Saturday, August 23, 2014

The Gazebo Inn; The Best Part of My Summer Vacation

My wife and I were fortunate enough to get a gift certificate from our two wonderful sons to the Gazebo Inn in Ogunquit, Maine.  Nothing could prepare us for what lay in store.  We drove up from Connecticut in a horrendous rainstorm. I thought I saw an ark plying the passing lane on the highway.  Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it was hours of relentless, torrential rain.   I was also recovering from food poisoning and was in a pretty foul mood.  We finally get to Ogunquit in the middle of the afternoon, and according to our GPS, it was no more than a few minutes drive to the inn.  Wrong!  There is a peculiar shaped intersection with no stop lights smack dab in the center of  Ogunquit that turned a ten minute cruise into forty-five minutes of rain soaked bumper to bumper torture.  

Finally we see the Gazebo Inn in the distant mist.  We park the car and haul our travel weary selves into the inn.  We are greeted by Scott, the owner and operator of this gem of a bed and breakfast.  Immediately his warm, enthusiastic, and engaging manner makes us forget the hell we just went through.  He begins to take us on a mini-tour of the inn.  To say that this place is gorgeous is to do a dis-service to the word gorgeous.  Stunning, amazing, dazzling, enchanting—take your pick.  Scott’s obvious pride comes through as he describes the renovations, use of recycled materials and workmanship involved in the building. The exercise room with sauna, media room with an extensive DVD collection, bar, laundry room, common room, kitchen, salt water pool and spa, all add up to a perfect stay. The decorations, level of artistry and attention to detail is incredible.  I mention to Scott that I used to build furniture and he launches into a fascinating story of how the floors and bannisters were made.  Wood geeks will be thrilled with this.  Others will simply stare in awe. 

One thing that strikes me as unusual is during the tour is that Scott  continually says that if you want something, take it and settle up with him later.  Want a nice bottle of wine from the bar?  Un-cork it and pay for it when you see him. Like a hat from the gift shop?  Put it on your head and settle up when you see him.  Interested in the most comfortable robe you have ever worn?  Put it on and settle up with him later.  Amazing in this day and age the level of trust he has in his guests. 

Finally we go to our room.  It was one of the smaller ones at the inn, but incredibly lovely.  Handmade cherry bed frame, leather club chairs, fridge, and even a Keurig coffee maker.  A pocket door leads to the bathroom with a two person tiled shower, rain shower faucet, pedestal sink, and on and on and on.  I can only imagine what the larger rooms and suites must look like. 

I’m still tied in knots from the trip so I head off to the sauna for a nice schvitz, as my wife makes dinner reservations.  They have a book with menus of area restaurants available to peruse.  Also, Scott has made some delightful dining deals with several of the restaurants; we chose the seventy-nine dollar deal that includes two apps, two entrees and a dessert.  Immediately, the night manager books us a reservation.  And, you guessed it, settle up tomorrow when you see Scott. 

The meal was divine and we head back to the inn.  The sheets on the bed are this amazing microfiber material that feels like the most expensive, high thread count cotton.  I had one of the best nights sleep in ages.  Guess what?  The sheets are available for purchase in the gift store.  Guess what again; we buy a few sets! 

The bed part of the bed and breakfast was great, now for the breakfast. Our sons kept on telling us about the blueberry juice and scones.  What?  Blueberry juice?  Oh yeah, delicious.  The scones?  To die for.  My diet goes out the window as I tuck into sausages, cinnamon French toast, home fries and cranberry scones.  The second day we had scrambled eggs, hash loaded with chunks of corned beef, spinach with cheese and a red pepper pesto sauce and blueberry scones. 

The weather for the second day was warm and clear so we decided to drive into town.  Big mistake!  There is NO, let me repeat, NO parking in Ogunquit.  We drive back to the inn and bump into Scott.  We explain our dilemma and he tells us that he is driving into town and would be glad to give us a ride.  Nice!  We kick around town and take the trolley back to the inn.  We settle in beside the spa.  The gurgling waterfall is so soothing as we soak up the sun.  We chat, read, decide where to go for dinner, and just relax.  I take another schvitz in the sauna and get ready for dinner.  We go to a place for lobster, because we are in Maine and, well, how do you go to Maine and NOT have lobster? 

Morning comes and it is time to leave. NOOOOO!!!  I’ve been to many hotels and motels and they all have one thing in common, you can’t wait to get the hell out of there and head home.  Not the Gazebo Inn.  I begin to plot out how I can actually move into it.  It’s your most comfortable shirt, your chilling sweats, and your favorite pair of shoes all rolled up into one experience.  It is so welcoming, so comforting so absolutely awesome.  Scott, Bruce and Peter have made customer service an art form.  I cannot wait to go back. 

Friday, July 18, 2014

The Hurricane; A Classic Summer Cocktail

There is nothing like a refreshing cocktail after a long day of... well I'm on summer vacation so it's a long day of play.  I washed and waxed the Mustang, ran four miles at the gym so I think I deserve a little bit of relaxation.  The Hurricane cocktail has its origins in New Orleans.  It is generally accepted that it was first created at Pat O'Brien's.   The name of the drink comes from the hurricane glass it was served in.   Here is the recipe that I used.

Hurricane Cocktail 

2 ounces of dark rum
2 ounces of light rum 
2 ounces of passion fruit juice
1 ounce of orange juice
1/2 ounce lime juice
1 tablespoon of simple syrup
1 tablespoon of grenadine
garnish with orange slice and cherry

For my dark rum I chose one of my favorite rums; Ron Botran.   Ron Botran is distilled in Guatemala.  It is a blend of rums that are aged anywhere from five to fourteen years.  Also, it is not made from molasses as most rums are, but from from sugar cane juice.   The light rum is Rhum Neisson from Martinique.  I had to special order this rum from Amity Wine and Spirits in New Haven because it is not readily found in in my area package stores.  The Niesson distillery has been producing rums since 1931.  Rhum Niesson is another rum that is not distilled from molasses.  It is a rhum agricole in that it is produced from sugar cane juice.  Also, this rum weighs in at one hundred proof; not for the faint of heart.  The rest of the ingredients are obviously available at any grocery store.  Pour all of the ingredients into a steel shaker filled with ice, pop the glass on, shake until blended and strain into a hurricane glass filled with ice.  Garnish with an orange slice and a cherry, sit back, sip, have another sip, have another sip, enjoy and blog.  

Friday, April 18, 2014

For Cryin' Out Loud Facebook, Get my Demographics Right!

Now, trust me, I’m not complaining, but lately I’ve been getting an eyeful in my sponsored links feed on Facebook. I keep  getting ads for things such as “Babes Ride in Fast Cars,”  “50 Plus? She Don’t Even Care,” and “What Every Guy Needs.”  The babe is riding in a Camaro, so I immediately dismiss it because my current whip is a Mustang. “The 50 Plus? She Don’t Even Care” site has a sense of urgency; limited openings, so I have to act fast. I cringe at the grammatically incorrect title, and besides, my wife would CARE. However, I do foolishly click on the “What Every Guy Needs” link to see exactly what I need and discover that I need a date with a stranger.  My mother taught me never to talk to strangers and again my wife would care. Strongly!   

I decide to click on the See-All sponsored links in hopes that something more my style will appear.  More dating sites.  That’s a shock.  Learn French?  Non!  A Brazilian wax for $39. Is that a good deal?  I’m a comparison shopper but I wouldn’t even know where to begin researching that!  Angie’s List? Would they even review that?  Here’s a weird one.  Something about ED and if it is possible to reverse ED.  I don’t anyone named ED and I’m sure that with the right motivation, ED can reverse himself on his own.  “C’mon ED, get up and get with the program.  Reverse yourself!”

I knew that clicking on the links would make matters worse and when I refreshed the page, there is now a girl with enormous breasts laying on the hood of, you guessed it another Camaro. Hey Facebook, knock-knock, “I drive a freakin’ Mustang!”  This is followed by an ad for those creepy looking exposed toe workout shoe things, Younger Woman/ Older Man, and a disturbing picture of three of the most disgusting looking guys showing off their enormous guts pitching weight loss.  Really? If the picture is any indication of how effective this technique is, I’ll pass.  A shot of a woman taking off her underwear catches my attention.  It’s titled “Bad Girls Have More Fun!”  I’m not convinced that you can scientifically prove that, but I click on it nonetheless.  OMG another Camaro! Well, another Camaro filled with a girl with large breasts.  Here is one that beckons me.  “Use Me As Your Toy! This doll wants to get “na-ke-d!”  With me right now.  Seriously, na-ke-d? She could be in Uzbekistan for all I know so how in world are we going to get na-ke-d? In the interest of research I naturally clicked on the link.  Fully clothed I can assure you.  Well, another dating site.

Surely Facebook would have figured out my real demographic by now.  Instead of seeing pictures of smokin’ single women on/in cars I dislike it would probably be more useful to them to show me advertisements of denture cream, Depends and if I keep on clicking on these links marriage counselors.  But alas they have somehow falsely concluded that naked women on cars are more of my style. Well, yea, to a certain point, but in the end, my wife would still mind. 

Monday, January 13, 2014

Yes Virginia, I Did Have A Heart Attack

So, up until last week, I thought I was in pretty good health. Well, sadly I was mistaken because I just suffered a heart attack.  What?  Yes, that is exactly what I thought.  How could this happen? I go to the gym a couple times of week, eat pretty well, and am physically active all year round. Sure, I was being treated for a cholesterol problem, but nowadays who isn’t?  The CDC reports that a third of all Americans suffer from high cholesterol.  So I wasn’t alone.  But yet...

I was plowing the recent snowfall when I felt a tightening in my chest.  It was bitter cold, so I naturally thought that was reason.  I went in, sat down and it went away.   But the rest of the day I felt kind of off. I had, what I thought, was a lot of indigestion; some mild discomfort under my breastbone. Annoying, but not too serious.  That afternoon, I took a nap, woke up and wasn’t too hungry for dinner.  That was a warning sign to my wife, who know I have a pretty good appetite.  As the evening wore on, the symptoms got worse.  The chest pain would come and go, each time getting a little worse.  I consulted with Dr. Internet and wasn’t really convinced.  I didn’t have pain radiating down my arm, I wasn’t sweating, and I didn’t feel nauseous.   About 8 o’clock the pain suddenly got severe.  So severe that I couldn’t breath. I took some aspirins just in case and got dressed.  Now the pain was excruciating and we called an ambulance.   They arrived, hooked me up to an EKG machine.  The results were somewhat puzzling.  The readout said no heart attack.  They transported me to Middlesex Hospital.  I was wheeled into the ER and was immediately set upon, and interviewed by a bunch of nurses and techs.  More EKG patches were attached to me.  More EKG’s were taken and still no indication of a heart attack.  I was then taken to the Cardiac Care Unit.  The doctor in charge came in and discussed the possibility that it was simply an esophageal spasm.  Now that was something I could wrap my head around because I still could not believe that I could be having a heart attack.  That was until the pain started coming in faster and faster waves.  When they describe the feeling as an elephant sitting on your chest, they are not freaking kidding.  It was a pain that was positively the worst I had ever experienced.  Intense, crushing, debilitating pain.  I was screaming and writhing in anguish.  The entire cardiac team was in the room, taking blood samples, more EKG patches and readings, nitroglycerine and finally morphine.  The EKG tech and the cardiologist were having a pow-wow and I could tell that they weren’t discussing the NFL playoff picture or the current cold snap.  The cardiologist looked at me, smiled sweetly, and in her beautiful Barbadian accent informed me that, yes, indeed, I was having a heart attack.   This did nothing to diminish the pain.  Now panic set in.  Heart attack.  People die from heart attacks.  People are disabled from heart attacks.  I’m looking at this room full of strangers and thinking, “So these are the last people that I’m going to see on this earth. Could they have at least brought up a couple of scantily clad women?”  Oi Vai!  They stabilized me, gave me more morphine and transported me to Hartford Hospital, where they had an emergency cardiac catheter team ready and raring to go. 

We roll into the hospital and they take me to the “cath” unit.  I am immediately stripped of my clothes, and two ladies, whom it never met before, pull out disposable razors and immediately start to manscape my junk.  Afterwards, when I checked out their handiwork, it appeared they gave me something of a porn star design. I don’t know if that was by design or some sort of cruel revenge for getting them out of bed three o’clock in the morning.   Kinda creepy, and very itchy to be quite honest.  Ladies, I don’t know how you do it. They inserted a balloon through my groin, inflated it in the affected artery and installed a stent.  Forty-five minutes later we are done.  I’m wheeled into the intensive care unit, slapped with more EKG patches, stuck with IV needles, and tucked into bed. 

And what a bed it was.  To avoid bedsores, hospitals now have anti-decubitus (pressure sores) mattresses.  They have this wave-like action that continuously moves to prevent pressure points.  Yeah, that’s all well and good, but this “wave action” literally moved me from the head of the bed to having my feet dangling over the edge. As soon as I got comfortable, it shifted again.  ALL NIGHT LONG!!!   The nurses would haul me back to the head of the bed and as soon as they finished, I “waved” myself back to the foot.  Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep in the hospital. 

When the cardiologist came to visit, he looked my straight in the eye and said, “Mr. Scott, you are one lucky man.  There was no damage to your heart.  You’ve been given a second chance!”  When he said that, it was as if, the clouds parted, nymphs started playing lutes and lyres, and unicorns gaily leaped over rainbows.

 I spent the next two days in the hospital being visited by an assortment of doctors, nurses, techs, and aides.  I was given pills and potions, stuck innumerable times and fed the most God-awful food imaginable.  But, in the end I did walk out under my own power.  And that is the bottom line, walking out rather than being carried out.

As I recuperate, I have some time to reflect upon this entire ordeal. A second chance.  Not too many people get one of those.  I’m a real good cook and usually eat pretty healthy stuff, but I suppose that some of my more un-healthy habits have to come to an end.  No more searching for the perfect burger.  No more snacking on cheese.  Bye-bye butter.  Hello, oatmeal. How ya’ doing no-fat? Salt? We don’t need no stinkin’ salt!   Anyway the bottom line is, if you have a pain in your chest, don’t consult Dr. Internet.  Get your ass down to the hospital! Oh, by the way, I ended up removing twenty-eight EKG patches from my arms, legs and chest.  And about three pounds of hair from my chest.  Ouch!

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Thankgivingukah Latke Recipe

Here is a variation of a friend’s recipe that I hacked.  I start off with peeling the potatoes, then shredding them in the food processor.  Today I peeled 10 pounds of potatoes.  Then I placed a hefty handful on a tea towel, wrapped it up and squeezed out as much moisture as possible.  Then I made a batch using the following amounts. 

3 Cups of dried and shredded potatoes
2 eggs
1/3 cup of diced onion
2 Tbl vegetable oil
1 tsp salt
2 Tbl flour
¼ tsp baking powder 

Blend well and then drop about a small handful into the hot oil.  Don’t put more than four into the frying pan or it brings down the temperature of the oil.  I ever so slightly flatten the latkes with a metal spatula.  Cook until the first side is golden brown.  Flip and cook the other side under golden brown.  Remove, drain on paper towels and serve hot with applesauce or sour cream.  Enjoy.  Note: if you are making a lot of batches, change oil often. 

Friday, November 15, 2013

John Fogerty, Oakdale Theater

The Oakdale Theater is a favorite music venue. The seats are great and the acoustics are superb. Last Saturday, at the Oakdale, oh I mean the Toyota Oakdale Theater, I saw a favorite of mine; John Fogerty.  Let’s back up here for a second. I really don’t understand companies who buy the naming rights to arenas.  I am no more inclined to buy a Toyota simply because it adorns the entrance to the theater.  I will never call Met Life Stadium anything but Giants Stadium. The XL Center in Hartford?  Sorry. I don’t even know what  an XL is? How about the Sports Authority Field at Mile High?  That’s a mouthful.  Or my personal favorite; The KFC Yum! Center in Louisville that houses the University of Louisville’s basketball arena. And yes, the exclamation point is part of the name. Go figure. 

Anyway, we get there early and find our seats.  I thought they were excellent seats.  Middle orchestra, end seats.  I thought that until I had to get up for everyone who got there after me.  Excuse me, excuse me, etc.  The demographics were decidedly not the coveted 18-49 crowd.  It was more of the Lipitor/Nexium crowd with a splash of Plavix thrown in.  Sure, there were some young kids, but they might have gotten confused by the signage and thought they were shopping for a new car. 

Just as I am sitting comfortably, in lumbers a couple that their combined weight probably equaled a Toyota Camry.  And they are sitting next to my wife.  He sits down and it was like he was nearly sitting on my wife.  Sorry dear, no armrest for you! My wife spent half the concert clinging to my shoulders. It made for a more intimate experience. With me, not the big guy.

The lights dim, the spark machines go off and John Fogerty steps onto the stage.  First song “Tonight.”  One of my favorites and he and the band crush it.  One of the facts on the video loop before the show was that he travels with about a dozen guitars.  He hitches up a new one, the fog machines light up and he segues into “Born on the Bayou.”  His guitar work was brilliant.  The videos were set up in varying rectangular screens and on the stage risers.  It really made for a great visual effect. 

It’s about 35 minutes after the concert started and people are still trickling in.  What, you didn’t have all day to figure out you were going to a concert tonight? Not something that usually slips my mind.  But that’s me.   Now they are excusing themselves in a dark theater, stumbling over people, spilling drinks, while you are trying to enjoy yourself.  Thank you for being so self-absorbed. 

Between songs, Fogerty tells us that one of his biggest influences was Little Richard and other early rock and roll and rhythm and blues players.  Then the band breaks into “Good Golly Miss Molly.”  Fantastic.  A few songs later the band breaks into “Keep on Chooglin’.”  Not a favorite of mine but they absolutely slayed that song.  The drummer, Kenny Aronoff, a drum god of mine, does an amazing drum solo that had the entire audience mesmerized.  Fogerty then pulls out his harmonica and starts wailing.  Flames are shooting up; Fogerty is joined in the center of the stage by the rhythm and bass guitarists.  The song is building and building, people are on their feet dancing and singing.  It was an amazing rendition of that song. 

A few songs later, Fogerty is telling the audience about his Woodstock experience of having to follow the Grateful Dead at two in the morning.  As the band breaks into “Who’ll Stop The Rain,” a bunch of beach balls drop from the gantry.  I finally got to hit one; first time in 45 years of concert going, right into the back of someone’s head, but it was dark so we’re all good.  To my left is a cardiologist playing air guitar and I’m jamming with him, drumming on the back of the seat in front of me. 

It’s midway during the concert, and since this crowd is of the older variety, you guessed it; they have to hit the lavatories.  Not en masse which would be the polite thing to do, but one, then another and another and finally a trickle.  So I’m standing up and down for about ten minutes or so.

An interesting fact about John Fogerty is that he was actually sued for sounding like himself!  What happened was Saul Zaentz, who was the owner of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s old label, Fantasy Records owned the rights to “Run Through Jungle.”  When Fogerty released “The Old Man Down The Road,”  Zaentz sued Fogerty saying that the song “The Old Man Down The Road” was simply a repackaged “Run Through The Jungle.”  So Fogerty was sued for essentially plagiarizing his own song.  Fogerty eventually prevailed in court but it cost him a ton of money in legal fees. 

During the song “Long As I Can See The Light,” Fogerty went up on the center stage riser and was bathed in 16 narrow beam spots.  He looked as if he were glowing.  The effect was breathtaking.

I couldn’t wait until “Centerfold,” because Fogerty plays a guitar that is shaped liked a Louisville Slugger. During “Fortunate One,” some of the videos screens were displaying images of the Vietnam era.  Others were showing flames.  It was a very moving interpretation of how the country was being torn apart at that time. 

The band breaks a little over two hours for the encore.  Everyone is one their feet screaming and clapping.  They come back and play “Bad Moon Rising,” and end with “Proud Mary.”  The confetti cannons explode, house lights go up and the band walks off behind a curtain of confetti.  Awesome. 

Walking out of the venue listening to the creaking of knees and flushing of the bathrooms I watch some guy in his fifties wobbling so drunk he could hardly walk.  His two buddies were laughing at him.  When we got to the car, the guys next to me kept on telling how stoned they were.  I was especially interested in the very stoned guy, not the somewhat stoned guy, tell me that he was into Fogerty before Fogerty was.  I’m sure there is logic there, but it was lost on me. 

Anyway, it was a truly great performance.  The band was tight, the songs were spot on and it gave me a little glimpse back when I was young.  A truly sweet evening. 

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Rocky Scott --- Rest In Peace

About seven and a half years ago I casually mentioned to my wife that I thought we needed a new dog.  My reasoning was that our elderly sheepdog Pip (actually me) could use a new friend.  After a pretty hard sell, my wife finally agreed.  I scoured the Internet looking for the perfect dog and soon discovered Rocky.  Rocky, a Shiloh Shepherd, was looking for a forever home.  His picture on the Shiloh rescue site showed a beautiful black and sable dog, head whimsically cocked to one side, one ear up and one ear down with big black freckle on his tongue.  I was sold. Shiloh’s are a rare breed of mostly German Shepherd.  They are much larger and more muscular than regular German Shepherds and have a straight back rather than the angulation found in modern shepherds.  He had a black face with the most beautiful mane on his neck.

 I made a few calls to find out his story and decided that we would adopt him.  We drove from Connecticut to Pittsburg to pick him up.  We were excited about the prospect of getting a new dog. 

It was a cold January afternoon when we met him.  We chatted with his foster parent for a while, and finally she brought him out.  I was amazed at how beautiful he was.   My wife almost passed out when she saw him, never imagining how big he was.  The foster mom gave me a leash and I took him out for a walk.  He handled like a sports car.  He patiently walked beside me and heeded all of my commands.  We signed some papers and took him out to the car.  When I opened the door he gracefully leaped into the car and settled down in the back seat.  For the next ten hours he licked, nuzzled and kissed us as if to thank us for his good fortune. 

Our poor Pip never got the chance to become friends with him as she had a stroke one month later and had to be put to sleep.  Rocky assumed his role as the omega dog in the pack of three other cats.  Smokey, our eldest cat ruled the roost with an iron paw.  He was petrified of Lucky, our reclusive, special education cat.  Only Misty, our youngest cat, was his friend.  They would chase each other and then nap together during the day.   They were always kissing each other as if they were lovers. 

During the years that we had him I was able to teach him agility.  He would jump over fences, leap through tires and go up and down on an A frame.  He would run and fetch his ball for hours.  When he was tired he knew to pick up his ball and head for the house for a welcome drink and snooze.  He would also “make believe” that he couldn’t find the ball.  He knew if he didn’t bring the ball back, he wouldn’t get a treat.  I would race over to the ball and all the while Rocky would ignore it.  As soon as I reached the ball to pick it up, he would pounce on it!  He had a good sense of humor. 

He was the most affectionate dog I have ever known.  He would come over to us and hang his head while silently saying pet me.  The fur on his head was like velvet.  A scratch on his nose or a knuckle in his ear would send him into ecstasy. If I stopped, he would let me know that I wasn’t done petting him by giving me a smart snout of his muzzle or place a paw on my arm.  We discovered he loved Canadian bacon one day when after cooking a batch for breakfast, I placed them on a paper towel to drain.  I let them out of my sight for five seconds to answer the phone.  That was all it took.  All eight pieces gone!   You couldn’t leave a glass of water on the coffee table as he would casually come over and quickly drain it.  You literally had to keep one hand on your napkin because he would snatch it from the table and run away with it.  A used Klennex was the ultimate prize.  He would happily shred them on the just vacuumed carpet.  And if you had a cold, well, the floor would look like Time’s Square at New Years. 

About two years ago he began to have trouble pooping.  We brought him to the vet who gravely told us that he probably had perianal cancer and should have him see a surgeon immediately.  We were in shock.  Our vital, handsome boy had cancer!  That day we drove down to the hospital and booked him for surgery.  He came through fine. A few weeks later brought him back for a follow up visit.  He had another tumor.  Oh no, not again!  He went into surgery that day and we picked him up the following afternoon.  Through all of this he never once complained.  After a few weeks he was running in the back yard fetching his ball as usual. The oncologist started him on a course of chemotherapy.  After six months and many x-rays and ultrasounds later, she announced that the cancer was in remission.  We couldn’t have been happier. 

My wife decided to cook his food rather than buy canned or bagged food.  She experimented around and came up with a combination of chicken, beef, salmon, gizzards, oats, and vegetables.  Rocky, who was always a picky eater, dove into this food like nobody’s business.  His coat, which was always gorgeous, became even more beautiful.  He was much happier. 

About a year ago, I noticed that every now and then, his rear leg would give out.  Our vet referred us to a neurologist who told us Rocky was starting to exhibit symptoms of DM; degenerative myelopathy.  This insidious disease is akin to multiple sclerosis in humans and is incurable.  Just when it seems that things couldn’t get any worse we found out that his cancer had returned.  We started chemo again but the first drug didn’t work so we tried a second one.  The second drug made him so sick.  He wouldn’t eat, he was vomiting and had constant diarrhea. After two doses of this drug he was rechecked by the oncologist.  This drug too was not working.   We decided not to continue with chemo and let nature take it course.  We would keep him happy, well fed, and gave him as many treats as he wanted.

The DM started to accelerate.  He was no longer able to jump on the bed.  He couldn’t climb the stairs without assistance.  Finally, he was unable to even stand up on his own.  This once noble, graceful dog could not even get up to get a drink of water. The cancer began to affect his appetite.  He stopped eating and wouldn’t even take a treat. He was dying. 

We had to make the most difficult decision for a dog owner; when to say goodbye. My heart wanted to wait a little longer, but my head forced me to deal with the reality of life.  A dog who used to fetch, jump through tires and over fences could barely stand for more than a few seconds.  A dog who would steal a whole batch of Canadian bacon refused to eat one tiny morsel of food.  With tears streaming from my eyes I asked my wife to call the vet and arrange for his end of life.  Before we went, I sat next to him, stroking his head and recounted story after story of all his memorable exploits.  We then went to the vet, placed him on his favorite pillow and helped him walk over the rainbow bridge.  We told him to please say hello to Pip and to Smokey who had passed a few months ago.  His eyes told us he would be happy to and thanked us for letting him finally sleep in peace.