The Phroebe Chronicles - a doggy tale

   Beloved pets, like other family members, deserve to be eulogized. During the time I was seeing Jeff, he was also kind to my dog. I wrote to him often and thought he would enjoy letters from Phroebe as well.

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3 August, 2016  
   In 1994, I adopted a dog from a shelter and she was with me through fourteen and a half years. Phroebe and my grandson grew up together and she was very tolerant of his baby rough-housing. In 2005, I introduced my dog to my then boyfriend. She liked him so much, she wrote to him too. She was so crazy about him, furry little hussy even wrote that if I wasn't good to him, just let her know and she would *be his bitch.* When I retrieved the letters after our breakup, I found these. The return address read N.C.O.S. [Not Canine Obedience School]

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[To be read in best Jack Webb voice:] This is the city, Eldorado - City of Gold - golden fried chicken gizzards that is. My name's Phroebe, I'm a dog.

02 FEB 2006

Dear Uncle Jeff,
   I don't think Mommy knows I am writing you this letter, although she may wonder why I have a stamp stuck to the end of my nose. Those self-adhesive little boogers are a lot of trouble. It's a real bitch not having opposable thumbs.
   I took your advice and asked Mom why she's so cheap. Being an intelligent member of your species, I'm sure you are aware we canines possess keen auditory sensors and are very receptive. In fact, I can almost hear you thinking, "Little bitch talks just like her mother." Oh well - deal with it. Anyway, when I asked, she made some lame excuse about being *high maintenance:* Mom figured if she were going to be cruising 190 West two or three times a month, she'd better have a more reliable vehicle. Now she's driving a 2006 Taurus with less than 10,000 miles on it, but we've had to sacrifice gizzards for car payments. It's so unfair.
   I think Mom wanted to surprise you about the car but I have no qualms about spilling my little doggy guts.
   So I guess my junk-food consumption is on hold until Cloud invites me over again. Do you suppose that is what is meant by "A dog's life"? Don't get me wrong: Mom isn't all bad. I get a nosh now and then - kernel of popcorn, a grape, some scrambled egg, or a nice piece of gristle. So when Mom says her before-meal prayer, I say mine too. After all, God is dog spelled backward.
   And Uncle Jeff, I'm pretty sure Mom cashed that reality check you sent. You know, the one where you told her it wouldn't do her a damn' bit o' good to call Schlumberger. 'Course there's no telling how she'll spend it, but I'm gonna telepath pork rinds.

Your friend's dog,
Phroebe

p.s. Woof-woof. [That's for Cloud.]

03 MAR 2006

Dear Jeff,
   I'm dictating this letter to my secretary (Mom), who's had a couple of wine spritzers. However, since she is the original *NO SODA-BUYING BEE-OTCH,* they were made with vodka instead of lemon-lime carbonated beverage or seltzer.
   Anyway, I wanted to thank you for a wonderful time; it was really cool cruising the barrio and checking out the vatos. I also appreciate you trying to set Mom straight on the whole alternate sources of protein thing. She did give me some baked chicken, Sunday night. Maybe it's one of those "You say poTAYto, I say poTAHto" deals: I say grease *facilitates elimination* but she says fried stuff makes my poop slimy and lacking in form. Moms - go figure. You have one of your own so I'm sure you know what I mean But we love 'em, don't we?
   We were out walking a few days after you left and I saw an opportunity to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone: I could make polite conversation with one of my doggy buddies AND drop a not-so-subtle hint. So we're ambulating along the sidewalk and I see a pal of mine and I kinda brag on you, right? Very nonchalantly I say, "That Jeff is one gizzard-giving dude!" And just like that, Mom gets all snippy and says, "C'mon Baby Girl, I have to get back to work," and we go marching back to the apartment. What'd I say? Take  it from me, for a two-legged s.o.b. you're alright!
Your friend,
"Phrebes"

xxx

     (Here, I felt compelled to say something in my own defense: Well, I'm not saying I agree completely with everything Phroebe has alleged but I did have those two *spritzers* so we'll just let any difference of opinion slide. jbd)

04 APR 2006

   Gizzard Man, you have no idea how lucky you are Mom and a pair of scissors didn't get near your head: I've got your haircut on a bad hair day. I tried to escape but that woman just strong-armed me - kind of a reverse Jaws of Life thing - and started whacking hair off in great clumps!
   She musta felt guilty though: I'm still getting meat with every meal. Thanks Man.
   No doubt about it, you're the greatest.
Phroebe

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   Jo Ann here: The correspondence ceased; about 15 months later, so did the relationship. When Phroebe died,  I wrote a eulogy.

Phroebe Jan. 1993-Oct. 2008    To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven; a time to be born and a time to die, a time to weep, a time to laugh, a time for gathering in and a time for letting go. (Ecclesiastes 3: 1-2a, 4a, 5a)    I was not present at Phroebe's birth but I held her as she breathed her last. I wept for hours afterward and I know that I will do so again from time to time for the rest of my life. And yet I know I will laugh again. I gathered her into my arms to bring her home those many years ago and did so once more when it was time to let her go.    Born some time around Jan. 1993, Phroebe came into my life June 4, 1994 when I adopted her from the San Angelo Humane Society pound. She made her last public appearance Oct. 4 at The Blessing of the Animals, celebrated at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Brady, on feast of St. Francis of Assisi. This blessing served as her Last Rites. (What can I tell you? My Roman Catholic roots run deep.) Phroebe died in my arms, Oct. 7, 2008. One of my co-workers told me it would be easier if I just said "goodbye" and let her go. This wasn't about doing what was easy, it was about doing what was right. Phroebe had been my loving and faithful companion for 14 years, four months and three days; she deserved to have me present when she died.    I don't recall the exact day, but I was in Glennon Mays' veterinary clinic and some woman had a very sick animal that probably was not going to be made well. I knew at that moment that when the time came I would eulogize Phroebe. And why not? All of our beloved dead live in our memories and we share those memories with others who are near and dear to us so that the departed might not be lost in oblivion.    Phroebe was a great dog and if I choose to believe that her spirit roams in the fields and halls of Valhalla (the Vikings seeming particularly fond of their hounds: I mean, even Hagar the Horrible has a dog) who is to say I am wrong? What makes anyone think there isn't a doggy heaven?    Dogs, as we know, are descended from wolves, and though thoroughly domesticated, Phroebe evidenced that wolfish protectiveness that applies to one's cubs. She also had a wide streak of lupine playfulness and after enduring my grandson's youthful exuberance and heavy-handed attentions, she exacted her toll once he learned to walk and was [literally] on his feet - she'd bound against him and knock him onto his diaper-padded rear end and administer slobbery doggy kisses.    I'll tell you another story about Phroebe's playfulness. We were visiting some friends in Indiana and had Skaar and Phroebe with us.  Now Skaar, though older and male, was about a third smaller. After chasing around for a while, Phroebe grabbed and mounted Skaar. He was bemused but definitely not amused and I'm not certain he ever totally forgave that affront to his dignity. (Though with Skaar, "dignity" was a relative term: but that's another story altogether.)    My youngest sister, who in adulthood has become one of my best girlfriends, once inquired as to Phroebe's well being. I gushed, "Ooh, her is the goodest widdle girl (two-and-a-half to three syllables; g'year-rehl) in the whole world (also at least two syllables)." Lynn asked, "Why do we talk baby-talk to our pets but not to our kids?" I told her it was because we were not too concerned that the pets would pick up poor speech habits.    I believe that "death with dignity" is the right of all living creatures. It had become obvious in the past several months that Phroebe was afflicted with a canine version of senile dementia - doggy Alzheimer's, if you will. She would stand in the kitchen, her hind legs trembling and if I'd had to guess at what was going through her mind, it may have been, "If I stand here long enough maybe I'll remember what to do next," or "If I just concentrate on standing, maybe I won't fall down." And, my gosh, the endless circles!    Anyone who knows me understands that humor, though often dark and sometimes bordering on the demented, is my primary defense mechanism. Within 50 hours of the appointed time, I was taking Phroebe out for her pre-breakfast stroll and as I held the leash, I thought, "Dead dog walking... and flopping on the ground and rolling in the grass."    The decision to let Phroebe "go gently into that good night" broke my heart, but so did seeing her so feeble and frail in mind as well as body.    Come the day, we are T-minus 4 (hours) and counting. Sometime shortly after 4 a.m., I was wakened by Phroebe's soft whimper. I took her outside where she offered her ablutions upon the earth. Then the circles: not just three-times-'til-I-find-the-place, but "to poop or not to poop... wait, what was the question?" circles. We returned inside and I put her back to bed but within the hour we were up again. Six o'clock and I'm holding her on my lap while she eats breakfast. Then I look into her cataract-clouded eyes and know that I have made the right choice but it does not make the execution of that decision any easier. I wore patchouli that day; it was my sister Teri's signature scent and I figured it would help Phroebe sniff Teri out when she got to the other side. After getting dressed I set Phroebe's cage out on the back porch, offered my little girl one more drink of water and at 7:45 called my sister who would accompany me to Dr. Pace's. There Phroebe was weighed to make sure there was a sufficient dose of the lethal injection and minutes later she was at peace: no more running into things, stumbling about blindly, having to have her head placed into the water to get a drink. We took her to my sister's where I wrapped her in her burial shroud, (a tapestry vest done in sunflowers) and lovingly placed her into the grave prepared for her. No life should go unsung, so I chanted a Hebrew song of farewell and shoveled in enough dirt to cover her, then my sister took over.    Si Dios quiere, I will love again. Whether man or beast, solo El Senor lo sabe.    Some of you have already been through this wrenching experience and perhaps wondered if anyone shared your grief. Some have vowed "never again" and some will follow where the heart leads, even if it is to another hurt. While the heart feels, (pain or joy), one is alive. So mourn and dance, weep and laugh, embrace and let go - all in season. Shalom.