The other piece of the tale

The other part of my fishing trip involves our dog Tommy, but first, the funny part.
When we got Molly last year, we liked to watch them play. Despite her being about three and Tommy about eleven, they did play. Molly used to run up to him, jump on his back, then start chewing on his ears and neck. Kinda reminded me of a young woman I once dated, but I digress.
As Tommy has gotten older, he plays with Molly less.

Two weeks before my fishing trip, Tommy suddenly started limping. His back legs seemed sore. We shortened the daily walk, but it got worse. So we took him to the vet and the vet gave him a shot of an NSAID and he got a little better. He had been on a low dose of aspirin and a glucosamine powder for the winter, just to keep him limber during the cold months.
The steps off the back deck were short, with two eight-inch drops. Tommy had difficulty going down and required help getting up. I built new steps that only dropped four inches and were two feet wide and a foot and a half deep. Tommy could manage them with only a little difficulty.
This worked for a week and then Tuesday morning Tommy could not get up. His back legs just didn’t work, he didn’t wag his tail and he wasn’t ticklish when you rubbed his tummy by his back legs. We suspected Molly had jumped on his back once too often, for there were times we heard him bark at her!
I rigged a sling to help get him up and walk him around, but he didn’t get better. Thursday morning I took him in to the vet again. It was obvious from the pinch tests, that Tommy had little or no feeling in his back end. However, he still had bladder and poop control. The vet gave me several options. The vet said that at Tommy’s age, it could be a number of things; a growth on his spine, an injury, arthritis or a degenerating vertebra. Sure, we could have X-rays taken, go see a specialist, spend lots of money to find out that there really isn’t much that they could do. Sure, if he was just a few years old, it might be worth it. But Tommy is an old dog.
I opted for another shot of a stronger NSAID, watch him and look up where to buy a doggy wheelchair, or make one.
For Tommy was still a happy dog. Wanted to go for his walks, patrolled the yard, barked at strangers and most importantly, did not appear to be in pain. But it was tough to watch him drag his butt around the room.
I was to leave for my fishing trip the next morning.

I got up early for my fishing trip, dreading leaving Tommy and also leaving WG to take care of him if things got worse. We didn’t talk much about what to do if he got worse, no one likes to talk about that!
But Tommy got himself up, and with the help of the sling, I got him outside to do his business. He seemed a little better, but I worried. The guys arrived and I gave Tommy an extra goodbye.
Five hours later, we were at Chester and I called WG, because the campsite had no cell phone coverage.
Tommy was doing better. He could get up and walk a little, but he still needed the sling to help him stay up.

It was nice being isolated at the campsite, but I worried. For I have always been the one to do the final caretaking of our dogs. The first time, with Celeste, WG and our son went with us, but WG just couldn’t stay and our son eventually had to leave also.
For our last dog Barney, I just went myself.
It’s tough to sit there next to your dog, waiting for the vet to give him the last shot. You pet your dog and he looks at you, trusting you to take care of him, you nod to the vet and the needle slides in, the plunger goes down. Slowly, the eyes seem to cloud over and his breathing slows, then stops.
I was not sure how I managed to make it out of there, nor drive home. Everybody Hurts by REM was on the radio and all the road signs were fuzzy.

So as I tried to fish and joke with the guys, but a pallor hung over the trip. I went through town once on Sunday and my cell phone said there were no messages. I was glad, hopeful, but could not bear to call.

On Monday, we headed home. I called WG when we passed through town and Tommy was much better. He no longer needed to use the sling, but still had trouble getting around.
I almost cried when I got home and Tommy met me at the door.

Several times since then, WG and I have talked a little about it. We both knew what might have to be done, if Tommy didn’t get better, but neither of us could say it at the time.

Tommy loves his walks and knows when they are. He knows when we are getting ready, no matter how we hide what we are doing. He knows when we take Molly without him.
A week later, I took him for his first walk. Walk to the next house, turn around, walk back. Several days later, two houses; then three. Bit by bit, slow progress.

It has been about seven weeks now and I take him and Molly for walk first thing in the morning. The same old routine that Tommy expects.
Only for one block and it is a short one. We have kept his weight down and he seems to be his old self again. A little limpy at times, but he is old. We take Molly for a separate, longer walk and Tommy knows.

We figure he will be about twelve in September and as long as we can keep Molly from jumping on him, I think he will last many more years.

A piece of tail

At the end of May, the guys and I went on our annual fishing trip to Northern California. Now we always joke that there are no girls allowed, or that it is an estrogen-free zone; but the truth of the matter is, that most women just don’t want to come.
No showers for four days, pit toilets that never smell good and no shopping. Just not a girl’s idea of fun.
And that’s okay.
The camp broke into two groups. The younger, noisy guys in their twenties and the older guys who aren’t going to stay up late partying and drinking (as much). Friday afternoon was just spent getting the camp set up and since the fishing season did not open for the creek next to the camp until Saturday; we drove to another creek and practiced fishing there.
A few hours later, we got back to camp and had a nice leisurely dinner. I had caught one fish, a small 9 incher.
We had been hearing strange noises from the next campsite and as we made dinner and ate it, we watched. There were girls in the next campsite.
Not your ordinary girls, it turns out, but six twelve to fourteen-year-olds. Yes, a gaggle of giggles.
While us older guys toned it down a little, we warned the younger guys to watch their language a little. No, it did not help much.
You could hear the girls giggling long into the night. The rest of the weekend was going to be fun.
Early Saturday morning, Fishing Buddy’s wife arrived with their son(T1) and his friend(T2). And the fun really began, for they are almost fourteen.
Oh yes, the gaggle spotted them right away, for they are good looking boys. A lot of the fun was just watching the girls watch the boys, watching the girls. Oh yes, we teased the boys. ‘Go talk to them. The one in yellow looks kinda cute, and she has been watching you.’ Stuff like that. T2 said he wasn’t interested because he had a girlfriend. I asked him, if that was so, then why was he always combing his hair? He just smiled.
The outhouses and the trash cans were just passed our camp, so the gaggle of giggles had to pass us to use them.
The girls always seemed to need to use the outhouse, or they had to dump the trash. Amusing, isn’t it, how it takes four girls to throw away a bottle. Then fifteen minutes later, two other girls had to throw away a bottle.
The boys were shy, and despite us older guys teasing them and telling them what they should do; ‘after all, it’s just the weekend T2 and your girl will never know if you steal a kiss’; but also we remember being young and shy.
‘Dudes, just go over and talk to them. You don’t have to choose which one you like, they will choose for you!’ “Dudes, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel!’

Saturday morning and we start fishing the creek. Most of the good spots were filled, so I tried a few odd places with no luck. I didn’t want my line tangled with others and I like my solitude while I fish.
I found a little spot between some bushes with just enough room to cast my line. The river wasn’t running too fast, so I could cast out my line and let the salmon egg bait just bounce down the creek and flow under the bushes that hung over the water. Nice spot, because the rocks didn’t eat my bait and the bushes didn’t snag my line. Quite easy fishing.
In ten minutes, I had caught a nice twelve-inch rainbow trout. Some bait got nibbled off, then another fish on the line. No time to ponder life’s mysteries, every time my line floated to a certain spot, I got a nibble!
In an hour I had four fish and there was still a bait stealer eating the little red eggs off my hook. I stayed another hour, carefully practicing my casting, (yes, I need a lot of practice!) I finally got the little bastard, though I am sure there were more. And I was done for the day. The daily limit was five and I had five nice ones, all between ten and thirteen inches.
Now my personal best for the annual fishing trip is six and I had equaled that. I felt pretty darn good.
Better yet, when I climbed up the bank and walked back to camp, I met one of the locals who had fished that same spot earlier in the morning; he got nothing!

I didn’t catch another fish the rest of the trip, but that’s okay, I made my limit that day. Other’s in our group fished the spot and caught a few. We teased the boys the rest of the weekend and despite our prodding, they never got one of the giggles on their line. But they never did bait their hooks, nor toss in a line.
The girls will be there next year and I hope T1 & T2 come also. It is so much fun to watch the interaction between them.