All about Briscoe

I had to go to the animal hospital to get a refill on Briscoe's cyclosporine. It's pretty critical because it's what is keeping him alive.

I decided to bring Briscoe with me, because he enjoys car rides. So we drove to the animal hospital, to find that it was closed. I knew they were moving to their new building at some point, but didn't know exactly when. Apparently it just happened.

The new address was posted on the door, so back into the car we went.

The thing is, their new place is one of those can't-get-there-from-here kinds of places. We're having more & more of those in Calgary these days. They're closing off streets to through traffic, creating one-ways, and putting barricades in the middle of streets to prevent left turns.

The street is annoyingly close, but it's a one way, and you can't access it from the main artery that intersects it if you're coming from the south. You also can't access it from the east because you can't cross that main artery. The only, only, only ways to get to it are to go north, go into Kensington, find a place to turn around (not easy), and then come back over the bridge and not miss the turn, OR come at it from Crowchild from the north.

In other words, if you're coming from the south or the east, you have to go position yourself to be coming from the north or the west. Of course, we live southeast of the place.

So we got to the place, and it was closed. The sign on the door said to use the OTHER door when it's closed, and use the buzzer. So we went to the other door and I rang the buzzer. And waited. Buzzed again. And waited.

A guy with a cat in a crate came up. He went through the same exercise I had done at the main entrance, and then tried the buzzer at the after-hours door. And waited.

I caught a whiff of shit. I looked down and didn't see anything. Briscoe had actually gone before we got into the car. I wondered if the cat had crapped in its crate.

He rang the buzzer again.

I got another whiff. I looked down, didn't see anything. I figured the guy must have shit his pants. He didn't mention it, though.

I said "I think I'll walk around the building and see if there are some employee entrances or something."

I started around a corner, and turned back to say something to the guy, and he was gone. I glanced up & down the street and he was nowhere. It was as if I had imagined him.

Dang! How had he gotten in? And did he think to mention that someone else was out here waiting to get in? Could he not have called out to me? I was annoyed with him. First he had the audacity to shit his pants, and then he disappeared into the building without us - and we had been there first!

I went back to the main entrance. It was still locked. But then I saw the guy with his crate through the window at the reception desk. The woman behind the desk gestured that I was supposed to go to the other entrance, where I had just been.

I stomped back over and rang the buzzer.

"Katie Toe!" someone said through the speaker just over the buzzer.

"What?" I said. No reponse. I rang the buzzer again.

"Katie Toe!" the voice said more insistently.

"I don't know what Katie Toe means!" I said. No response. I rang the buzzer again.

A woman opened the door and said "This door is not locked!!!!!"

Duh. I hadn't even tried it. But more duh . . . why are we supposed to use the buzzer then?

So I tromped in past her and said "I don't know what Katie Toe means, sorry. Wouldn't it be easier to just say 'The door isn't locked' or 'Come on in'?"

"What?" she asked. I didn't respond. Ha!

When I got to the reception desk, I got a whiff of the shit again. And sure enough, there was that guy standing right there.

I got Briscoe's refill and headed out the way I had come in.

On the sidewalk right outside the door, I saw it. There, smushed on the sidewalk with the imprint of my very own running shoe was a big turd, obviously left by Briscoe while I was trying to get in. And of course I didn't see it because I was standing on it.

After we got home, I took the shoe off to leave on my porch. Two young men came up to me while I was taking my shoe off and gave me a pamphlet alerting me to the fact that the end of false religions is near. I thanked them, and they went away.

Then we went inside, and Briscoe puked on the carpet.

So Briscoe is one really big pain in the ass, you know? And when he's gone, I'm really, really, really going to miss him, that shitting, puking, shedding little machine.

I adopted him in 1996 - I think it was at the end of July or beginning of August - not sure which. He was just a little puddle in my hand, and I held him close to me and promised him that he'd have a wonderful life with me.

I don't know how well I've lived up to that promise, but I've tried.















He came with me after my divorce, and lived with me in the little house in my hometown that I selected with him in mind: fenced-in yard, outskirts of town with access to a big field, suitable for romping and ball throwing.

My father went with me to a few Jack Russell fun days & trials in the state, which was really cool. My father has always been a hunter and a fisherman, things that I could never really enjoy with him. This was something neat we could do together.

Briscoe came with me on my second date with Eric. On our first date, when Eric found out that I had a dog, his eyes lit up. To this day, I wonder if Briscoe is what sealed the deal for us.

So Briscoe emigrated with me to Windsor, Ontario. I promised him a wonderful life in Canada. Briscoe found himself living in a house that had hardwood floor throughout, which he hated. We put rugs down wherever we could, but he still skittered from room to room. We had no yard, but we took him to a local park whenever we could, which probably wasn't often enough.

When I got pregnant, I promised him that life would be better after the baby came - I'd have a whole year off work, and we'd go for lots of walks and spend our days together.

The baby came and took all my attention. I didn't recover well from the C section, so walking was difficult. Besides, the stroller handle was too short for me. I had to bend forward to push, and it hurt my back.

And one day, Briscoe bared his teeth and growled at my baby. I lost all sense of reason. I yelled back at him with my deepest, loudest, most ferocious yell, grabbed him and literally threw him into the entryway, and slammed the door.

I was angry at him for weeks afterwards and wanted to get rid of him. Eric pleaded for us to work through it - he loved that dog as much as if he had picked him out himself. I stated my terms - Briscoe has to go back to obedience school, and we were to work with a dog behaviour therapist, and actually DO what he or she recommended.

Well, we started down that road, but I had just started a new job and things were very busy, so that slid down the tubes. We coasted. Briscoe was only dimly on my radar those days - a food dish to fill, a water dish to fill, an occasional walk around the block to deal with.

I got into the habit of letting him do his morning business on the front yard unattended while I ran around getting ready for work and getting my daughter packed up for daycare. There simply wasn't a spare minute to actually go outside with him.

Then one morning the doorbell rang, and the guy on the porch asked if the dog in the middle of the street was ours. I peered past him, and saw Briscoe's limp body in the middle of the street. I yelled to Eric, grabbed a blanket, and ran out to him. I was certain he was dead, but he was whimpering. So I gathered him up in the blanket and drove him to an animal emergency hospital. Briscoe barely moved, but made a few whimpering sounds. The whole way there, I barked at him "Don't you dare go to sleep! You stay awake!"

Briscoe spend a few nights in the hospital. Amazingly, he was in pretty good shape. A truck with a plow on the front had smacked into him, and the angle of the plow, designed to remove snow, neatly sent Briscoe sailing off to the side. If it hadn't been for the plow, Briscoe would have been a goner. The guy who came to our porch had witnessed it. He was certain that the driver didn't even know he had hit a dog.

On the way home from the hospital, I apologized to Briscoe for neglecting him, for hating him after he growled at my daughter, for not giving him the love and attention he deserved, and for letting him run around loose outside because I couldn't be bothered to go out with him.

I promised him that from that point on, he would have a wonderful life.















We arranged with a self-employed friend who was a dog-owner to take him for romps in the park a few times a week with his own dog. We tried to take him for more walks to the park. And we never let him outside loose in our yard.

Then I applied for and was offered a position out here in Calgary.

I promised Briscoe a wonderful life here. Our house is just a block from an off-lead park, the largest in the city. I promised him that there would be more walks, more time outside, and more fun.

We found that we're even busier out here than we were in Windsor. Work hours are longer and our commute is longer. Our schedules are wonkier. And now our daughter is involved in activities - ballet, gymnastics, swimming, and so on.

So we hired a dog walker to come and take our dog to the off lead park to play. And that worked out pretty well, until recently, when Briscoe nearly died from some encephylitis of the brain. Thousands and thousands of dollars later in veterinary bills (and neuroligist bills and oncologist bills and intensive round-the-clock care and an exploratory surgery and IV and nurses and so on), Briscoe is better. He has a life expectancy of a few months or a few years - they don't know. But he remains alive only because of $300/month medicine.

He's almost back to normal except he tends to poop on the spot instead of asking to go outside. And he's a little more frail, and he looks much older than he is.

He's on my lap now.

I don't think he's had a wonderful life, but it hasn't been too shabby either. People say to me "He's just a dog." But he's my dog. I want him to be happy, have some fun times, and be content.