When Comics Aren’t So Funny

When I was little, Dad would read the Sunday comics from the Houston Post to me after church. “Peanuts” was on the front page like it still is today, except it’s in the Chronicle instead. I liked that one, “Snuffy Smith,” “Dennis the Menace,” “B.C.” and “The Wizard of Id.” By elementary school, I might not have understood everything, but I was reading them myself, and somewhere around middle school I was reading the daily comics as well.

Dad and I have maintained that love for the comics. When Dad was out at sea, we would save the section of the paper with the comics and the Jumble puzzle, and he would dig through them when he returned. Later, sometimes one would call and ask the other, “Did you see _____ today?” And the other would either laugh at the memory or head for the paper to find it. Dad collects business cards, and when he would see a comic strip that reminded him of someone, he would cut it out and put it into a binder with the person’s business card. He has several about teachers with mine. When my niece was young, she liked the “Garfield” strip, and Dad started cutting those out and saving them for her. She’s not as interested in it now—or maybe not at all—but he still saves them for her every day.

He started putting checkmarks next to the strips as he read them. That was a few years ago when he was in the early stages of dementia. At one point, he would remember them for a while after reading them in the morning but not later in the day, so the checkmarks let him know that he had read the comics. Sometimes he would make a note next to the strip, talking back to it like he does to television programs. Next came needing the checkmarks because shortly after reading the comics, he wouldn’t remember reading them. While I haven’t asked, I suspect that now after he has read two or three past a comic, he doesn’t remember the earlier one. Throughout those changes, he did understand what he read and smiled or laughed when appropriate.

I noticed a year or so ago that on some comics he would put a question mark. I didn’t think it was that weird because I don’t get some of them. Plus, he was differentiating between the ones he understood and the ones he did not, which showed he could still analyze.

To save a little money, I get hard copies of the paper only part of the week and read the other days’ papers online. I still prefer the hardcopy, so Mom and Dad will offer me the papers that I don’t get if I see them on those days. It struck me this week how many question marks Dad puts now. On the page of colored comics from Monday’s paper, fifteen of the twenty-one strips have checkmarks. I know it’s not that many every day—Tuesday’s has nine— yet more than a few is still strange to me. Not the dad I know, or knew. It was clear why he didn’t get some of them such as one referencing Harry Potter or one that had some Spanish phrases in it or the new word “adulting,” but I was amazed at others.

In “Peanuts,” Dad didn’t catch the phrase “‘in’ expressions,” as in “All systems are go!” when astronaut Snoopy is preparing to blast off. “F Minus” is a single panel with one man playing miniature golf, his golf cart behind him, and a worker telling him, “Sir, I’m going to have to tell you again that personal carts are not allowed here at Li’l Putt-Putt.” That miniature golf courses don’t have carts escaped him. A few times I’ve tried explaining comics to him, either from the paper or one I found on Facebook, and even with the explanation he doesn’t understand.

Thankfully, at this point, he does still get many of them, often without any explanation, and he’ll range from a smile to a chuckle to bursting out laughing when he thinks it’s funny. His laugh hasn’t changed. It’s still infectious. 

Regularly, when I am over, he will come into the kitchen and show me one from that day that he thought was especially funny or pertinent. He leaves the page on the table at his place with a special mark by it. Then, when he comes into the kitchen because he hears my voice, he sees the paper and can remember to share it. A few times he’s given me a comic strip he cut out that reminded him of me, like the one with the woman telling her dog, “Listen, you can’t be a group therapy dog if you keep chewing the talking stick.” He put a question mark by it, but he made the connection between it and the therapy work I do with my dogs. And yes, they will chew the talking stick as well as sneak a bite of a snack or swipe tennis balls from the walkers given half a chance.

I don’t know what Courtney does with the “Garfield” strips, if she even reads them. I’m trying to pare down what I keep, and when there are question marks, it makes the comic bittersweet. But I can cut that off, and they don’t take up much space in the box with his letters from when he was sailing, and one day it will be a good reminder of the happy normal that we had.

Chloe's Dreamin' of Texas (and Texas Independence Day)

At dinner last night, I commented that I needed to put my flag out today. Dad asked why, and I responded because it’s Independence Day—the important one (180 years!). He looked confused, and Mom clarified, “Texas Independence Day.” He asked if they had a flag to fly, and Mom said they did but it was too big for the pole they have. He didn’t seem overly upset about it, and I see that they did not rig it hang from their front porch. I doubt he even remembered it by this morning (or even last night soon after the conversation), although if he noticed my Texas flag flying, he probably repeated most of last night’s conversation with Mom.

Today is also important to me because my third Brittany would have turned 14 today. Long before I got her, I decided I would name her Chloe because of Spike Jones’s song “Chloe” that I used to listen to with my grandfather on 8-track tapes. I was going to make her registered name something related to the song, but then she was born on March 2, and I went with Chloe’s Dreamin’ of Texas.

Bonds with all dogs are special because they worm their way into your heart and become part of you. Fortunate dog owners are blessed with a dog who knows them as well as or better than they know themselves. My first Brittany was like that. I was grateful for the 12+ years we had each other. I was doubly blessed because Chloe was also like that. If I believed in reincarnation, I’d swear Chloe had been Gen.

Chloe loved Meghan too, but she and I had the bond. She knew what I wanted, often before I did, although that could be a problem in the obedience ring when she anticipated a command; she would sit with me and comfort me when I was down or upset, and she knew what to do to make me laugh, also a problem in the obedience ring when she decided to do something other than the exercise at hand to elicit a laugh. And yes, I’d at least give her a smile when she caused us to bust.

After she had her puppies, and I had her spayed, she became a therapy dog with a local program and set about making others smile. She was often the wired Brittany just holding her joyous self together to behave on the visit, occasionally breaking into whirling-dervish style spinning, but she also could read other people, especially the kids. She got one scared toddler to smile when the little girl helped me “train” her to sit and lie down, opening the little one up to visiting with the rest of the dogs on the team. On another visit, I had her on a sit to chill for a moment to visit a boy—about 5 or 6—who had been eagerly anticipating the team’s visit. I told him Chloe was going to sit for a minute before he petted her and started to introduce her, but he headed straight for her. I thought, uh-oh, we’re going to have a big problem if she jumps and pulls his IV line. Instead, after only a couple of his steps, and before I could react, she broke her sit to lie down and stayed put while he petted her.

She was always so together despite her barely contained energy. The only time I really saw her stressed was when someone shot off fireworks too close to the house and during my divorce when I was gone for a few months and seeing her only when I came to pack my stuff. Understandable. It took a few weeks of living together again for her to get back to normal form.

She was 10 then, and by the time she was 11, I started noticing some changes in her behavior. She started getting confused sometimes within the house, standing in one spot as if she didn’t quite know what she was supposed to do. It wasn’t just being still and listening or smelling something. I’d speak to her and break the spell, and she would go lie down some place or get a drink or whatever. She got to where she wanted to be near me nearly all the time. I put a crate near my work area so she could be comfy there but close to me. Then she started wandering the house periodically during the night. I started crating her since I already had weird sleep patterns.

I had already seen signs of arthritis, which was normal for a dog her age, but as she turned 12, she started having trouble breathing. It took little to make her pant, and the panting was raspy. The vet spent a long time listening to her lungs at her physical and told me that just like humans, dogs’ lungs can stiffen or harden as they age. He told me not to worry but to call and bring her in if needed. I started taking her on walks alone, just around the cul de sac, going at her pace since she could not keep up with Chase and Rosie, two puppies from her second litter. She liked to walk along and sniff stuff and mark it when necessary.

All of that was quite workable, but her general behavior got stranger and stranger. She had more episodes of standing and not knowing what to do. She moved from spot to spot to sleep—not the standard changing places like she used to do, but like she didn’t know the right place for her. She slept the deep old-dog sleep, but when she wasn’t asleep, she would want to go out every few minutes. I was lucky to get 10-15 minutes. Sometimes it was every two to three. She was not to be deterred. Telling her to lie down didn’t make much difference. She did, but it didn’t last. It was frustrating and exhausting for me, although it did help with that 10,000 steps a day bit. I’d shut the crate door to get a break, but before long she would be clicking on the door for me to let her out. She didn’t settle until sleep hit again. She would panic at normal activities like me handling her feet for trimming her nails.  

I started doing some investigating online and confirmed that dogs can develop a form of dementia—canine cognitive disorder. She had nearly all the signs of it. I didn’t take her to the vet for it since there’s nothing much that can be done. Even if medicines could help, I couldn’t afford them. I just worked with it the best I could.

I vacillated between sympathy, frustration, sadness, downright anger and guilt over being frustrated and angry. She couldn’t help the disease and her behavior any more than Dad or anyone else can. I had been dreading when I would lose her, but with this, I knew it would be a blessing, and I did my best to make her days good.

We’d walk outside regularly, sometimes only two or three houses, depending on her breathing. She enjoyed being out there and collecting the smells. I gave her foods with lots of flavor and that were easy to chew. She’d do simple tricks I asked for, and I’d toss a toy or ball just a few feet for her to retrieve. I’d help her into the back seat and take her for a ride—just her—when I went to pay a bill or some other close errand. We snuggled lots, usually on the floor since she couldn’t jump on the bed or couch and seemed to be disoriented there if I lifted her up. Sometimes it seemed like touching her was painful. I didn’t know whether it really physically hurt or it was just part of the dementia, so the snuggling was gentle and at her pace and how long she wanted it. She’d smile at me when I did it right.

One April evening last year a few weeks after she turned 13, she came up and sat in front of me. I was going to keep working on whatever I was doing, but I looked into her eyes and decided to sit on the floor with her. I scratched her chest lightly, and she dropped her head and pushed it into my chest, resting it there and letting me rub her all over just like we used to do. I found the good spot behind her ear, and she thanked me with a canine hug against my shoulder/neck.

Late the next day after a good day of sleeping and a chewy bone for an afternoon snackie, I let all three out in the yard. She disappeared, which was normal, and I went looking for her since she couldn’t hear me call, and I found her frozen stock still behind the garage. I touched her, and she took a couple of steps and slowly collapsed. Less than an hour later she slipped away in my arms at the vet’s office.

I knew she would tell me when it was time, but I hadn’t expected it to be quite so dramatic. It wasn’t that way with my other dogs. In true Chloe form, though, she had waited until the end of my work day. I had been snowed under with editing that day, and she not only gave no signs of having problems throughout the day that would cause me concern but had had a day pretty much like her days had been before she developed the memory problems. I don’t know how she knew what my schedule was like or how she managed to time it the way she did between the end of my day and the time the vet’s office closed, but she did. That was Chloe, knowing me better than I know myself.

And, this is even more bizarre. Miss Texas Independence Day dog chose San Jacinto Day—the day Texas won the war and independence—as her last day here. Go figure.

She made my life so much richer, despite the problems of the last couple years of her life, and I am a better person because of her, just as I grew with Bear, Gen and Toby, and as I am still learning from Chase and Rosie. I’m so glad dogs put up with us. Perhaps we amuse them. Perhaps they grow in some way too, although lots of times I think they are the higher beings. Perhaps they stay because of new squeaky toys and we can operate the can opener. But maybe, just maybe, they’re in it simply because they love us too.

Happy Birthday, Chloe! (And Texas, too!)