigh-bone to the shin-bone in one’s knee.
Injuring it is common to basketball players. They make sudden twisting motions above their sneakers tractioned to the floor.
Dogs get it too, according to my veterinarian, although my dog wasn’t playing basketball.
He was falling on slippery floors. All-of-a-sudden KERSPLAT!
Veterinarians and pet-supplies have floors that puddle urine. My doggy-daycare kennel has that too.
My dog needs rugs = something that won’t slip his feet.
My dog fell quite a few times recently, all on slippery floors.
Without a rug he can’t get up — he's terrified. Recently he fell again at my pet-supply. He had to be carried to a rug.
Fortunately ******** (“cutie-pie”) was there. She’s one that goes bonkers over my dog.
“Have you got a vet appointment?” she worried. Had she not asked I probably wouldna done anything.
$777.17. X-rays, blood tests, vet assessment; the entire kibosh.
And I just got done laying out $428.50 when he got sick. Probably a nest of baby bunny-rabbits. Down the hatch!
Well, I’ve spent more on dogs.
My dog’s name is “Killian,” but the vet calls him “Killian-2.” That's because we had an earlier Killian — same vet.
Both Killians were rescues, and both were Irish-Setters. All our dogs have been Irish-Setters; Killian-2 is Irish number-seven. (Killian-1 was number-five.)
So far, five of the seven were rescue. Killian-1 was abused, but Killian-2 is just a divorce victim.
I have a tee-shirt that says “if it’s not an Irish-Setter it’s just a dog.”
“Keep him quiet,” I’m told. “No running, jumping, playing, etc.” In Killian’s case that’s no hunting.
Zoombity-BOOM all over my giant pondless dog-park. Barking at all-and-sundry!
I dare not point out a bunny-rabbit.
Long walks are out, probably for a while. He can’t run anyway = although he tries — on three legs.
The drill is to avoid falls. KERSPLAT is probably why he hurt himself.

• A “rescue Irish-Setter” is usually an Irish-Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue, rescued two years ago at age-9.

“I just want my silly dog back!”

—I said that to a nice veterinarian at Ark Veterinary Hospital and Urgent-Care.
I was referred there because my regular vet couldn’t schedule an appointment.
We were following COVID-19 protocols. I was outside in my car, and Killian was inside being diagnosed.
“I want back my lunging chick-magnet, who drags me into meeting so many pretty girls,” I could say.
“Oh what a pretty dog! Followed by “Here I am talking to another pretty girl.” That contradicts my childhood.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU;” the notorious Hilda Q. Walton. (Click the link if you need explanation.)
That’s Hilda and my Bible-beating parents, who heartily agreed I was disgusting, mainly because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
The vet was discussing whether I could afford 300-or-more buckaroos. The actual amount was $428.50.
Four days ago Killian returned from hunting in my vast backyard, loaded with burrs and greenery, many more burrs than usual – hundreds.
He also got himself sick. He refused to eat the next four days.
He probably caught something — a nest of baby bunny-rabbits, mayhap.
Down the hatch, causing stomach-upset and nausea.
I feed him raw, but it’s freeze dried, much like kibble. “Big-Nose” appeared as soon as I opened the bag.
“Is he drinking?” “Yes.” “Urinating normally?” “Yes.” “Stools?” “Hardly anything, and very runny.” “Diarrhea?” “No.
I gave him Famotidine a few days ago, but then I stopped.”
“Famotidine is fine,” she said. “Go back to giving it to him.”
Various medicines were dispensed, including an anti-nausea injection.
“Give the dog a pill?” I exclaimed.
“I get chomped.”
“Pill-Pockets,” they advised.
“Sure,” I said; “eat the pill-pocket, then spit out the pill.
He snuck one off a cabinet — it had a pill in it, and he ate everything but the pill.”
They returned Killian to their entryway for me to pick up.
More trauma = a floor so slippery it throws the dog down.
Why are veterinary hospitals finished with a slippery floor?
Killian’s back-end is weakening, yet on a slippery floor he can’t dig in his front paws to pull himself up.
My pet-supply, which welcomes dogs with parents leashed, is the same.
And Killian wants me around. He loathes COVID-19 social distancing.
Leaving him with a vet, a complete stranger, is traumatic, especially on a slippery floor.

My unsmiling dog

Gilligan (not my Killian).

—“Ya know, a dog attaches to whoever feeds it. Didja know that?”
“Yeah,” I would say; “ya told me that some time ago, and you’re missing my point.”
I didn’t say that; I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.
“Missing my point” is more my speech compromised by aphasia, an after-effect of my long-ago stroke.
“You talk just fine,” my friend says. But she wasn’t around before my stroke, so doesn’t know how much better my speech was back then.
I started by telling everyone I had an Irish-Setter Rescue Calendar, and it has a January picture (above) of a smiling Irish-Setter.
My dog hasn’t smiled like that yet, and we’re going on two years.
Such discussions jam up immediately. I need to explain “Rescue Irish-Setter,” plus my “Irish-Setter Rescue Calendar.”
Try to do that when my speech is already messy, and my trying to explain things crashes in flames.
I probably shoulda limited to “I’ve yet to see my dog smile.”
I don’t know that my previous dog was happy, but she’d do the “bellies-to-the-sky” bit. That’s turn over asleep on her back, and paw the ceiling.

 “Bellies-to-the-sky!” by Scarlett, my previous rescue Irish-Setter. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Despite the most depressing thing that ever happened to me — the death of my beloved wife, the BEST friend I ever had — that silly dog remained extremely comfortable with me. And I was a mess.
She also was my dog. When my wife died, at least it wasn’t me.
My current dog, Irish-Setter #7, and rescue Irish-Setter #5, isn’t that comfortable yet. He seems sad.
He came from a broken home, and was already age-9. That means over half his life he was a family-dog. Lots of people to pay attention to him, instead of just one person: me.
Living alone I spend a lotta time taking care of things. I hafta screen out my dog while doing so.
Scarlett was rescued from a backyard breeder. Attention from only one person, two originally, was wonderful.
My current dog probably gets more walkies (hunting) than he got previously. But that doesn’t change his sad look; plus he seems wary of me.
Most people don’t understand my caring so much about my dog.
“He’s just a dog,” many say.
“But I promised him a good life,” I say.
“But he’s doing better than in a broken home.”
“But he’s starved for attention. Just me is not enough.”
“What difference does that make? He’s just a dog.”
“But I’d rather see a happy dog. I run him as much as I can, but there’s all the time I hafta screen him out.”
“Maybe he’s just getting old,” my friend said. “What age is he now?”
“He sure doesn’t act old,” I say. “An 11-year-old puppy!” (Lunge, BOINK!)
“He follows me wherever I go. If I change paths, he looks for me so he can stay with me.
He’s extremely attached, but unfortunately I’m all he’s got.”

This is Killian: my current Irish-Setter. It’s a cheat-shot. He’s thrilled because I just let him in after screening him out so I could mow lawn. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)


• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke. It slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s 11, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
• My Irish-Setter Rescue Calendar is an annual calendar put out by the Irish-Setter Rescue group to which I belong. Killian is via that group.

PLOP!

I don’t know this guy from the Moon! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“It looks like Killian isn’t getting enough attention.”
That was my hairdresser, and Killian had just plopped himself in the lap of my hairdresser’s next appointment.
My hairdresser is a dog-person, and wants me to bring Killian.
“He’s starved for attention,” I said. “He’s rescued from a broken family, divorce. I’m all he has; I’m not a family.”
“Do you think he notices?” asked the plopee.
“Probably not,” I said; “but you are the third plopee.”
Every time a human appears, the tail wags, and Killian starts pulling, especially if the human smiles.
“You sure are a friendly dog,” the human says.
A velcro dog, a leaner. “Pet me, pet me;” nuzzle-nuzzle.
Killian is not my previous dog: Scarlett, another rescue Irish-Setter.
Scarlett was very much at home in my house, even after my wife died.
Scarlett was from a puppy-mill; we were her first family (my wife and I).
As soon as Scarlett died I started physically falling apart. “Get another dog, or else.”
Scarlett did the “bellies to the sky” bit. I’ve yet to see Killian do it.
I probably exercise Killian way more than I did Scarlett. But I’m not a family.
Killian follows me room-to-room. If I turn down a divergent path in my woods, that silly dog looks for me, then zooms past.
I don’t know if Scarlett woulda; I never let her run loose in my woods. I always walked her somewhere on-leash.
If I pass Killian nearby in my house, his tail starts thumping, and he paws the air: “pet me, pet me.”
“You’re lucky that dog so readily attached,” a lady told me.
“But I’m not a family,” I say. “I’m all he has;” except for complete strangers he befriends.
Every night we sleep together: me in my bed, and Killian on the bed, me petting.
“Here we are,” I say. “You and me in our strange little life.”

“Yer not letting me do this.....”

I allow Killian on the furniture. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—I took an iPhone picture (above) yesterday morning of my dog on my Castro Convertible, which I just made so he could use it. I use a dog-sham.
I’d text that picture to Killian’s previous owner, plus my aquatic balance-training instructor at the Canandaigua YMCA, also a dog-person.
I found my photo in my iPhone pictures, and selected it. I then hit the “share” icon, and selected “text.”
I then voiced *** *****, which gives me *** plus ****** **** ******, as well as just ***. (Two “send” options.)
“What?” I say. “‘Cancel’ my foot! Where’s the ‘send?”
Apparently everything has to be just so; rules of ‘pyooter-engagement understood only by millennials.
Into the ozone!
“Yer not letting me do this.....”
Engage guile-and-cunning = a workaround to defeat the iPhone techies.
Fire up “text;” voice *** *****, to get the *** and ****** **** option again. I now can text both. Hit the “add picture” icon, and I select the picture I just took.
Off it goes! Mind over iPhone.
Why do I hafta do everything just so? This took at least 15 minutes of figgerin’.
I know, I was born in the wrong century, when things were freer than they are now.

• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s ten, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. I’ve had him over a year. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
• Both *** and ****** **** have iPhones.

“It’s a miracle, Bobby”

I don’t know this guy from the Moon! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“What I’d like to do now is take your picture,” I said to the gentleman pictured above.
I was at my hairdresser for a trim. I had taken along my dog Killian per usual request. Killian repaired into a side-room to hide and nap.
Suddenly the stranger appeared. He walked in to be my hairdresser’s next appointment. He was completely unknown to me or Killian.
As soon as he sat Killian got up, came out of the side-room, jumped on the sofa, and plopped next to the stranger.
I’m supposed to keep Killian from doing this? As if I had any choice!
I wouldn’t know this stranger in a million years, nor would Killian. Yet PLOP!
Stranger was not the least put off. He started petting Killian.
Trim finished I unholstered my iPhone to take the picture,”
“This isn’t the first time,” I said.
“What I’ll do,” I said; “is post this picture on Facebook.”
“In which case the guy pictured will also get the photo,” my hairdresser interjected. “He has a Facebook, and Facebook does facial recognition. It will appear in his ‘feed’.”
“I didn’t know Facebook was doing facial recognition,” I said.
“You mean the reason all those GIs gave their lives on Normandy’s beaches was so we could do such wonders of technology?”

• “It’s a miracle, Bobby” is something my God-fearing mother used to exclaim regarding anything not having simple explanation. (Bobby is of course me.)

Huggy-poo

“You know I’m no good at this huggy-poo stuff.”
I said that to ******, a friend at Honeoye Falls Goodwill. ****** is always thrilled when I show up with Killian, my new rescue Irish Setter.
I took Killian to a nearby park, and had an errand in Honeoye Falls.
“Nothing to give you this time, unfortunately. All I have is my dog.” I let Killian out of my car after a torrent of noisy barking.
Here goes. “I promised myself I would at least try.”
Only one arm so far — next time we try both.
Fear of sexual harassment charges, perception of being deduced a creepy old geezer.
It’s my history: graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations. No female would ever wanna be hugged by me.
Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent, and my neighbor during childhood. My parents, heavily into Bible-beating like Hilda, agreed I was disgusting. My father was mad I couldn’t worship him as worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
“Oh Hughes, will you get over it!” shouts **** ********, who I years ago worked with at the Mighty Mezz. “Hilda is dead-and-gone.”
14,000 rpm in her grave. Harness her and my parents and they could power the entirety of south FL.
Ya don’t just “get over it.” Marked for life from an early age.
What would my deceased wife think? A little jealous probably, but also relieved I was learning Faire Hilda was full-of-it.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 12 years ago.

Again Goodwill

“Now why did I come here?” I said to the Goodwill-lady in Honeoye Falls.
She was ecstatic I came with Killian, my rescue Irish Setter, after walking him at a park.
The Honeoye Falls Goodwill-lady is clearly a dog-person. Killian is gorgeous and nutso = BOINK! SLAM! “Bark-bark-bark” followed by “PET ME!”
“Here, lemme see if I can get him outta my car,” I said.
I opened the door and collared him; I use an Easy-Walk® harness. It attaches to his chest.
The lady noticed. “There is no way I could walk this dog without that harness,” I said.
I handed her Killian. She was obviously thrilled.
“You made my day!” she shouted.
“So why did I come here?” I asked.
“All I have is this tattered old shirt,” I said.
“You told me yer no good at huggy-poo,” she said; “but I am.” She gave me a gigantic hug. Next time I will try.
“I was in the habit of feeling like I was falling apart,” I commented.
“Yer a spring-chicken!” she shouted. “Killian is gonna keep you young.”
“The other day a pretty young girl at Kershaw Park told me I didn’t look 74.”
Silver hair and beard, outta shape, knee replacement, lousy balance. “If you say so; I ain’t done yet.”
I returned Killian to my car, and the Goodwill-lady skipped back into her contribution-center, bouncing at her computer-screen.
If me and Killian can thrill her that much, “We’ll be Bach,” as the Terminator used to snarl.
Me and Killian seem to get that a lot.

• “Kershaw Park” is at the north end of Canandaigua lake. I try to take Killian there once per week, since it has so many more distractions.

I’m losing weight

Bunny rabbits beware! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

The Keed (me) is losing weight.
It’s Killian’s fault, my silly dog. I walk him twice every day if it’s not pouring. That is, if it’s raining gently we go for a walk.
I’m 74. Losing weight was not intended. I got Killian to remain active. Losing weight is an unexpected side-effect.
I’m no longer the skinny athlete I was when I ran. I’m at least 50-60 pounds overweight. That’s 190 versus 130-140 pounds when I ran years ago. It got over 200, even 225.
Killian loves hunting. He’s an Irish-Setter. Walking is hunting: Sniffity-snort! Nose to the ground.
Walking is always on-leash, except in my backyard, which is fenced. If he wasn’t on-leash I’d lose him. Zoom! “Meat for the table. I’ll get it Boss! We’ll roast it over an open fire.”
We hit a nearby park every morning except Tuesday and Thursday when I do aquatic therapy at a local YMCA. Every evening is up-the-street and around a small town park, which is just athletic fields. “Let’s boogie!”
Altogether 4-5 miles per day, at least 2-3 or which are in that wooded park; and it feels like I should consider going further.
So the other night we walked up-the-street. It rained off-and-on all day. I checked my iPhone’s weather-radar, and it looked like the rain had passed.
It was pushing 7:30 p.m., but “Let’s boogie!” I should be doing supper, and the next day was trash-day.” Assemble all trash and put it out the previous night, lest it not be collected at 5:30 a.m., for Heaven sake, the next day.
Up-the-street we started; lurch, BAM, sniffity-snort! Around the park as always. Often there are child soccer or lacrosse games, so Killian snags a feel from mothers. “Pet me!”
Halfway around I use a Johnnie-on-the-spot. Ablutions finished, I cinched my belt. WHOA! One hole tighter than before. I been inching toward that hole, and now my usual belt-hole feels loose.
Before Killian I was two holes farther out. Walking Killian reduced me one hole, and now it’s two.
That wasn’t the plan, but it’s happening. “Take me Master! We got work to do! Bite-size bundles of protein.”
No changes in diet, but I’m losing weight.

Kershaw Park

Come down outta that tree and fight! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“I’d like to meet Killian.”
So said my aquacise-therapist at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool where I do balance training.
Killian is my new dog; Irish setter #7, rescue #5.
That therapist is probably in her 50s, although who knows? A lifeguard at the same pool told me she’s 62, although you’d never know it looking at her.
That therapist also has a dog, “Maya,” and suggested we walk our dogs at Kershaw Park north of Canandaigua lake. Kershaw is 25 minutes from my house, versus five minutes to Boughton Park, where I usually walk my dog.
But why not? It’s the only chance she’ll get to meet Killian.
I suggested she not bring Maya, since I had no idea how Killian would react walking with another dog.
One end of Kershaw to the other end, and then back. Perhaps two miles. I let her walk Killian — he’s on a retractable leash.
That therapist is in excellent shape, how I used to be when I ran. I also rode distance on bicycle. Now I’m down to walking my silly dog. My left knee was replaced, and I’m overweight.
I still have my bicycle, but it’s retired preferring to walk my dog. My beloved wife of 44+ years, who was similarly athletic, is gone. Taken by cancer.
So now it’s just me and my dog, who loves hunting.
A week later that therapist and I tried again. This time she brought Maya. Same distance, although maybe slightly less. I felt I had to allow for an 11-year-old dog. Killian would romp all day — nine years old, but still very spunky.
I’ve been to Kershaw three more times since, although alone with Killian. That therapist has other commitments. She just became a grandmother. Plus she’s not retired like me.
I have others who wanna meet Killian, but I’m not sure they could do the distance she and I do. I’m sure that therapist could do way more than me.
I decided Kershaw is worth doing. Many more distractions than my nearby park. Runners, other dogs, walkers, bicyclists; and many wanna greet Killian, who loves it: “Pet me!”
And of course Kershaw also has squirrels living in trees: “Meat for the table. We’ll take it home and roast it over an open fire.”

• A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. — Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.

“You got another dog!”

So shouted the Honeoye Falls Goodwill lady. “I’m so glad you got another dog! I knew you would.”
I started tearing up. It’s lability, a stroke-effect = poor emotional control. (“Lability” is a web-link, readers.)
She gave me a gigantic hug, me standing like a lifeless pillar of stone.
“I’m no good at huggy-poo,” I said.
“But I am; good enough for both of us.” She hugged me again.
The Honeoye Falls Goodwill lady, who I hardly know, is a dog-person. I hooked visits to Honeoye Falls Goodwill with taking Scarlett to Boughton Park. She’d make a big fuss over Scarlett.
A while ago I came without Scarlett; I had to put her down (age-13). The lady was devastated, as was I.
So the other day I would visit the first time with Killian. I kept Killian in the car; I’d never get him back if he got loose. But I rolled down the windows half-way so the lady could commune with Killian.
“You got a new master,” she loudly exclaimed, fussing Killian, who of course loves it. Her giant contribution-bin rolled unattended in front of another contributor driving in.
Some back away from a dog, but not this Goodwill lady.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

Killian Continued

Killian the second. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Does Killian sleep with you?” a friend asked.
“Of course,” I answered. “In fact, I had to rearrange my bed since Killian was sleeping on the side I previously used.”
“You didn’t make Killian move?” the lady asked.
“Absolutely not!” I said.
“Committed to your dog, aren’t you. Just like I was to mine. Which means we should be committed,” she commented.
“The dog and its housekeeping staff reside here,” says a doormat into my house.
I managed to slam-dunk another Scarlett, another rescue Irish-setter, and probably what Scarlett was when we got her.
Killian hasn’t discovered his harness yet. Scarlett used to show it to me: “Let’s boogie, Boss!” Killian exhibits the pre-park frenzy. “Oh boy!” Spazzing around like a loose cannon, completely wired.
I didn’t expect another monster. Scarlett was nuts, a crazed hunter; extremely high-energy.
I was told rescue Irish are rare. All over the country I looked. North Texas Irish-Setter Rescue, Kentucky, etc.
I switched to looking for English-Setter Rescue, but I tilt toward Irish. So far I(we)’ve had six. My first Irish was late ‘70s. I took that dog for an unleashed walk in a park in Rochester (NY) and suddenly ZAMM! Squirrel number-one.
What was I supposed to do? Discourage the dog? No way José. Irish are hunters. “Hot-tee-tott; hot-tee-tott. I got it, and you do not!”
Almost 30 squirrels died in her jaws, and that included after she was hit by a car. She no longer could chase, so she’d sneak up on ‘em. She’d give us a dirty look: “Yer making too much noise!”
She died of bone-cancer at age-12, so we quickly got another. Not as much a hunter, but she ate an entire rabbit she caught.
#3 was supposed to be company for that second dog, but #2 was devastated. #3 was the Houdini-dog. She ran away during a thunderstorm, climbing our five-foot chainlink fence. We never saw her again.
#4 was our first rescue; that is, from a rescue organization. #3 could also be called a rescue. That dog’s original owner sold us that dog because she was an escape-artist.
#4 was a divorce victim, also very laid back. Not much a hunter, but she did hunt frogs.
Killian #1, dog #5, was very much a hunter. But he’d been severely abused, so even though he was small, a field-setter, he needed a loving home = us.
He was scared of men, including me. He’d start whimpering when I got exasperated by this computer — like he was afraid he’d get kicked.
But he loved taking me for a walk. Sniffity-snort!
Killian #1 died of lymphoma at age-10. My wife found Ohio Irish-Setter Rescue would bring four Irish to Buffalo for a couple from nearby Penfield to consider “Scarlett” as a therapy-dog. We were to consider one of Scarlett’s puppies.
Scarlett immediately hurled the Penfield guy to the ground. “Here, let me try her,” I interjected. “I just put down a high-energy dog.”
The Penfield couple took home Scarlett’s puppy, and we took home Scarlett. I was 64 at that time. “What in the world am I doing at my age bringing home a dog like this?”
At age-13 Scarlett began getting seizures. I had to give up. Neatest dog I ever had, and she hung with me even after my wife died.
So now what? Without a dog to motivate I’m not inclined to hike a nearby park. I’m 74, but not dead yet. I needed a dog to keep me active.
I happen to be on the Yahoo e-mail group of a lady in north Jersey heavily into Irish-setter rescue. She may have informed us about Scarlett, but my wife was the one who always arranged dogs.
Suddenly she announced my(our) second Killian, a nine-year-old male Irish in PA, another divorce victim. “Anyone interested?” her e-mail asked. BAM! I immediately fired back.
She e-mailed Killian’s owner, and told him I(we) got many rescue Irish from her. Which may be, except I never was involved.
Killian’s owner wanted to be involved. Not just hand over Killian to someone not the dog-person I happen to be.
He e-mailed and then called me. The old waazoo: 3.5+ acres fully fenced, two walks per day, the kind of life Killian no longer got with that guy still working. Killian was in-house all day = unfair to a sporting dog.
He decided to give me Killian. We’d meet in NorthEast PA at the NY/PA border. That was last Saturday.
What a shame that poor guy has to give up his beloved Killian, and I get what appears to be another Scarlett. I didn’t expect as much. I keep telling that north Jersey rescue lady I didn’t expect a slam-dunk Irish.
So now to that park again: fourth time in five days.


“Sniffity-snort!” (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

(Not easy to iPhone a photograph behind a lunging maniac.)

The Killian-2 Adventure Begins

Killian #2. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Yrs Trly is now harboring Irish-Setter #7, Rescue Irish #5, dog #8, and my first dog since my wife died.
My wife and I had a Killian #1, a smallish field-setter (60 pounds), another rescue, except he was severely abused.

Killian #1 instructs birds to come outta that tree. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

He lasted only 10 years, dying of lymphoma. At least he ended his days in a loving home. He’d been through two previous homes, both of which didn’t understand Irish-Setters.
He feared men, including me. But he loved walking with me. He’d start whimpering when I got upset with this computer. Probably afraid some man was gonna kick him. (I wouldn’t dare!)

My (our) second Killian. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Killian-2 is a divorce victim. Our Irish #3 was also a divorce victim. Killian’s owner was depressed he had to leave Killian at home all day while he worked. Setters, especially Irish-Setters, are sporting dogs. What fun is it being cooped up in a house all day?
So Killian’s owner contacted ****** ******** of north Jersey, heavily involved in Irish-Setter rescue. He asked if I always dealt with ******. Perhaps, but I had no idea, since it was always my wife who arranged our dogs.
I’m on ******’s Yahoo e-mail group, so I always get notified. “There’s another, and I can’t do anything.” (I still had my previous Irish then.)
She posted Killian — “interested,” I immediately slammed on my iPhone.
I put down my previous Irish after Thanksgiving, my beloved Scarlett, Irish #6, Irish-rescue #4, a fabulous dog. She made 13.
I felt I was aging quickly. Without a dog I had no incentive to walk a nearby park. Killian’s owner e-mailed me, and a torrent of texts began (thank you Apple). He also called me.
It’s depressing he has to let go of a dog he had nine years, but 3.5+ acres fully fenced, partly wooded; best $16,000 we ever spent. Keeps a dog out of the highway. Loud Harleys at 80 mph, crotch-rockets at 100+. Hemis and Big-Block Chevelles at full roar gulping giant gouts of air. (Speed-limit is 40.)
Plus at least one long walk per day, often two. One is at that nearby park, also partly wooded. Hiking that park again is also a challenge for me, 74 years old with questionable balance — 3-4 miles per walk.
But the dog loves it. Running hither-and-yon like a loose cannon, nose to the ground, SNIFFITY-SNORT!
Killian-2 was in PA north of Pittsburgh. I would GPS to NorthEast, PA, just west of the NY border, to Lake Shore Railway Historical Society and Museum. I figgered it would have parking, and I’m a railfan.
The vaunted GPS lady seemed a mite confused. “Head north” quickly followed by “head south” when I headed north. I killed that GPS lady!
GoogleMaps had NorthEast 2&1/2 hours from my house. DREAMIN’! I should have allowed 3&1/2 hours, at least three.
In NorthEast “In 1,000 feet turn left on South Pearl St.” I’m fast approaching a traffic-light that might be 1,000 feet away. I’m supposed to get out and measure?
Quick decision time: I turned left at the light, no street signs. I quickly discovered it was South Lake St., not Pearl. CSX, on the old New York Central, runs through NorthEast, and crosses Lake St., also State Highway 89, on an overpass.
Don’t go under the overpass = zag right, then quick left on Pearl St. “I see a retired railroad locomotive; that must be the museum.” And there’s Killian walking his previous master.
We exchanged pleasantries, and I greeted Killian. I got throughly sniffed. I opened the side-door of my SUV and pulled up the seat-cushion; first time in months. Killian jumped in.
Dog-food, papers for my vet; then so be it. Previous master leaves his beloved Killian, and I make out like a bandit. I end up with a fabulous dog.
Most vocal dog I ever had: “Hey, what are you doin’ gettin’ that mail? GET BACK HERE — WOOF-WOOF-WOOF!” I took Killian to my groomer. “Is that my dog doing all that barking back there?” I asked the groomer-lady when I returned to pick up Killian.
“Yes,” she nodded.
“How does that silly dog know I’m here to pick him up? He’s in the other room behind closed doors.”
A collar is near-impossible; only the Easy-Walk© harness, which attaches in front of his chest. He hasn’t thrown me down yet. LUNGE-YANK! I texted my aquacise-coach: “I don’t think I coulda handled this monster without what we been doing in that pool.” (Swimming-pool balance-training.)
BOINK-BOINK-BOINK! “I wanna go out! I wanna come in!” “Never before have I had a dog bounce at the door.” I took Killian to my nearby doggy-day-care to socialize. He wanted out: Enough already!
Same thing at my back door.

(iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Right now Killian is asleep on my Castro-Convertible; I took him to that park this morning, second foray. He’s utterly bushed, but had a wonderful time: “Who’s that, who’s this? SNIFF-SNORT! SNOFFLE!”
All I hafta do is give the signal. “Let’s boogie!” Like a light-switch. Perhaps more than my crazy Scarlett. May very well be the most Irish-Setter I’ve had.

Killian #2

Killian #2. (iPhone photo by Tim McKee.)

Years ago my wife and I had a Killian. Irish-Setter #5, rescue #3, dog #6 (our first dog was not Irish).

“Come down outta that tree and fight!” (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Since Killian #1 we got one more rescue Irish: beloved Scarlett, gone at age-13, my/our longest-lived Irish. Six years ago, during that dog’s life, my wife died of cancer. Leaving me alone with Scarlett.
Tim McKee of Kittanning, PA had a 9-year old Irish named Killian he’s had since a puppy. Divorced, he found himself alone with Killian.
Not the first time.
Our dog #3, Sabrina, was also a divorce victim, I think. Except Sabrina was returned to her breeder. We got her from that breeder. Nevertheless, Sabrina was rescue.
That poor guy is still working. Unlike me he’s not retired. Killian had to be inside his house all day. This was perceived as unfair to a sporting-dog.
So that guy contacted Irish-Setter Rescue of north Jersey. I’m on their Yahoo e-mail list, so was immediately notified. “Interested?” BAM! “I have someone interested in Killian.
rhughes3@rochester.rr.com, he lost his last Irish in Nov.
He has always adopted from us and lives in Bloomfield, NY south of Rochester.”
It’s beginning to sound like I‘m gonna get Killian #2 — maybe Easter weekend. McKee called. 9-years-old is fairly old; 3-4 more years, maybe more.
The guy hates letting go of his dog; I can understand that. I hated giving up on Scarlett; she was still very spunky, and probably coulda snagged a few more critters — even at age-13. At least 20 rabbits died in her jaws, innumerable mice and moles, and once four baby chipmunks at the same time. But she was getting seizures, and looked bedraggled.
With me it becomes lotsa walks for Killian #2, plus my dog-park property. I hope the dog can accommodate swapping masters.
“Best $16,000 we ever spent: 3.5+ acres fully fenced, five-foot chainlink; keeps a dog outta the highway.” I live on a two-lane state highway: loud Harleys blast past at 80 mph. Crotch-rockets hit 100! —And of course the speed-limit is 40.
My wife and I loved Scarlett. That fence was slam-dunk. We could afford it, since no Corvette, no speedboat, no motorhome. Also no kids to put through college.
Scarlett escaped once = scary. With my wife gone, Scarlett became The Queen = no longer any competition. I was still boss-dog: leader-of-the-pack.
I spoiled Scarlett rotten. Often two long walks per day, plus she pre-washed all plates and pans before I put ‘em in the dishwasher.
Spunky as she was, she was getting old. She became hard-of-hearing; I had to shout. Eye-contact became our signal.
“Aye MeatHead, a kitty-cat is in yer back yard.” 13 years old, 91 in human years: ZOOM!
If a rabbit was inside her pen, it was dead meat.
She began getting seizures, and was diagnosed with diabetes. Finally I gave up; my boarder, who also loved Scarlett, calls it “caring about your dog.”
I was devastated! Best dog I ever had.
“So get another dog,” friends advised. I’ve given this advice myself. My wife was dog-catcher before. Every prior dog was her doing. I had no idea where to start.
Somehow I contacted Ohio Irish-Setter Rescue, probably from a Google-search. They were Scarlett’s original source. Rescue Irish-Setters were very rare, so I switched to English-Setter Rescue. I’ve always been in contact with that rescue Irish-Setter organization in north Jersey. That lady keeps a Yahoo e-mail group, and I’m on it. She e-mails a couple times per week.
“There’s another, and I can’t do anything.” (I had Scarlett back then.) That north-Jersey Irish-Setter rescue may have had something to do with Scarlett; I wasn’t involved.
Around-and-around I went. Various English-Setter Rescues lined me up for an English. They also did an assessment of my home, and their English didn’t wanna leave.
Suddenly that north-Jersey Irish-Setter lady Yahooed me about Killian #2. So now it sounds like I might end up with that dog.
I’m a little scared. I’ve never done this before. But I sure miss having a silly dog around. And I prefer Irish-Setters. Irish are nutty, and that’s what I want.
Walk the silly dog; hunt-huntity-hunt! Sniff-snort; “I’ll get it, Boss. Take it home and cook it over an open fire.”
As one of my tee-shirts says: “Irish-Setter; anything else is just a dog.” Don’t know as that’s true, but Killian #2 would be Irish-Setter number-seven. Scarlett wasn’t a hunter at first, but quickly found it thrilling.

• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.
• RE: “MeatHead.....” —Every dog we (I) ever owned I’ve nicknamed “MeatHead.” With me Scarlett knew of herself as “MeatHead.” (Killian #1, who was rather small, I called “Little MeatHead.”) —“MeatHead” because like a pot-head likes marijuana, dogs like meat.

Yet another obit

******* ******, the lady instrumental to our first rescue Irish Setter, died suddenly according to an obituary I recently received.
She was born in 1955, 62 years old.
“Good grief,” I thought to myself. “That’s ****’s age, also *****-the-lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming pool. She’s 62.” ****’s pushing 64.
My wife made 68. She was taken by cancer almost six years ago. We were the same age, so now I’m 74.
She was the one supposed to make 100. Dunno if I will, but I might. Her mother made it. Her aunt made 98. Their mother, her maternal grandmother, made 96 or so. Anyone female on her mother’s side made well over 90.
My paternal grandfather made 92 or so. Had my wife not developed cancer she woulda made 100.
“Age is just a number,” **** says. ***** I don’t worry about. Ya’d never know she’s 62. She swims laps. She’s in stellar shape.
So was I years ago. I used to run, and was also in stellar shape. Then I had a totally unexpected stroke due to an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. Open heart surgery; chisels, buzzsaws, the whole shebang. That was 25 years ago.
My doctors wondered why a runner had a stroke.
I was able to return to running, but stopped when my wife died. She was the one who took our dog. Now I’ve had a knee replaced. I hafta tell airport security lest I trigger Armageddon.
**** I worry about. She’s a great friend, but she’s not *****-the-lifeguard. “50% blockage of my carotid arteries,” she tells me.
“What am I doing here?” I always ask.
“Not yer time yet,” said a lady at the YMCA front desk. “Anyway, yer here to entertain us.”
**** and I swap stories about our childhoods. I wasn’t the mistake she was accused of being, but I was convinced early I was scum. My parents were always mad at me; I had to leave that all behind.
“So why, pray tell, did I hafta lose the BEST friend I ever had to realize I’d been hornswoggled?” **** lost her husband.
So there we were, both bereft of mates that made our lives easier. We could avoid outside contact because we got that at home. **** lived far out in a very rural setting. I still do, but not as far-out as her. She no longer does.
“At our age it’s a blessing just to get up every morning,” **** observed.
Nevertheless, when someone only 62 kicks the bucket I worry.

• Over the last 40 years I’ve had seven dogs, six of whom were Irish-setter, and four of those were rescue. I am currently dogless, hopefully not for long. A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. My most recent rescue was from a failed backyard breeder. By getting a rescue-dog we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —My most recent rescue wasn't bad. The one before her had been severely abused.
• I do aquatic therapy in the Canandaigua YMCA swimming pool to counteract questionable balance. I have two classes per week, and try to do extra on-my-own at least one day per weekend, sometimes both days. **** is usually there whenever I am, since she hits the pool often. She co-led the grief-share I attended after my wife died.
• My beloved wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. BEST friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

Scarlett

BEST dog I ever had. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“The dog and its housekeeping staff reside here,” says a doormat into my house.
The people who kenneled my dog when I took long trips came to my house with my beloved dog’s ashes to help me disperse.
That kennel also cremates dogs, and they loved my dog too.
They also knew how much my dog meant.
They came for moral support, and noticed the doormat.
“I think you should take Scarlett to the park,” the kennel-owner said.
“I thought about that,” I said.
We put the small wooden box of ashes on the passenger-seat of my car.
“Last time,” I said to the dog crying. We headed toward the park.
Past the cows and alpacas along Baker Road. She’d always give them a good talking-to.
Then down Elton Road toward Ionia where we’d occasionally see 200-pound “Flopsie,” in her G-string, bouncing along with her cocker. Scarlett always serenaded them too.
Boughton Park was her favorite place. Me walking her on leash. To her we were hunting.
Sniff-snort! Yank-lurch-BOINK! “I got it, Boss!”
Scarlett was the BEST dog I ever had. Together we survived the tragic death of my best friend, my wife of 44+ years.
“Scarlett did her job,” a friend told me. “She kept you going despite the death of your wife.”
“Yes,” I thought later; “I guess she did.” Feed-the-dog, walk-the-dog, pet-the-dog, let-dog-out, let-dog-in, even at 3 a.m.
I remained Boss-dog, but Scarlett became The Queen.
I let her prewash all plates and pans. I mixed canned meat in her supper. Everything but ice-cream, which made her throw up. And no chocolate = poisonous for dogs.
When she discovered toilets were hydration-stations, I quickly accommodated. Flush immediately after using and before guzzling.
I videoed her slurping out of a toilet, which offended some. Others thought that hilarious. I also started closing toilets around my house.
I never had a dog as spunky as Scarlett. 13 years old, 91 in human years, and she’s chasing a rabbit. I’d let the dog out at 3 a.m., and “where’s the dog?” She’s sniffing around a pallet I have as an improvised step out my garage back-door.
It’s pitch-dark, but take everything apart, then lift pallet in bathrobe and bare feet. She’d snag a mole, a “bite-size bundle of protein.”
“What am I doing at my age bringing home a dog like this?” That was nine years ago; I was 64 at the time.
I promised I’d try my best to give her a good life. After all I was still in pretty good shape, never smoked, no alcohol, and was running back then.
Then my wife died from cancer. Yet Scarlett hung with me. I was a mess for some time. I felt I wasn’t giving her a good life.
Scarlett stayed loyal until the end. She started having seizures, so I took her to Veterinary Specialists & Emergency Services near Rochester. They kept her overnight and stabilized her.
We’d see Scarlett a final time, me and the kennel people. Attendants wheeled her in on a gurney; she looked dead.
The head bobbed up: “Yippee! The Boss is here! I hear him!” In 10 minutes she was sitting on the gurney. 10-15 minutes later she was standing.
“Take me home, Boss. I’ve had it here!”

The End

“He’s in there somewhere.” (Photo by Ron Palermo.)

“What in the wide-wide world is someone my age doing bringing home a high-energy dog like this?” I said to anyone and everyone at Veterinary Specialists & Emergency Services.
I was there to pull-the-plug on on my beloved dog Scarlett.
Scarlett is/was a rescue Irish Setter from Ohio Irish Setter Rescue. Nine years ago Ohio Irish Setter Rescue brought four dogs in crates to Buffalo for people from Rochester to consider. How my wife found out I have no idea.
A couple from nearby Penfield was to consider Scarlett as a therapy dog. (YEAH SURE; “feeling better today?” BOINK!)
We were to consider one of Scarlett’s puppies. Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder. She was only four, but already had two litters.
The lady opened the side-door of her minivan, and I heard “WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP!” “I hear a wagging tail,” I cried.
“Oh, that would be Scarlett,” the lady said.
Dogs out, the husband of the couple considering Scarlett tried to take her for a walk. Ker-SLAM! Scarlett dragged him to the ground.
“Here, let me try her,” I said. “I just put down a high-energy dog.”
YANK-PULL-LURCH! Sniffity-snort; this way and that.
I made it; stayed on my feet.
That wagging tail was all I needed — how could I resist? I woulda taken all four dogs, but decided only one dog was all I had time for. I decided I’d take Scarlett.
“Why is someone my age bringing home a dog like this?” I said.
I promised I’d try my best. I was 64, but still in pretty good shape — I ran foot-races previously, and was still running back then.
Four years passed, then my wife died. We could see it coming, but of course hoped it wouldn’t. Wife gone I was alone with Scarlett — just me and that silly dog.
I was complete wreck for a while, especially at first. Still am somewhat. I felt I couldn’t give Scarlett the life I promised.
But she became very attached to me; I spoiled her rotten. The people that board my dog showed up for moral support. They also liked Scarlett quite a bit.
That dog ended up being the BEST one I’ve ever had. She’s Irish-Setter number-six. None have been prettier or more regal, and also spunky.
She was age-13, ancient for an Irish-Setter. At least 20 rabbits died in her jaws, and innumerable mice and moles. Once she caught four chipmunks at the same time.
Even at 13 I had to raise the back step so she could chase a chipmunk. “I smell it — I’ll git it!”
She was getting seizures; had a couple a week ago. A nearby vet prescribed anti-seize pills, plus diagnosed her with diabetes. I began shooting her up — with insulin.
Last night another seizure, and her back-end was getting clumsy. I took her to Veterinary Specialists & Emergency Services; they hospitalized her. She had another seizure soon after I arrived.
They kept her overnight, and we decided taking her home was too risky. I didn’t want her to get hurt. Veterinary Specialists & Emergency Services is 40 minutes away.
So now Scarlett is gone. BEST dog I ever had. Is it fair for an oldster like me to take home a dog so spunky?
I miss that dog already, and it’s only been a couple hours. No one to prewash all the plates and pans before I put ‘em in the dishwasher; no more treat-game when she eats her supper; no more “tomato-dog,” or “broccoli-dog.” “No spinach for this dog; who do ya think I am, Popeye?”
No more Scarlett showing me her harness for our walk at the park. To her we were hunting.
Also no more Scarlett to follow my life-schedule; everyday habits to make life easier for a stroke-survivor. “Order-out-of-chaos;” she loved it. (Time to pet the dog.)
Most important is she stayed with me after my wife died. I was utterly smashed, but I had Scarlett, alias “the Big Meat-Head.”
BEST dog I’ve ever had.
(I cry just doing this blog.)

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• RE: “Meat-Head.....” —Every dog we (I) ever owned I’ve nicknamed “Meat-Head.” With me Scarlett knew of herself as “Meat-Head.” (A previous dog, who was rather small, I called “Little Meat-head.”) —“Meat-Head” because like a pot-head likes marijuana, Scarlett liked meat.