Buddy, our Psycho Pup

It started with the purple pansies.  That’s when we realized there was something wrong with Buddy.  He didn’t seem to be a wild thing when we first saw him at the Puppy Barn.  He was a cute little guy, very friendly and sweet with adoring soft brown eyes and a silly puppy grin.  How could we resist him?  We couldn’t and brought him home.  So began our adventures with Psycho Puppy.

He seemed to be normal at first.  I called him Buddy instinctively.  He’ll make a great pal for TB and me and the kids.  Buddy wanted to be around us all the time.  He loved to play and seemed to have unending energy.  We were sad when we said “good night” to the little guy and put him in the crate we’d bought, following expert advice that this was humane and practical.

Buddy barked all night.  During the first hour, I thought he’d lose his voice.  He was barking just as much the second hour.  I put the pillow over my head.  TB turned the fan on high.  We slept peacefully through the night.  The kids, on the other hand, spent the night listening to the puppy yip and carry on.  I guess I should have realized it then that his endurance for barking was a bit high, but I just figured he missed his litter mates.  After a couple of days, Buddy got used to the routine and stopped barking all night long. 

We settled into a routine.  After TB left for work and the kids left for school, I would go out in the backyard for a while and throw a ball for Buddy.  He didn’t especially enjoy playing catch, much to my disappointment.  He wanted to play chase.  I was too old and too fat to chase an energetic puppy so I just walked after him.  He seemed to like that and was very happy with it.  Meanwhile, I was wearing out trying to keep up with him.

Buddy was totally terrorizing the cats.  They were very interested in him at first but as he grew larger and more aggressive, they would run at his approach.  He’d chase them all around the house and when he failed to catch them, he’d look for something else to grab:  a potholder, a pencil, a shoe, and he especially loved to grab kitchen towels.

TB tried to take him in hand.

The bigger Buddy got, the harder it was to make him listen.  He was a very strong willed pup and had decided that everything in the house belonged to him, that he was entitled to attention and playmates around the clock.  The moment we’d turn our back on him, he’d be in the kitchen yanking towels off the rack or in the bedroom dragging socks out of the hamper.

He’d prance in front of TB and me, wiggling his rump and grinning.  It was as if he was saying, “Look what I have!  Nyah, nyah!”

Approaching him slowly, we’d say, “Buddy, give!”

He would wait until we were just in reach and bolt away.  Our house is laid out so that he can run in circles forever if we don’t have another human to help us catch him.  He’d do it, too, circling and tossing his head triumphantly.  It’s a good thing he could stay out of reach.

Okay, he was an active puppy.  He must need more exercise!  We sent him out to play.  He was back in five minutes, throwing himself against the door and barking.  He didn’t want to be left alone out there.  Well, we couldn’t spend all day out there with him either and so we’d go out for a while, play with him, and then come back into the house.  He’d begin throwing himself at the door again, barking non-stop.

We’d bring him back indoors.  We had other things to do so we’d put him in his crate until we could attend to him again.  His crate was in the family room, an open “home” and he could hear and see us as we went about our chores.  He wasn’t satisfied with that, though, and he went to barking again.  I’m not sure what decibels barking reaches but I can say it’s enough to make you go mad … and deaf. 

I began to feel rather frustrated with Buddy.  What did he expect from us?  We were giving him as much attention as we could and he was never satisfied.  It was never enough; he always wanted more.  I remembered other dogs I’d had.  None of the other dogs carried on the way Buddy did.  All my other puppies managed to get through separation anxiety just fine.  They could amuse themselves without needing me to be caring for them every waking minute of their days.  TB said the same thing. Buddy must be spoiled.  He had to learn that we couldn’t respond to him as quickly as he demanded.  He had to learn that sometimes he’d just have to amuse himself.

He didn’t want to get it.  He would begin barking within 5 minutes of being put outside or in the crate.  It was like trying to go to the bathroom and putting the baby in the playpen.  Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!  Loud barking is more unnerving than baby screeches.

We weren’t happy to let him out of the crate when we were busy; he’d grab something and run with it.    It didn’t matter if we “puppy-proofed”.  He’d jump up to grab something off the counter.  Then he’d start that “nyah nyah” game again.  We did not always find it so amusing to play ring-around-the-house with Buddy, especially if he was running with a pilfered sock or towel.

When he began barking in the crate, we’d wait until he was quiet for a few seconds, gathering his second wind.  We’d run over to let him out of the crate then, trying to reinforce his good behavior (not barking).  That didn’t work.

“He probably just needs to be neutered,” friends and family advised us. 

That couldn’t happen until he was six months out.

We counted the days and then joyfully brought him to the vet’s office.  Buddy had to stay overnight and then he’d go home in the afternoon.  It was wonderfully quiet and peaceful in the house.  How peaceful!

The vet had a story for us when we arrived to pick up our newly neutered puppy.  “We put him in the ‘executive suite’ but he didn’t appreciate the accommodations.  He chewed the blanket to shreds.”

Oops.

Neutering Buddy didn’t calm him much.  If anything, he became more creatively vindictive.  Now we come to the pansies.

TB bought four flats of purple and white mixed pansies for me.  He bought some window boxes and screwed two of them into the back of the house.  We planted two of the flats and set the other two on top of our deck.  We meant to plant them later.

We went inside for lunch, leaving Buddy outside.  TB happened to look out the window just as Buddy was knocking one of the flats to the floor of the deck.

“NO!”

We ran outside and managed to catch Buddy, who acted as if he knew darn well what he’d done was wrong.  Not only had he knocked one of the flats over, he’d also uprooted the pansies we’d just planted in one of the flower boxes!  We were able to rescue the pansies in the flat; the planted ones were too shredded to be saved.  I felt my eyes fill with tears.  After that, Buddy expressed his displeasure by pulling the dryer vent off the house, chewing through our cable and telephone lines, and mangling our garden hose.

He needed to be watched … always and whenever he was out of the crate.

We needed to address the barking problem too.  We tried shaking a can full of coins when he barked.  That helped for a day.  We tried “Quiet!” and “No!” which was totally ineffective.  He didn’t mind being sprayed with water at all.  We hated to do it but the only thing left to try was a bark collar.

The bark collar is designed to deliver a low shot of electricity when the dog woofs.  If he persists, the shot gets stronger.  It’s also designed to go back to the original low dose if the dog is quiet for a while.  We set it on low and it did seem to work at first.  Within a short time, though, Buddy didn’t seem to mind the shocks either.  He was barking non-stop again. 

We had to try a higher setting.  That worked better.  He’d go “woof!” and then his body would jerk as the jolt would course through his stubborn body.  The collar quieted him a little but it didn’t stop him.  In fact, he seemed to enjoy shocking himself it that’s possible.

What now?  We realized he was too much for us to handle and began to consider giving him up for adoption.

TB’s daughter Michelle was horrified and so were the kids.  “He’s just a baby!”  Michelle exclaimed.

“Yes, but he’s too destructive and too vindictive.  We can’t control him!”

“Well, you wouldn’t give me away would you?”

“But you’re not a dog!”

We felt guilty.  Everyone seemed to think that Buddy just needed more attention and exercise.  We’d try to explain we played with him often and gave him affection; he just wanted it around the clock and that was impossible.  The kids would talk him for walks and play with him in the back yard.  They tired; he didn’t.  We felt like “abusive” parents.

When we went away on a trip, TB’s daughter  Michelle volunteered to have Buddy stay at her house while we were gone.  When we got back, she let us know she’d be glad to let Buddy out of the crate at our house next time we went away.

“Oh-oh, what happened?”

It seemed that even having two dogs and seven kids to play with at Michelle’s wasn’t enough for Buddy.  When all the children were busy and the other two dogs too tired to play, Buddy would search for something to destroy.  He chewed all of the kids’ pool toys.  I’m glad he didn’t destroy the pool!  He’d also pull socks and towels off the clothes line and enticed the other dogs to play tug-of-war with him.  I wondered if we had the canine equivalent of Damian.

          What finally calmed our psycho pup?  Age.  As he got older, he wasn’t as interested in pilfering anything in sight and running with it.  He was happy to settle down with us as we sat and read or watched TV.  We were able to trust him out of the crate when we weren’t home or when we were sleeping.  He became the good, loving dog we’d wanted.

          Buddy passed away suddenly and at home.  He’d lived many years and the vet always reported that he was healthy after his yearly exam.  Early one morning, I came out of the bedroom and found him lying in the hall.  His breathing was very labored and I knew something was very wrong.  I woke TB and son Bill.  The vet’s office wasn’t open but there was an emergency animal hospital about 20 miles away.

          We gathered around Buddy to comfort him.  Bill and TB were going to lift him and put him in the van but our pup let out a groan and stopped breathing.  Bill tried doggie CPR but Buddy was gone.  I woke the girls so they could come down and spend time with Buddy.

          He was our psycho pup and we’d loved him.  We have not been able to bring ourselves to bring in another dog.  Buddy was one of a kind.

Angels Around Us

 

I've been in medical situations a few times that scared me.  When I was the one who was sick, even deathly ill, I never felt afraid.  I didn’t feel a need to reach out to God because I believed He was watching over me.  It was different when my husband Rich was hospitalized.

Soon after our son, Billy, was born,  my late first husband Rich developed a cold with a deep cough that wouldn't go away. I begged him and begged him to go to a doctor but he’d stubbornly refuse.  “It’s just a cold!” he insisted.  It sounded like he was gargling with water when he talked.

 

I’d heard a voice like that before.  My 70 year old uncle spoke to me in a gargly voice after church one day.  “What’s wrong with your voice?”  I’d asked.

 

He’d sighed and answered, “It’s heart failure.  My lungs are filled up with fluid.”

He added quickly, “I’m taking medicine for it.”

 

My uncle’s face had been ashen and I remembered I hadn’t felt very convinced about the effectiveness of the medicine.

 

Rich became weaker throughout the summer and early fall.  We loved to take walks before Billy was born.  Now I’d have to stop and wait for Rich, who’d grab onto the stairs going up to our apartment and gasp for breath.  He’s only 27, I thought.  He’s tall and strong with long legs – I shouldn’t be able to outwalk him!

He finally went to the doctor, who had an X-ray taken of Rich’s lungs.  After he looked at the films, the doctor explained that Rich’s heart was enlarged.  He sent us to the emergency room at Laurel-Beltsville Hospital. When the cardiologist came to tell me what was going on, I guessed, “Is it congestive heart failure?”

 

“Yes,” the doctor answered.  He asked questions about Rich’s medical history and shook his head, puzzled.  “I don’t understand why someone so young would have heart failure.  I want him to go to Johns Hopkins Hospital.” 

 

When Rich was discharged, the cardiologist gave me medical records to take to Johns Hopkins.  I couldn't help myself--I peeked. At the top of the record it stated that Rich should be considered for the transplant list! I was shocked to the core. I hadn't realized myself how very serious this was.

 

At prestigious Johns Hopkins, the doctors ran some tests and realized that Rich had Marfan Syndrome.  We'd never heard of it before. A doctor from genetics came to the room and explained it. Marfan syndrome is a congenital disorder of connective tissue. So anywhere there is connective tissue (lungs, heart, eyes, you name it) there is the potential of aneurysms and other problems. In Rich’s case, his aortic valve had become stretched out and was causing blood to flow back into his heart chamber.

 

“He needs to have surgery now,” Dr. Baughmann, the surgeon, explained. 

There was a new surgical procedure which had only been tried a few times before. Rich's aortic valve would be replaced with a mechanical valve. Then part of aorta itself would also be removed, replaced with a reformed graft and then the aortic root would be regrafted onto his heart. Rich was scheduled to go into the hospital for surgery on Dec. 27th, 1987.

I phoned my parents using Relay to tell them what was going on and to ask them to come and stay with Billy, who was only about 6 months old. They came, albeit grudgingly, the night before the surgery. When I got up at 4, my parents were already up.  “Why do you need to leave so early?”  my father asked in American Sign Language.

 

I couldn’t it!  “So that I can be with Rich before the operation.”

 

“Yes, but he has nurses to take care of him, doesn’t he?  Why do you have to go so early?”

 

I still couldn’t believe my eyes.  Numbly I asked, “And what if this is the last time I’ll talk to him or hold him?” My dad had no answer for that.

I was in the hospital waiting room for hours and hours. I had a cross stitch that I worked on. “God, please take care of Rich and guide Dr. Baughmann’s hands.”  It was the longest day of my life. I didn't leave until I saw Rich being taken to the recovery room. It was scary to see him like that, his eyes shut and intubated. He was alive and I thanked God.

Rich did well during the recovery period after the surgery and was eventually released from the hospital the second or third week of January, 1988. When we went back to Hopkins for a six week follow-up, though, Dr. Baughmann wasn’t very enthusiastic about Rich's prognosis although he sort of "danced" around the subject. It was obvious he was waiting for someone to ask him the question (“what are his chances, Doc?”), but neither of us did.

After we got home and Rich went to bed, though, I stewed and stewed about it. I had a secret--I knew I was pregnant again. So I called the doctor and asked him to tell me the truth. The doctor sighed and said, "I would estimate his life expectancy to be five years or less. I would not buy a house or have any more children with your husband. I'm sorry." That was it.

Well, I had asked.

I didn't have anyone to turn to in Maryland. The family I loved was in New York, and because Rich had been out of work for so long, we couldn't afford the phone anymore. Rich was able to collect disability but it was only 1/4 of his salary. We then got a bill from the health insurance company that if we wanted to continue with benefits, we'd have to foot the whole bill.

I was already making decisions about which was more important: formula or heart medicine? We didn't really know many people in the neighborhood and I hadn't been in a church since we moved from New York. As for my parents--they'd made it clear that Rich's condition and our need for them to babysit our son so I could visit Rich was a major imposition on their lifestyle and that I was "taking advantage" of them.

One night, I especially felt all alone. The baby started crying, and I went into the room and picked him up from the crib and just held on to him, trying to comfort him. I started to cry myself. I didn't know what I was going to do or how I could go on knowing Rich might die at any time. And here I was, pregnant again to boot!

It was dark in the room. All of a sudden I felt arms around me and I just about jumped out of my skin, I was so scared. And I "heard" a voice say, "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. I'm going to stay with you. You'll be all right." I stopped crying and thought, what is this?. I must be losing my mind for sure! All I "heard" was "You're not alone, I'm with you now, everything will be all right." It felt like someone was hugging me and my baby. I started to relax then and to feel comforted.

A day or two later, my cousin Mary called out of the blue. She'd come to Maryland from New York, had heard from an aunt that Rich had had surgery and wanted to come over. She came over with boxes of food and clothes for the baby. She'd also brought money that she collected from relatives in New York. I was so relieved.

Rich was too weak to care for Billy during the day while I was supposed to work. I was missing time and was afraid I would be fired. The health insurance was willing to pay for a nurse to come and check up on Rich but would have absolutely nothing to do with helping him care for a baby. Mary said she could do it for a few days.

As she was leaving, she said: "By the way, I just want you to know that I prayed for you and Rich and Billy. I imagined the three of you in a circle and the angels standing around you, their wings enfolding you in an embrace."

Wow! That sent chills through me! I hadn't told her what happened and so she didn't know about what happened to me. I'd heard of angel stories before. I believe in angels and although I was confused at first, when I realized what was happening I was comforted by the presence of the hugging angel. I didn't feel scared anymore.

All that week, I started getting checks from other relatives. Rich's sister called from Pennsylvania and said she would come and stay with us two weeks to help us out. When his father found out what my parents did, he took off two weeks from work to come down and help us. We were still struggling, don't get me wrong, it wasn't all of a sudden we were rolling in dough, but we also weren't in danger of being evicted or Rich being unmedicated or the baby neglected or anything like that anymore.

The doctor didn't want me to tell Rich I was pregnant; he thought Rich would be depressed. When Rich's sister came in February, she had happy news to share--she was going to have another baby. I'd been keeping this secret of mine for a month and all of a sudden I blurted it out that I was, too. Rich began to cry because he was so happy.

Here's the kicker: just before I was due to give birth to Heidi in September of 1988, we had to go see Dr. Baughmann for another visit. He did a physical exam and his eyes popped. He didn't say anything. He had Rich go for an echocardiogram (standard) and then he'd speak to us. When he did, he was obviously shaken. He said it was like looking at a different heart. "I can't explain it to you," he said. "It's like a miracle."

Rich's heart had gotten smaller -- not to its normal size as hoped for but still better than it was before.

 

We didn’t really need any explanation for what happened.  Rich’s angel was the baby due very soon.  Rich called her his “miracle”.    Mary sent our angels with her prayers.  With them came comfort and help and a great deal of love.

A Kid In Control

 

If I had to choose just one issue I’ve struggled with almost my entire life, it is that I have no control over anything … except for my own behavior, maybe.  It’s a struggle because what I need to have most is control over everything – the health and safety and well being of my loved ones and me.  I think I’m getting it.  It’s taken a long time.

All during my growing up years, I heard from family and friends:

You’re such a good girl.  You’ll take care of your parents.

You’re lucky.  You have such a nice family!

Your parents will always need you.  You have a big responsibility.

My parents were deaf.  They also drank to excess.  Just having deaf parents can make a coda (child of deaf adults) codependent.  There’s a whole slew of issues discussed in a book called Mother Father Deaf (by Paul Preston).  There’s another whole slew of issues discussed in It Will Never Happen to Me (by Claudia Black).  The issues are just about the same on both lists.

I interpreted for my parents from a young age.  I didn’t always understand what people were telling me.  I couldn’t admit that!  My parents need me to tell them what was going on!   Sometimes I could guess the concepts I didn’t understand pretty accurately.  The easiest things to understand were movie and TV storylines.  The doctor was pretty clear too, most of the time.  I did parent-teacher conferences too.  Well, I didn’t interpret everything, but definitely all the good stuff.  The bad stuff could always be “dressed up” a bit so that it didn’t upset or confuse my parents.

Other times it was a disaster.  When I was 10, we moved from New York to Maryland.  My parents rented our house to people who didn’t pay their rent.  Before we could get them evicted, we fell far behind in mortgage payments and the bank foreclosed on the house.  I know all this now; then, I had no idea what was happening.  My uncle, in New York, who was acting on behalf of my parents explained to me that the house was “in escrow”.  Escrow?  What was that?  I tried to ask my uncle and he gave me a lot of gobble-de-gook.  My father began to get upset because of the look on my face.  So I quickly got rid of the puzzled expression, took control, and calmly explained that our house was being put into a cage – which was where crows in captivity lived.  Well … we never got our house out of the cage anyway.

It was really important for me to stay on top of things so everything would operate smoothly.  Who had time for kid stuff like jump rope?  I was negotiating on my parents’ behalf when my brother got into trouble at school.  He forged absence notes.  The principal called me down to Pete’s classroom at the end of the school day.  The teacher had already confronted my brother.  She wanted to call our parents and he told her no, we don’t have a phone and they’re deaf and it’s better to talk to my sister.  I gave my brother the proper parental glares as the teacher and principal explained the gravity of Pete’s transgressions.  I promised to tell my parents and promised it would never happen again.  I yelled at my brother all the way home.  I told my mother what happened, said it was taken care of, and went outside to play.  Well … I did like hopscotch.  I was still only 10.

I learned a lot of stuff about everything when I was a kid.  There’s a lot that goes on in the world that kids are usually protected from.  When you have deaf parents, though, you have to set squeamish or uncomfortable feelings aside.  How else are the deaf parents going to know what to do?  How else are they going to know what is going on?  Looking back, the hardest things I had to set my feelings aside for was deaths in the family.  It’s hard to tell your parents someone has died when you’re crying hysterically.  It’s also hard to stay calm when you’re hearing that people you’ve loved all your life are gone.

Pete’s appendix ruptured not too long after we moved to Maryland.  He was doubled over with pain, and my parents brought him to one emergency room.  A lady asked me about insurance, I asked my dad, and he answered honestly that he’d just started working as a printer for the paper and he wouldn’t have insurance for another month.  Next thing I knew, we were leaving and going to another hospital.  When the lady asked about insurance, I knew the answer.  Normally in a situation like that, I’d answer for my dad but … there was something about what had happened that made me not do it.  I asked him the question and he lied, straight faced.  A few days later, Pete was recovering nicely and someone came to the room to talk to us about the bill.  He was really angry that my father said we had insurance and we didn’t.  “Oh,” I spoke up.  “I thought she said ‘so you DON’T have insurance’.”  Somehow I knew that man would not be as angry with a little kid and I was right.

I developed some very strange beliefs when my parents started drinking.  Usually they’d start fighting with each other.  I thought that I could change that if I could keep them happy enough.  I could clean the house, make the dinner, wash and dry the dishes and keep the “chat” happy and light.  It seemed to work most of the time but not always.  When it didn’t, I believed it was because I’d screwed it up somehow.  I had some other magical thinking too.  They bowled on a league every week and after the games, they’d go to the bar.  My father almost always drove under the influence.  I was way too scared to get in the car with them but I believed that as long as I stayed up and didn’t sleep, they’d be fine.  I’d get tired around midnight and I’d keep looking out the window to see if their car was coming.  Once it pulled into the drive, I could go to bed and go to sleep.

I think the struggle to control everything started back then, even before my parents began drinking.  If I could manipulate people and events in a certain way, there was less upset to our family.  Being a kid, I didn’t see how complicated and impossible it is to try and control everything.  I was trying to be a puppet master but not only did I not know how to work the strings correctly, not all of my puppets had strings to begin with!  Kids don’t see all that.  They just see something that works – no matter how screwed up or tenuous it is!  If it works, it’s worth doing again … until you don’t know any other way of getting by.  That’s the part that is the most frustrating … what I learned worked as a kid stopped working when I became an adult. 

Now what was I supposed to do?  Unlearn everything I’d mastered in 18 years? 

This is the frustrating part:  you never totally unlearn it.  It takes a lot of work to even move in a different direction, a different way of responding.  I had to WANT to make a change.