Really? Zoonotic Diseases from my Bed Buddies?

I just can’t leave this one alone. After all, the subtitle of this blog is “thoughts on a curious world.” And how much more curious can a dog lover get than to discover that a study out of California (where else) has determined that sleeping with your pet(s) could cause you to develop some really nasty diseases. Zoonotic Diseases?

Now these are not the simple dis/eases we animal-sleepers are used to, that come from sleeping in less than ¼ of the bed when the 4 legged family takes over. You know – leg cramps, neck pain, back ache, numb limbs, hair in the mouth, cold butt, sleep apnea caused by serious doggy breath, and the occasional and unfortunate explosive projectile 2 AM hairball jettisoned towards the unsuspecting human, causing him to wake from a sound sleep, flailing at the air. No, these are serious diseases. Zoonotic diseases. Diseases like The Plague (yes, that Plague), Chagas Disease (you’ll have to look it up), Cat Scratch Fever (I've had it), meningitis, septicemia, multi-organ failure, Staphylococcu intermedius infections, rabies, and parasitic infections. These were just the more easily pronounceable diseases one might, on a far-off chance, contract from one’s dog or cat. There were a few even more hideous diseases one might be blighted with, but you can check them all out here. Incidentally, the study only takes into consideration the typical dog and cat. One is not talking Ben the rat or Arnold the pig here.

One really interesting thing about the study, commissioned and paid for by God knows who (or why), is that it detailed such exotic conditions of human deterioration (open festering wounds licked by puppies, death’s-door octogenarians succumbing to the attentions of their cat, tiny babies left in flea infested beds, etc.), that one would be hard pressed to find the usual pet-sleeper in Western countries in such states of decrepitude. (Although, granted, a few examples of such were given.) Many of these diseases were also contracted either in 'developing countries' or Southeast Asia where rabies continues to be a problem, or in the tropics, where nasty, oozing, festering maladies are simply a given. It’s not like puppies and kittens were plotting against humans, waiting to pounce in the dead of night to infect unsuspecting owners with pustules, bullae and blebs.

I certainly don’t French kiss my dogs – they do that to one another and I get my cheap thrills by watching them. Nor do I drink from their water bowl or share their toys. (One incident of a child contracting a disease was cited -- the dog had been playing with the child’s pacifier before the child recovered it and stuck it in his own mouth. To this one has to say, screw the disease, where were the parents?) But I do enjoy a good cuddle with my dogs (probably more so than they do), and they do sleep in my bed. (Or perhaps, more correctly, I sleep in theirs.)

What I find even more interesting is the press that this study has received. I first saw it repeatedly on TV (which, of course, immediately lends indisputable credibility to the work). It blanketed the air for days. On the web, I had to surf through over two dozen sites before I came upon the actual study itself. All of the news articles, without exception, used the same vocabulary and examples to describe the horrors of sleeping with one’s beloved pet. But when I glommed on this statement all became clear: “Pet health maintenance which incorporates regular deworming, and flea and tick control medications is beneficial …” Bingo. There’s the connection. Like Deep Throat said in the 1976 movie, All the President’s Men, “Follow the money.” I’ll wager you dollars to dog cookies the study was funded by Bayer or Farnam or Pfizer or Merial or some other Big Pharma outfit. And what time of year is it? Bingo again – it's flea and tick time. Time to douse your favorite four footed friend with pesticides.

Of course, the research citations don’t list where the funds came from to do the study. No – that might be ethical. But it’s not a stretch, in this day and age, to assume that almost certainly a vested interest was behind the research.

I’ll continue to sleep with my dogs. They probably catch more things from me than I will ever catch from them. They are a comfort and a joy, are infinitely cleaner than most people’s children (for whom I have no love-loss at all), and generally don’t leave anything more annoying in bed than a mud-soaked stuffingless toy or stray tufts of hair.

Yes, timing in advertising is everything. So, enjoy sleeping with your animals, watch out for hair balls and cling-ons, and beware of advertising ploys disguised as research. And if you do catch something nasty, it’s probably from a local Big Box store’s toilet seat, not your pooch.

Wood and Wipers

The sign read “Firewood Egg's Sold Here” so I had to see what those might be, and needing firewood anyway I took a chance.

I steered my little pickup truck into the drive, a sharp 90° on the curve of a busy highway and a lurch down a 50° grade. Weeeeee.

I approached a trailer (of course it was) but there was a dog/baby gate at the top of a long and rickety stretch of stairs (the place seemed to be built on stilts), so not wanting to alarm any dogs or babies, I just hung out, knowing someone would emerge eventually. Sure enough, one tall, thin dude came out, munching on his cereal. After getting the price (a mere 50 bucks for a rick of wood — a good price in the middle of winter) and hitting the bank to get cash (no checks), I came back, braved the driveway again, and he and his brother (skinny dude two) emerged again and directed me to the back of their lot, past the several bulls-eye and wooden deer targets (loaded with lots and lots and lots of shotgun holes), then past the chickens (even in the cold air the smell of chicken poop was pretty ripe), and over to the wood pile. As they loaded the wood we passed the time chatting about the fact that I "wasn't from around here," and "did I hunt?" The good news was that not being from around here wasn't bad because they weren't from around here either, although they were definitely from the South. Then brother three came out (stocky, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth), and we discussed the impending snow storm. They told me they were from one of the Virginias or the Carolinas and they were used to snow. When I told them I was from the snowbelt of Western New York on Lake Erie, they were righteously impressed with my snow prowess. (Score one for the transplanted Yankee.)

They all admired my little truck and I figured it was probably older than they were. After a while of watching his brothers work, stocky brother three said he was cold and headed back to the house. Yeah, the big burly one with lots of insulation. I then heard the story about a truck like mine that they had bought from the wife of a friend when she needed bail money to spring her husband from jail. Apparently the deal went sour because when the guy finally got sprung he wanted his truck back, right then, along with the title they had paid for. Somehow their Mama got in the mix, but no shots were exchanged. (They may well have run out of bullets if the deer targets were any indication.) They lost the truck, and apparently the money, which vexed them greatly.

As they continued loading the truck, they suggested I let my son help me unload the wood when I got home. I thought it was an odd remark since no one has ever made the assumption that I had kids (I just look like children wouldn’t suit me — at all). But the remark was not insincere, so when I told them I had no sons they nodded in charitable understanding. I did tell them about my dogs, which are certainly as interesting and smarter than most children, and learned that the three brothers had a Chihuahua. Somehow I imagined that child gate was holding back something bigger – like a Doberman or a Rottweiler or a Pitbull. But a Chihuahua? I tried to picture these three big guys, in their high-water trailer, with a Chihuahua. I thought it would make a good country song or sitcom — “Three Brothers and a Chihuahua” — but I let it go without mention.

After the truck was loaded so that I could no longer see out the back window and the front tires were barely touching the ground, and was sure I wouldn’t make it out of their drive, I bid them ado, and as I drove past the chickens and the shot up wooden deer, they hollered I should come back if I need any more wood. I assured them I would — at 50 bucks, it was a good deal. And they told good stories. And they didn’t mind that I wasn’t from around here and that I didn’t hunt and I didn't have a son. It was a good visit. Just sorry I never got to see the Chihuahua.

I got home and unloaded and stacked the wood in time to turn around and hit the grocery store before the snow hit. Yes, I have become a true Southerner — I run to the grocery just like every other fool in town, with even the threat of snow. Having just used the truck, I thought I would take the van. I hadn’t driven it in a while and it needed the exercise. The van, my faithful van, with no heat, no AC, no radio, no defrost, no fan, no clock, and wipers that work on their own schedule. Sadly, I had forgotten about the wipers not working except when they weren’t needed.

Got through grocery shopping — half the town was there — just in time to watch the snow storm hit as I was wheeling my cart out the door. By the time I got the groceries in the van, the snow was falling at a really brisk rate. It was beautiful. Big white fluffy flakes, like back home. I got in the van, wrapped my blanket across my lap, started her up, turned on the lights (yes, the lights still work — knock wood) and hit the wipers. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They didn’t even try. And that’s when I remembered why I didn’t take the van out on overcast days. Crap! I looked for a snow brush. Damned thing was in the truck. Suddenly the wipers gave a half-assed attempt to work. They died mid-swipe and may be stuck in that position forever. Great.

After rooting though the van (which is full of crap from the summer — I mean, why empty it out when I’ll just need it in a few more months?), I finally found a paint stick and struggled out of the van (and I was so nicely wrapped up in my lap blanket too), and worked on the windows with the paint stick. Whoever said necessity is the mother of invention (it was probably Ben Franklin), was right. I managed to get most of the snow off before it stuck again and made my way out of the parking lot, hoping I wouldn’t get stuck at a light. I theorized that if I could keep going I could create enough wind shear around the windshield that the snow wouldn’t stick.

Red light. Of course. Who was I kidding? Saint Christopher? (Is there a Patron Saint of windshield wipers? No? Well, there should be.) So we sat. And we sat. And we sat. Finally the light turned green and it was time to go.

By now the streets had a good inch of snow on them, so I took my time getting home, but surprisingly my theory worked. I didn’t have to stick my arm out the window, trying to scrape off the windshield with my handy paint stick. I was able to go just fast enough to keep the snow from sticking to the windshield but slow enough not to fishtail into a ditch. A good thing too, because besides nothing much working on my van, my plates expired last month. Oops!

The snow has stopped now. As stopped as my wipers. But it’s beautiful out. Dreadfully cold but that makes the snow sparkle on the fields and the trees and … the van. I’ll go out tomorrow and get some photos of the snow before it’s all gone, although as cold as it is supposed to be, I think it will be around for a day or two.

That firewood will sure feel good tomorrow night. Maybe I should work on that song about the three brothers and their Chihuahua. Wonder what his name is? Probably Killer or Bruno or Rocky. Next time I visit the Firewood Egg Brothers, I’ll have to ask.

33 Years

“I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment's gone.”

Thirty-three years ago, on Tuesday, February 7, 1978, around 4:00 in the afternoon, my dog Sturm left this earth. He had been my closest companion and trusted friend for over 12 years.

I brought him home as a three month-old puppy — my aunt had a hard time giving all nine puppies away, thus the unusual delay. (And ultimately she kept two for herself.)

He was born in June and I visited him and his 8 siblings as often as my parents would drive to my aunt and uncle’s farm to see them. I once took some friends to see the puppies (we were all in our early teens), and they enjoyed the visit tremendously, playing with them and loving on them, but I remember their mother, a rather up-tight pediatrician, being unreasonably concerned that her kids would be visiting a farm, and looking askance at all of us as the puppies tumbled over the four of us and my mother, in the midst of it all. What the farm actually was was a 100+ acre ranch with horses, dogs, barn and house cats, and a host of rabbits. (We’ll leave the rabbit story for another time. Let’s just say they got out of hand.) But we called it the farm, and only God knows what this woman expected. Perhaps pigs and chickens. Who knows? But her kids were never allowed to visit again, which was a shame.

Anyway, being not only an only child but also an only nephew, I was given the pick of the litter. Naturally, I picked them all but sadly I couldn’t convince my parents this was a good idea. As a matter of fact, it was my aunt, a very forceful German expatriate and my father’s older sister, who insisted I needed a dog in the first place. I never really felt much affection for my aunt until then. She was, I am sure, a delightful person, a very talented and compassionate nurse, and an ardent lover of animals, but she was also pushy with me. But this time she pushed my reluctant parents instead, insisting that a dog was just what I needed. I gained a new respect for my aunt for that, as my parents seldom acquiesced on anything of consequence.

Backing up for a minute, I should explain my aunt bred her dog especially so I might have a puppy — a puppy she was sure would be healthy. (Actually, I think it might also have been a convenient excuse to have puppies, but she’s no longer around to ask so I'm just guessing.) She was insistent that I have a dog. I had just that past spring flunked ninth grade. Unheard of in my family. I didn’t fail because I was stupid. I failed because I refused to go to school. At a very early age I developed a strong phobia to social situations, and there’s not much more social than high school. One day during lunch I had had enough, snapped, and simply refused to return. I guess I probably had a bit of a breakdown as I was convinced all the kids hated me (and a few did), and it was just too much to bear. So I spent most of the spring semester locked in my room, unintentionally torturing my parents, thinking their only child had gone wack-o. A pretty hard pill to swallow, especially for my father, who was the Assistant Director of a major state mental hospital.

So, my aunt, decades before her time, decided a dog would be good therapy for me. Since I had so few human friends, she instinctively knew a dog would be a great companion — someone I could love unconditionally and who didn’t care if I was, as my good friend calls me, batshit.

And so the love affair began. Sturmie and I were inseparable. He came to live with us on September 2nd, just a week before school was to begin, and I was to start 9th grade all over again. But I was so taken with him and the love we shared, the rest didn’t matter. Crappy day or good, there was always Sturm to come home to. I had someone to focus on besides my adolescent, hormone-driven, self-indulgent self. He brought calm to the whole family. My parents had had another German Shepherd early in their married life and missed her greatly after she passed. (I knew her too, if just for a few years, and she was indeed my sibling.) So they were reticent about getting attached to another dog, since putting Heidi to sleep had broken their hearts. But Sturm just lightened the whole atmosphere and brought joy wherever he went.

In the summers we spent our days on the beach, and he was quite adept at finding rocks I would throw in the lake for him. Down would go his massive head, and up he’d come with the very rock I’d thrown. He’d drop it at my feet to be thrown again and again. He was popular with everyone on the beach — everyone knew Sturm. And he helped me make friends and get over some of my social phobias. In the mornings we’d leave the house just as dawn lit the sky. (We’d climb out the window so as not to wake my parents. The marks from his toenails are still on the windowsill.) We’d return for lunch, then be gone again until dinner. After dinner we were out the door again until the sun went down. It was a wonderful life.

In the winters, he loved the snow, and we’d go on long walks through the woods that surrounded the hospital. On one winter’s day, when he was out in our fenced yard and some patients were shoveling the snow from the sidewalk, my mother overheard a heated discussion between the two of them, arguing over whether he was in fact not a dog but a reindeer. After much discussion, it was finally determined he was in fact a reindeer, and after that they would regularly visit him on their shoveling rounds. Had a been a dog, they might not have been as comfortable around him, as he was rather massive and imposing; but his sweet nature must have convinced them he worked for Santa, so he couldn’t possibly be a threat.

As I grew older I turned to writing journals. I recently thumbed through some of them and I discovered how much time I had spent writing about him — his colors, his sleeping, his dreaming, his funny moods, his sharing my bed until he thought I was asleep and then jumping down to find a cooler spot. I even tried a few crude sketches of him. Oh — and the farts he’d leave in the room, looking disgusted as if his flowers of sulfur had sprung from me. But he was never far away.

It seemed suddenly, though, that he became old. We discovered a small mass on his leg, another under his eye, and a third on the tip of his tail. The thing on his tail would prove especially vexing as he was always a very enthusiastic tail-wagger. We had a very narrow, long hallway from the kitchen to the rest of the house. (If you’ve ever found yourself in state-provided housing, you know it’s not particularly inspiring but very practical.) The walls in the hall were very high and were painted a light, high-gloss yellow. And Sturmie’s tail, always moving with sheer enjoyment, would batter against the unforgiving plaster walls. The tip of his tail would break open and blood would splatter all over those bright glossy walls. Not enough to damage his tail, but enough to look like a very messy murder had taken place. This was regularly scrubbed down, only be to be replaced the next day by the same energetic streaks of blood.

Naturally concerned about the growths, we took him to the vet. They looked like overgrown dark warts, and even my dad, a physician, wasn’t unduly alarmed. Then we got the diagnosis.
Squamous Cell Carcinoma.

Keep in mind this was 1977 and cancer was relatively unheard of in dogs then. It certainly wasn’t the epidemic it is now. And, of course, there was no treatment for it. Especially out in the boonies where we lived. And even had there been, I don’t think we would have opted for radiation or chemotherapy. It is not a choice our family is comfortable with or confident it.

So there he was, growing older and grayer, slowing down and sleeping more. And he had cancer. It wasn’t so much a death sentence as it was simply a matter of fact. “Your dog has cancer.” Watch him. Enjoy him. And let him live out the rest of his life.

And so he did. While my dog had cancer, he didn’t know it, so it didn’t really matter. In the end, it was renal failure that ultimately determined our decision to let him go. Had the cancer metastasized to his kidneys? I don’t know. An autopsy was never done, or if it was I simply don’t remember.

What I do remember vividly is the day we drove him to the vet. My girlfriend, Judith, and I were simply taking him for a check-up. That’s what we told ourselves. He wasn’t feeling well, but neither of us, nor my parents, really suspected this would be his last ride. After dusting about 2 feet of snow off the car, all three of us struggled into my tiny hatchbacked Mustang. Judith was at the wheel and I was sandwiched in the back with Sturmie. The ride isn’t generally a long one, but this day it was. As I sat in the back with him, I stroked his fur and tried to memorize his beautiful face. He had typical German Shepherd markings, but he had gorgeous sable and red fur instead of the customary brown. His saddle was black, his legs were tan, and his muzzle was now a brilliant white. But his eyes were sad, and somewhere during that ride, both my girlfriend and I silently realized he would not be coming back.

Had it been possible, I would have asked the vet to make a house call. But back then it just wasn’t something that was done ‘for a dog.’ So I stayed with him until the end, leaving his body to be cremated. I managed to hold it together long enough to get out of the office, and then I just lost it. I don’t think I have ever cried as hard in my life. And Judith cried. And when we returned home, with only his leash and collar, doors closed and my parents cried. Not together, but alone.

I was 27 years old and I slept with Sturmie’s blanket hugged in my arms for months after that. I still have fragments of that blanket. And it still has a few of his hairs on it, 33 years later, although long ago it lost his smell.

His ashes, along with the ashes of the other dogs in my life who have passed, sit on my dresser. I have plans to be cremated too, and have all our ashes mixed and scattered, some over the lake and some in Texas. My wife has told me she will need a crop duster to scatter us all, but that’s OK. We’ll all be together again. Even if we are dust in the wind.

So this blog is dedicated to my beautiful Shepherd, Sturmie.

My mother would follow him, a month to the day, also from cancer.

But that story is perhaps for another time.

I miss you, Sturm. After 33 years, I still miss you.

Reuben

I wrote this letter to friends shortly after having to have Reuben put to sleep.

Lancaster, TX
January 7, 1999


Those of you receiving this note hold a special place in my heart, and so it is with sadness that I must tell you that my friend of over 15 years has passed away. You all have heard stories of Reuben, and some of you have met him. A few of you knew him well, as you looked after him on the few weeks each summer Lia and I would travel to New York. Some of you would ask about him each time we met, and that was a joy to me as it meant you remembered something special about me - my wonderful animals. And some of you offered advice and support as I struggled with the realization that I must put him to sleep. Your kindness and thoughtfulness will not be forgotten. It is, in large part, because of these special souls that we have become friends... because we have all realized our capacity to love and be loved by them and, more importantly, our unique ability to appreciate the gift of the enduring bond that can form between animals and humans. Sadly, most people do not possess this ability, do not realize this gift. I can only feel sorry for them, as these creatures have much to teach us - about play, about love, about responsibility, about death and about ourselves.

As have all my dogs, Reuben taught me much. He taught me that the best place to sleep during the hot summer's heat was the bathtub. He taught me that floating in a kiddie pool was a great way to spend an afternoon. He taught me that rolling in new-mown grass, in dry Texas clay, in warm sand was more than a fun past-time it was a form of artistic expression. He taught me tag and keep-away and hide and seek. He taught me how to jump fences and hide in neighbors' cars. He taught me how to sing with the pack. He taught me how to be satisfied with only a third of the bed. He taught me, simply, how to be happy.

As we grew older, he taught me more important things. He taught me patience and kindness. He taught me not to ever plan to sleep through the night. He taught me that worry and anxiety and two A.M. trips to the emergency vet were just part of the deal. He taught me the meaning of a kind word and touch. He taught me to slow down and pay attention to the small things, the important things, the things we too often take for granted. He taught me to look deeply and listen quietly.

In the end, Reuben taught me about responsibility. He taught me that love alone cannot make things better, hard as we may try. He taught me many things about myself, things I needed to know. Animals have a great capacity for teaching us about ourselves, teaching us about the kind of people we really are, not the kind we wish we were or imagine ourselves to be. How we respond to them, how we treat them, how we care for them and love them, and finally how we let them go - this teaches us more than all the science and philosophy and religion man will ever write.

On December 29th, at 4:50 P.M., Reuben was put quietly to sleep, at home, in his own bed. I held him and covered his beautiful head with tears one last time. He was a magnificent friend, a true friend, and I miss him. His ashes sit in a little box aside Ludi's and Sturmie's and Stutzie's, all waiting one day to be mixed with mine, to be scattered in special places.

Look deeply. Listen quietly. It's something I've learned from a wonderful friend.