You might remember the second part of my as-yet-unfinished series "The Race Card", which was entitled "Good Hair."
I've been meaning to write a quick update to that post, because a couple things have happened in the last few months that I found particularly relevant. Back in December, while at the post office mailing out late Christmas gifts, I walked up to the counter, which was being attended by a black male employee. After starting to process my parcels, he casually commented that he liked seeing "a sister with natural hair."
My first reaction was to touch my hair self-consciously and reply with a quick, "thank you." But then, after a few seconds of reflection, I said a bit sarcastically, "I could write a book about the way I feel about that subject!" Of course, I didn't tell him that indeed, I had already written a rather lengthy blog post.
"Is that right?" he asked, grinning slightly. "I mean, I don't have a problem with what anyone does with their hair," he went on, looking quickly around the office, presumably for any black women with treated hair who might take offense.
I just smiled, and walked out feeling rather proud of my 'tightly coiled' curly hair. There are still some people left in the world who don't hate on natural black women's hair.
Then, about a month ago, Bryony and I were at a local Borders that was having a "going out of business sale." Because I am super frugal (aka, cheap) and hate to pay full-price for anything, I was scanning the aisles for books I could get for 40% off. Just as I asked a young saleswoman to point me in the direction of the nature section, she stopped me and asked, "Excuse me, but is that your natural hair?"
On that particular day, I had let my hair out of its barrette, so my locks that had dried straight while clasped in the barrette were now flowing freely. I told her that yes, it was my own natural hair. Then she asked if it was naturally that straight. I explained to her that my hair was actually quite curly by nature, much curlier than her own hair or even Bryony's, and that it was only straight because it had dried that way. She asked me to follow her to the health & beauty section of the store, where she grabbed a book entitled Curly Girl. She told me the book had changed her life.
"I used to have hair that was dry and bushy and I never knew what to do with it. It just always felt really unhealthy. Then I started using the method that this book suggests and I get so many compliments on my hair now!" Her long mane of wet-looking curls swayed behind her back.
I gave this girl a once-over. She looked as though she could be biracial, and so while she might have some hair similarities to mine, I felt like she was overestimating the amount we had in common. But, always one to try to keep an open mind, I thanked her, picked up the book and started to flip through it. Sure enough, the author, a white woman who has curly hair herself, wrote the book with curly-haired women and children in mind. One of the over-arching themes of the book is to stop the cycle of self-hate that is perpetuated in our society toward and by curly-haired people. We need to LOVE our curly tops. It was a fun book to skim through, but being the el cheapo that I am, I decided to wait until it was 50% off the following week before purchasing it. Of course, when I returned to the store a few days later to buy it, all three copies had been sold.
No worries, there's always Amazon. And there's always time for me to "work" with my hair a bit more. I just hope that Bryony grows up loving her own curly locks as much as we do. We cannot go anywhere without someone commenting on her hair. Sometimes that's good--a woman or man will stop us to say how much they love her hair, or wish that they had it. Usually, Adam will make a bad joke about wanting some of her hair himself (while pointing to his bald head) or we'll respond with a genuine thank you. And sometimes outsiders' comments aren't so good--they will say things like, "Oh, she's going to hate that hair when she's sixteen!" or "That hair must be SO hard to deal with!" I've just learned to respond positively with "Oh, I think she'll love her hair as much when she's a teenager as we love it now!" or "Nope, her hair is really fun to work with!"
If some people in this world are intent on making her feel bad about her beautiful hair, then I'll make it my job to be the one-woman counterattack force for perpetuating appreciation for curly hair. Just call me the Curly Crusader.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Lucky
Last night, Adam's assigned flat mate slept over. We haven't seen him in months, so we weren't too put out that he had to spend the night. When he arrived, I was making dinner and Adam was feeding Bryony, so we had time to chat with him awhile before he went to bed for the night.
His time at Ft Hood, like Adam's, is coming to a close at the end of month; also like Adam, he will be deploying soon. I knew he was also a reservist here on a one-year assignment, but it had never occurred to me that he might have to deploy. He has two teenage kids and a baby daughter (named Lauren) at home. It broke my heart to hear that he would be leaving them and his wife behind for a year.
Then, I asked him how many times he had deployed already. "Four," he responded, shaking his head wearily at the ground. "I just wish they'd stop deploying me," he said when I asked how he felt about leaving. "It just puts your entire life on hold. It's hard." I gaped at Adam, thinking about how I've been feeling sorry for myself that Adam is leaving on his third deployment; this guy is leaving on his fifth.
"Where are you going?" I asked him, not sure I wanted to hear his reply.
"Afghanistan," he responded with a tight smile. Adam commented that he was heading to Iraq, and the roommate said, "Oh, it's not so bad over there. Last time I was there--in 2008--I was inside a building so nice I forgot I was in Iraq. Well, until I stepped outside!" he laughed.
He said his orders were for a year, as troops are not due to fully withdraw from Afghanistan until 2014. Troops (according to the SOFA treaty) are due to leave Iraq by the end of 2011, so we are hopeful Adam will be home by the end of the year.
Then, I asked the roommate what his job in the Army was. He looked down at the floor and gave a short, harsh laugh. "Well, essentially, I shoot people. I'm in the infantry unit." I had no idea. I knew he did a lot of field exercises here on base because he always came to the apartment with a dirty uniform. But it didn't dawn on me that this mild-mannered, unassuming guy could very well end someone's life. He went on to tell a story about one of his previous deployments to Iraq, when he was "in theater," chasing down an insurgent and consequently got his story and photo in his hometown newspaper. His wife and mother were upset to hear the details of his time overseas, because he had always assured them that he never saw any action, for fear of scaring them.
I glanced at my attorney husband and felt so grateful, all of a sudden, that he was only going to Iraq to sit behind a desk in a secure location. Am I still scared for his safety and sad for the time we will spend apart? Certainly. But I realize that there is always someone out there who is worse off than you are.
We are lucky.
His time at Ft Hood, like Adam's, is coming to a close at the end of month; also like Adam, he will be deploying soon. I knew he was also a reservist here on a one-year assignment, but it had never occurred to me that he might have to deploy. He has two teenage kids and a baby daughter (named Lauren) at home. It broke my heart to hear that he would be leaving them and his wife behind for a year.
Then, I asked him how many times he had deployed already. "Four," he responded, shaking his head wearily at the ground. "I just wish they'd stop deploying me," he said when I asked how he felt about leaving. "It just puts your entire life on hold. It's hard." I gaped at Adam, thinking about how I've been feeling sorry for myself that Adam is leaving on his third deployment; this guy is leaving on his fifth.
"Where are you going?" I asked him, not sure I wanted to hear his reply.
"Afghanistan," he responded with a tight smile. Adam commented that he was heading to Iraq, and the roommate said, "Oh, it's not so bad over there. Last time I was there--in 2008--I was inside a building so nice I forgot I was in Iraq. Well, until I stepped outside!" he laughed.
He said his orders were for a year, as troops are not due to fully withdraw from Afghanistan until 2014. Troops (according to the SOFA treaty) are due to leave Iraq by the end of 2011, so we are hopeful Adam will be home by the end of the year.
Then, I asked the roommate what his job in the Army was. He looked down at the floor and gave a short, harsh laugh. "Well, essentially, I shoot people. I'm in the infantry unit." I had no idea. I knew he did a lot of field exercises here on base because he always came to the apartment with a dirty uniform. But it didn't dawn on me that this mild-mannered, unassuming guy could very well end someone's life. He went on to tell a story about one of his previous deployments to Iraq, when he was "in theater," chasing down an insurgent and consequently got his story and photo in his hometown newspaper. His wife and mother were upset to hear the details of his time overseas, because he had always assured them that he never saw any action, for fear of scaring them.
I glanced at my attorney husband and felt so grateful, all of a sudden, that he was only going to Iraq to sit behind a desk in a secure location. Am I still scared for his safety and sad for the time we will spend apart? Certainly. But I realize that there is always someone out there who is worse off than you are.
We are lucky.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Out of the Loop
This morning I opened my e-mail inbox to find a letter from the most recent employer with whom I interviewed. "We have reviewed your application and unfortunately we are unable to offer you a position at this time." It was a huge letdown. Out of sixty applicants, I had made it to the top two candidates for the position, earning me a second phone interview. I felt pretty sure I had kicked some ass on that interview. And, the job was an internship, a job usually taken on by undergradutes. But, it's been so long since I've had a job, and I'm so eager to work in my field and for this organization that I was willing to take a 3-month internship. But they didn't want me.
This whole process is utterly humiliating. I can't describe the emotion that was stuck in my throat as I read the words of rejection. Does no one want me? What the hell am I doing wrong? Why can't I get a job? I'm not asking for a high-paying position with benefits and a 401K plan. I just need an entry-level position so I can get my foot in the door. I just want to feel productive and useful and engrained in my field again. All of my friends from graduate school have jobs; I'm trying to figure out what they've done right that I haven't figured out yet.
When I read the rejection letter this morning, the first thing I thought is how easily I can now understand those stories we've heard of people committing suicide from not being able to find work. This is perhaps the single most (and longest-lasting) ego-bruising endeavour I've been on, and if I knew that my entire family was suffering because of my unemployment status, I could see how feelings of depression, self-doubt and insecurity could get the best of me. These are hard times, and the only thing keeping me going now is the knowledge that I don't have to work (at least as long as Adam is employed by the military), and I have a little girl at home to take care of while I'm searching. But sometimes, even those two nuggets of knowledge don't feel like enough. Especially when I remember a vow I made to myself years ago, based on advice my mother had told me when I was young: "Don't ever be financially dependent on someone else." I know the really negative consequences of relying on someone else to take care you financially; people change, circumstances change and the situation you're in right now might not always be the case. I don't ever want to be caught off-guard if if one day Adam won't or can't "bring home the bacon." I want to be bringing home my own bacon so that my life will more easily go on in the face of adversity.
Two nights ago, Adam encouraged me to join him and his colleagues for a "last dinner" since he will be deploying soon. I didn't really want to go. In my previous experience, I've sat at a table trying to make conversation with my 1-year old or watching the restaurant television while the rest of the table yammered on about work, people and events that I knew nothing about. If someone asked me about myself at all during the night, it was most likely, "So, Lauren, do you work?" Sure as bloody hell I do, you jackass! is what I wanted to respond. Usually I would say that yes, I'm staying at home with our child. As soon as they realize that Oh, she's just a mom, they nod, turn their face back to the more interesting conversation at the table and I'm never addressed again the rest of the night. It's pretty embarrassing to have people just assume that I have nothing of worth to say just because I'm not a lawyer or working in a suit-and-tie profession. I stream NPR through my computer all day long, so I am more than knowledgeable about world and national events, politics, social matters, you name it. The other night, when I tried to bring up current events as a way to shift the conversation to something I could join in, everyone just gave me a weird look and a few "uh-huh's" and went back to talking office politics. I finally gave up and made a mental note to never put myself in a position like that again. I don't need strangers to make me feel like nothing. The way my search for work is going, I can feel that way all by myself.
If I'm completely honest, I think a huge part of my problem is that I have bought into our society's view that being a stay-at-home parent is not a "real job." I know how exhausting--both physically and emotionally--parenting can be. But you get no paycheck. You can't put it on your resume and get any serious recognition from potential employers. There are no accolades, pay raises, sick days, holidays, vacation time or promotions. And even after you've worked all day, you might have to pull the night shift without a nighttime differential. There is no potential for upward mobility. Everyone tells me that I should be glad to have this time with my child, and make no mistake, I am. But for me, that's not enough. I went to school for a long time so that I could do something else, in addition to being a parent. And I hate feeling feeling bad for not having a job and then feeling guilty for wanting one.
I guess this is just one of those days. And this, too, shall pass.
This whole process is utterly humiliating. I can't describe the emotion that was stuck in my throat as I read the words of rejection. Does no one want me? What the hell am I doing wrong? Why can't I get a job? I'm not asking for a high-paying position with benefits and a 401K plan. I just need an entry-level position so I can get my foot in the door. I just want to feel productive and useful and engrained in my field again. All of my friends from graduate school have jobs; I'm trying to figure out what they've done right that I haven't figured out yet.
When I read the rejection letter this morning, the first thing I thought is how easily I can now understand those stories we've heard of people committing suicide from not being able to find work. This is perhaps the single most (and longest-lasting) ego-bruising endeavour I've been on, and if I knew that my entire family was suffering because of my unemployment status, I could see how feelings of depression, self-doubt and insecurity could get the best of me. These are hard times, and the only thing keeping me going now is the knowledge that I don't have to work (at least as long as Adam is employed by the military), and I have a little girl at home to take care of while I'm searching. But sometimes, even those two nuggets of knowledge don't feel like enough. Especially when I remember a vow I made to myself years ago, based on advice my mother had told me when I was young: "Don't ever be financially dependent on someone else." I know the really negative consequences of relying on someone else to take care you financially; people change, circumstances change and the situation you're in right now might not always be the case. I don't ever want to be caught off-guard if if one day Adam won't or can't "bring home the bacon." I want to be bringing home my own bacon so that my life will more easily go on in the face of adversity.
Two nights ago, Adam encouraged me to join him and his colleagues for a "last dinner" since he will be deploying soon. I didn't really want to go. In my previous experience, I've sat at a table trying to make conversation with my 1-year old or watching the restaurant television while the rest of the table yammered on about work, people and events that I knew nothing about. If someone asked me about myself at all during the night, it was most likely, "So, Lauren, do you work?" Sure as bloody hell I do, you jackass! is what I wanted to respond. Usually I would say that yes, I'm staying at home with our child. As soon as they realize that Oh, she's just a mom, they nod, turn their face back to the more interesting conversation at the table and I'm never addressed again the rest of the night. It's pretty embarrassing to have people just assume that I have nothing of worth to say just because I'm not a lawyer or working in a suit-and-tie profession. I stream NPR through my computer all day long, so I am more than knowledgeable about world and national events, politics, social matters, you name it. The other night, when I tried to bring up current events as a way to shift the conversation to something I could join in, everyone just gave me a weird look and a few "uh-huh's" and went back to talking office politics. I finally gave up and made a mental note to never put myself in a position like that again. I don't need strangers to make me feel like nothing. The way my search for work is going, I can feel that way all by myself.
If I'm completely honest, I think a huge part of my problem is that I have bought into our society's view that being a stay-at-home parent is not a "real job." I know how exhausting--both physically and emotionally--parenting can be. But you get no paycheck. You can't put it on your resume and get any serious recognition from potential employers. There are no accolades, pay raises, sick days, holidays, vacation time or promotions. And even after you've worked all day, you might have to pull the night shift without a nighttime differential. There is no potential for upward mobility. Everyone tells me that I should be glad to have this time with my child, and make no mistake, I am. But for me, that's not enough. I went to school for a long time so that I could do something else, in addition to being a parent. And I hate feeling feeling bad for not having a job and then feeling guilty for wanting one.
I guess this is just one of those days. And this, too, shall pass.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Good-bye, Kika
This past Saturday, we said a final farewell to our 15 1/2-year old rat terrier, Kika.
Kika was born 17 April 1995 in Austin, Texas. There is a large flea market on the outskirts of Austin, that at the time housed a vendor that sold rat terrier puppies. Adam and his father flew down to Austin to buy two puppies--a male to mate with the family's female rat terrier, and another puppy to serve as a companion dog to an elderly friend of the family. Adam remembers a box full of pudgy, wiggly puppies, and from that box, they selected a male dog, Gizmo, and a female, Kika. 1995 was several years before the post-9/11 intensely secure screening procedures that are now commonplace at airports. So, it wasn't hard for Adam and his father to tuck the tiny puppies into their coat pockets and pass right through the metal detectors. Once on the plane, they placed the sleepy puppies on the empty seat between them and let them eat and sleep. Kika's life started off flying high.
Four years later, after living with her elderly owner, Kika came to live with Adam and me when the owner died. Adam and I were a new couple, just starting to live together, and I had adjusted well to being with Adam and Shabbi. Although Kika had come around for "playdates" on many occasions, and I had even had an inkling we would eventually become her family, I was still a little shocked when it actually came to pass. After all, there wasn't a lot of love lost between us at first. Kika had not been exposed to other dogs or many other people when she lived with her first owner, so she growled, snarled and snapped whenever somebody (other than Adam or Shabbi) came close. Her nails were so long they curled over, but when I tried to cut them, she made a move to bite me. As a former dog groomer, I had very little tolerance for insolent dogs, so I became much more determined to get her nails cut, which of course, just made her angrier. Kika was also not housebroken, so we were left with many "gifts" all over our apartment when she moved in. It was an exercise in extreme patience to learn to live with her, and to try housebreaking and training her. Unlike Shabbi, Kika didn't necessarily aim to please, and so any moves toward training fell on deaf ears.
But then, things started to change. Kika began to learn from Shabbi that the appropriate place to relieve herself was outside, and so the accidents inside ceased. And Kika started to become friendlier toward me, too (which no doubt, was helped along by the fact that I was nicer toward her since she wasn't having accidents inside). We became a true family of four, enjoying evening walks at the park, weekend hikes and car rides to visit friends and family. Life was good. Then, in July 2000, Adam went away for two weeks of military service, leaving me alone with the girls for the first time. Within hours of his departure, I noticed that Shabbi seemed listless, refusing to eat but drinking relentlessly. At first, I thought she was just despondent over Adam's absence, but it soon became apparent something else was wrong. After taking her to three different veterinarians, we finally got a diagnosis of pyometra, or infection of the uterus. Her uterus--usually 7 ounces--at that point weighed 7 pounds and was near rupturing, which would have killed her. She went into surgery right away. I sat at home, paralyzed with fear for Shabbi's life, and feeling completely responsible for the fate of Adam's dog. But it was Kika who sat on my lap, licking my tears away, and trying to get me out of my stupor to play. She kept me going while Shabbi fought for her life. It took a crisis for Kika and me to realize we indeed were a family and loved one another.
In 2002, our family moved to Michigan to start a new life. Shabbi adapted to her new surroundings well; Kika resigned herself to the unfamiliar faces of our new friends and to the harsh winter weather. But, we eventually found lots of parks for evening and weekend visits, and we made trips around the state to see Michigan's natural wonders, and so even Kika fell into a groove. Both she and Shabbi accompanied me in the field during my graduate research, and I carry many fond memories of two summers living along the Au Sable River with my pups. In 2006, we started to notice that Shabbi, who had suffered from seizures for several months, seemed to have slipped into a permanent state of dementia. We were all confused and frustrated, but none more than Kika, who had lost her big sister and playmate. Then, in 2007, Adam deployed to Iraq for nine months, leaving me with Kika and a "not-quite-Shabbi." It was a difficult existence for us all, Shabbi pacing around the house, her legs faltering beneath her, and losing control of her bowels. I was stressed from constantly cleaning up after her and from not having Adam around to help. Kika was stressed by my stress and from loneliness. Life was tough. But that summer, I accepted a temporary position in Oregon conducting wildlife surveys for a fellow graduate student. I didn't know how I was going to handle the logistics of two dogs--one very ill--while I balanced work, but I knew that a move out of my surroundings was exactly what I needed. So we packed up and left.
It was wonderful, a summer of new sights, new people and new experiences. And I had my girls along to take it all in with me. Kika took care of me and Shabbi as much as I took care of her. For the first time in her life, she had become the alpha dog, and it suited her well. She groomed Shabbi and looked after her. And when Adam returned and the day came that we said good-bye to Shabbi, Kika was right there.
It was difficult for Kika to become the only dog; it's like she didn't quite know how to do it. We noticed that she seemed more anxious to please than she'd ever been in her life. It was heartbreaking to see her trying to understand death--the one thing most of us can't understand ourselves.
In April 2008, a straggly, pathetic grey cat appeared on our doorstep, and never left. We had never had a cat before, but our hearts were open to helping an animal with the pain of losing Shabbi so fresh. But we wondered how Kika would take to the cat we named Greg House. While Greg House was playful and deferential to her, Kika only tolerated him, giving no indication she was receptive to his friendly advances. At the same time, she never tried to attack him, and we suspect that she enjoyed having another animal in the house again.
The test of all tests was when, in May 2009, we welcomed Bryony into our world. Kika curled up next to me on the couch while I held and nursed the baby, more curious than jealous or bitter. When Bryony was able to crawl and walk around, Kika never so much as growled, even when Bryony was a bit too rough in her play. We were forever thankful for the good humor she displayed in her old age.
This last year was a tough one for our old girl, although we were thankful that she was able to spend it in Texas (she never did get used to the Michigan cold). She lost her ability to walk, stand, and even sit herself up long enough to eat. We became her caregivers, beyond what I had ever had to do for Shabbi. But we were willing to do whatever she needed us to, as long as she wasn't in pain. In the end, we determined that her quality of life--most of it spent lying on the couch, disengaged from the rest of the family, barking continuously--was diminished. We wanted to say good-bye to her while she had some dignity left; we couldn't keep her alive for ourselves.
Kika passed quickly and peacefully with her family surrounding her. It was devastating for us, but in our hearts we knew it was the right decision. For all that she gave to us, we wanted to give her the ending she deserved. We try to remember as we grieve that she led a wonderful life. Kika hit all four corners of this country--Seattle, WA; San Diego, CA; Key West, FL; and Kennebunkport, ME. She travelled to Crater Lake, the Redwood Forest, Yosemite NP, Yellowstone NP, the Grand Tetons, Mt. Rushmore, and the Upper Peninsula, to name a few. She loved to play with her sister Shabbi, with her dad and me. In her later years, she took on Shabbi's affinity for tennis balls. She loved peanut butter.
She was loved by her family and we will never forget her.
Good-bye, Kika girl.
17 April 1995 - 5 February 2011
Kika was born 17 April 1995 in Austin, Texas. There is a large flea market on the outskirts of Austin, that at the time housed a vendor that sold rat terrier puppies. Adam and his father flew down to Austin to buy two puppies--a male to mate with the family's female rat terrier, and another puppy to serve as a companion dog to an elderly friend of the family. Adam remembers a box full of pudgy, wiggly puppies, and from that box, they selected a male dog, Gizmo, and a female, Kika. 1995 was several years before the post-9/11 intensely secure screening procedures that are now commonplace at airports. So, it wasn't hard for Adam and his father to tuck the tiny puppies into their coat pockets and pass right through the metal detectors. Once on the plane, they placed the sleepy puppies on the empty seat between them and let them eat and sleep. Kika's life started off flying high.
Four years later, after living with her elderly owner, Kika came to live with Adam and me when the owner died. Adam and I were a new couple, just starting to live together, and I had adjusted well to being with Adam and Shabbi. Although Kika had come around for "playdates" on many occasions, and I had even had an inkling we would eventually become her family, I was still a little shocked when it actually came to pass. After all, there wasn't a lot of love lost between us at first. Kika had not been exposed to other dogs or many other people when she lived with her first owner, so she growled, snarled and snapped whenever somebody (other than Adam or Shabbi) came close. Her nails were so long they curled over, but when I tried to cut them, she made a move to bite me. As a former dog groomer, I had very little tolerance for insolent dogs, so I became much more determined to get her nails cut, which of course, just made her angrier. Kika was also not housebroken, so we were left with many "gifts" all over our apartment when she moved in. It was an exercise in extreme patience to learn to live with her, and to try housebreaking and training her. Unlike Shabbi, Kika didn't necessarily aim to please, and so any moves toward training fell on deaf ears.
But then, things started to change. Kika began to learn from Shabbi that the appropriate place to relieve herself was outside, and so the accidents inside ceased. And Kika started to become friendlier toward me, too (which no doubt, was helped along by the fact that I was nicer toward her since she wasn't having accidents inside). We became a true family of four, enjoying evening walks at the park, weekend hikes and car rides to visit friends and family. Life was good. Then, in July 2000, Adam went away for two weeks of military service, leaving me alone with the girls for the first time. Within hours of his departure, I noticed that Shabbi seemed listless, refusing to eat but drinking relentlessly. At first, I thought she was just despondent over Adam's absence, but it soon became apparent something else was wrong. After taking her to three different veterinarians, we finally got a diagnosis of pyometra, or infection of the uterus. Her uterus--usually 7 ounces--at that point weighed 7 pounds and was near rupturing, which would have killed her. She went into surgery right away. I sat at home, paralyzed with fear for Shabbi's life, and feeling completely responsible for the fate of Adam's dog. But it was Kika who sat on my lap, licking my tears away, and trying to get me out of my stupor to play. She kept me going while Shabbi fought for her life. It took a crisis for Kika and me to realize we indeed were a family and loved one another.
In 2002, our family moved to Michigan to start a new life. Shabbi adapted to her new surroundings well; Kika resigned herself to the unfamiliar faces of our new friends and to the harsh winter weather. But, we eventually found lots of parks for evening and weekend visits, and we made trips around the state to see Michigan's natural wonders, and so even Kika fell into a groove. Both she and Shabbi accompanied me in the field during my graduate research, and I carry many fond memories of two summers living along the Au Sable River with my pups. In 2006, we started to notice that Shabbi, who had suffered from seizures for several months, seemed to have slipped into a permanent state of dementia. We were all confused and frustrated, but none more than Kika, who had lost her big sister and playmate. Then, in 2007, Adam deployed to Iraq for nine months, leaving me with Kika and a "not-quite-Shabbi." It was a difficult existence for us all, Shabbi pacing around the house, her legs faltering beneath her, and losing control of her bowels. I was stressed from constantly cleaning up after her and from not having Adam around to help. Kika was stressed by my stress and from loneliness. Life was tough. But that summer, I accepted a temporary position in Oregon conducting wildlife surveys for a fellow graduate student. I didn't know how I was going to handle the logistics of two dogs--one very ill--while I balanced work, but I knew that a move out of my surroundings was exactly what I needed. So we packed up and left.
It was wonderful, a summer of new sights, new people and new experiences. And I had my girls along to take it all in with me. Kika took care of me and Shabbi as much as I took care of her. For the first time in her life, she had become the alpha dog, and it suited her well. She groomed Shabbi and looked after her. And when Adam returned and the day came that we said good-bye to Shabbi, Kika was right there.
It was difficult for Kika to become the only dog; it's like she didn't quite know how to do it. We noticed that she seemed more anxious to please than she'd ever been in her life. It was heartbreaking to see her trying to understand death--the one thing most of us can't understand ourselves.
In April 2008, a straggly, pathetic grey cat appeared on our doorstep, and never left. We had never had a cat before, but our hearts were open to helping an animal with the pain of losing Shabbi so fresh. But we wondered how Kika would take to the cat we named Greg House. While Greg House was playful and deferential to her, Kika only tolerated him, giving no indication she was receptive to his friendly advances. At the same time, she never tried to attack him, and we suspect that she enjoyed having another animal in the house again.
The test of all tests was when, in May 2009, we welcomed Bryony into our world. Kika curled up next to me on the couch while I held and nursed the baby, more curious than jealous or bitter. When Bryony was able to crawl and walk around, Kika never so much as growled, even when Bryony was a bit too rough in her play. We were forever thankful for the good humor she displayed in her old age.
This last year was a tough one for our old girl, although we were thankful that she was able to spend it in Texas (she never did get used to the Michigan cold). She lost her ability to walk, stand, and even sit herself up long enough to eat. We became her caregivers, beyond what I had ever had to do for Shabbi. But we were willing to do whatever she needed us to, as long as she wasn't in pain. In the end, we determined that her quality of life--most of it spent lying on the couch, disengaged from the rest of the family, barking continuously--was diminished. We wanted to say good-bye to her while she had some dignity left; we couldn't keep her alive for ourselves.
Kika passed quickly and peacefully with her family surrounding her. It was devastating for us, but in our hearts we knew it was the right decision. For all that she gave to us, we wanted to give her the ending she deserved. We try to remember as we grieve that she led a wonderful life. Kika hit all four corners of this country--Seattle, WA; San Diego, CA; Key West, FL; and Kennebunkport, ME. She travelled to Crater Lake, the Redwood Forest, Yosemite NP, Yellowstone NP, the Grand Tetons, Mt. Rushmore, and the Upper Peninsula, to name a few. She loved to play with her sister Shabbi, with her dad and me. In her later years, she took on Shabbi's affinity for tennis balls. She loved peanut butter.
She was loved by her family and we will never forget her.
Good-bye, Kika girl.
17 April 1995 - 5 February 2011
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