Dive trip to Grenada February 2016

This is how we celebrated my 60th! A lionfish hunt and bbq on the beach, a shark dive in rough water that went awry (but I saw a big shark) then some wreck diving at 125' and lots of relaxing zen type dives just meandering through coral gardens and checking out the wildlife.

Sculpture Garden Grenada

Garry

Porcupine fish

Banded butterflyfish?

baby sea turtle

Stingray

black spotted moray eel

Blue chromis?

octopus playing hide and seek

sleeping nurse shark

old turtle below Doug

Garry recovering after herding the turtle

spotted trunkfish

Lionfish- the hand signal for these is a firing gun, because it's an invasive species

scrawled filefish?

Conch - delicious raw or in fritters

blue striped grunts?

Spotted drum

French Angelfish

Garry at the Bianca C.

Dave

Sandals La Source Grenada

Dear Buddy

How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.  

Winnie the Pooh

With the possible exception of squirrels, Buddy never met a human or animal he didn’t like. When I brought him home as a puppy, I promised to love and protect him until the end of his days. As he matured, and I use the term loosely, the Budster developed quirks that were exasperating and endearing in equal measure. He snored like a rusty chainsaw; I kept balled-up socks to bop him when it went sonic. Separation anxiety was a challenge; he literally lived in my shadow. If left alone, he’d wiggle into the couch cushions like the filling in a taco, or shred paper in paroxysms of grief. He wouldn’t walk on wet grass, or drink water from anything but a glass bowl. He loved to perform tricks, especially feigning death by gunshot if you pointed a finger, betrayed only by a twitching tail. All guests were treated like new toys; he’d jump on their legs, and lick any exposed skin. As my friend put it, “The first lick is a kiss, but after that, they’re just flavour licks.”

At eleven years old, Buddy was deaf and he struggled with stairs, but his appetite for food and play were undiminished. So when I was told last spring he had cancer, I was shocked. In a cruel twist of fate, my husband was also diagnosed with cancer the same week. My husband's cancer was treatable and his future is positive, but Buddy's tumour was aggressive. Treatment was mentioned; it wouldn't cure him, only prolong his life briefly, and at a terrible cost. This would only benefit me, not him. I asked if we'd get one more summer together at the lake, and was told no, he wouldn't make it to the summer, let alone through it.

Maybe it was his obstinate nature, or high tolerance for pain, or his love for me and cottage life, but as we anxiously watched for signs of decline, he ambled through June, then July, seemingly the same old Buddy. I gave him the best summer I could, fearing each day would be his last. Someone said, "don't mourn your dog before he's gone" so I didn't. He ate, he played, and he was even there to comfort me when my husband underwent his cancer surgery on our 30th wedding anniversary last August.

By mid-September, I brought Buddy to the cottage one last time. He ate raw beef, fetched sticks from the lake, rolled in dirt under sun-warmed cedars, and sprawled on the forbidden couch beside me.

I had a date for home euthanasia, which literally means "gentle death" but when the day arrived, I panicked. He seemed so happy, still had an appetite and bright eyes, The vet walked into our home and Buddy, the jumper, the licker, just sat before him. The doctor kneeled, and their eyes locked for several minutes, in silence. After a thorough exam, he said quietly, "His heart is very weak, he's in a lot of pain. I believe he's hanging on for you. It's time." 

I loved Buddy enough to let him go, and he died peacefully in my arms a short time later.

His snores no longer fill our bedroom each night. Who knew I would miss that so much? When I open the front door, he is no longer waiting for me, tail swishing in full circles. I found his stuffed monkey the other day, and was undone. There are now crumbs on the floor because my canine Hoover is gone. I have spent more time with him in the past few years than anyone else, and the pain feels like repeated punches to the head and heart. I bagged his leash, his sweaters and beds, but I've yet to throw them out. He was cremated, but I can't bring myself to collect his ashes. I forget sometimes and reach under the table with a morsel of chicken, and I'm surprised when he isn't there to take it from my hand. My family, and those who have read about his antics over the years, miss his gentle spirit and goofy charm.

I mourn his loss, yet choose to remember all those summer nights we sat together on the screened-in porch watching the sun dip below the hills. The loons would call goodnight across the water, and Buddy would yawn and sprawl on my feet, keeping them warm. He was content simply to be with me, and I with him. My grief is raw and relentless, yet I'm so glad to have had these years with him, and I wouldn't trade them for anything.

You are missed, little guy, and you were loved. Saying goodbye was hard, but oh, my sweet dog, how lucky I was to have known you. 

Buddy, February 1st 2004 - September  14th, 2015  

Christmas 2015

Just to bring everyone up to speed.

Doug was diagnosed with thyroid cancer late May of this year. He had no symptoms, and they actually found the cancer while having a look at his heart (which is fine, more than fine, it's SUPER fine, because as Doug keeps reminding me, his doctor said "wow, you have the heart of an Olympic athlete.")
He had his thyroid surgery on August 24th (yup, our 30th wedding anniversary, proving God has a warped sense of humour) and while it slowed him down (first time anything has) he recovered really well. 

The next step was the restricted diet - no iodine, i.e., no iodized salt or sea salt, no dairy, no egg yolks, no fish, seafood etc. He lost ten pounds in 2 weeks which he claims has improved his hockey game, so SILVER LINING. Next, the radioactive iodine treatment in hospital, which he got last Tuesday. Following this, he has to be in total isolation because he's radioactive, so he drove up to our lakeside cabin with books, art supplies, cards, laptop, his keyboard and lots of food.

I'm on standby in case he runs out of anything or if he forgot anything (but I'll have to knock, lob it at him and run away into the woods.) He'll be back home on Sunday, so we will have our Christmas dinner when he returns.

He doesn't have Internet access in the cabin, so let me thank you all on his behalf for the many kindnesses and shown to us and all your good wishes. We really are very lucky. That being said, I will be really happy to kick 2015 to the curb.

Here's to a happy, healthy new year in 2016!

Fall in Montreal, Lake vs City

My favourite sign continues to deteriorate

Buddy is Home

I collected Buddy's ashes today. Such a small box to contain a dog with such an oversized personality. I'll be honest, it was difficult being there. A family was leaving as I arrived, grief etched on their faces, so my composure dissolved before I'd even walked through the door. But the women who worked there were lovely, hugs and Kleenex were passed around, and I got through it. They really are angels, doing the work they do. It's so appreciated by those of us who are grieving and not quite in our right minds.

As I drove away, I looked down at the clock and it read 11:11. (My sisters and I joke that when we see 11:11 on the clock, it's our Nana saying hello from the other side.)

Hi to you too, Budster. You're home now, little guy.