Tails From Rainbow Bridge: Flying in the Hurricane with 12, Chappy and Fuzzy

The deluge of weather related prayers have continued.  We angels have barely had a moment’s rest.  We wish we could do more.

I had just settled under the covers after a 14-hour grind of prayer delivery when there was the sound of a giant paw banging on my door.  I crawled out of bed and opened the door.  12, my massive angel friend and his brothers Chappy and Fuzzy Bacon stood in my doorway.

“Do you know what my mom did?” 12 asked.  “She got someone to go to Tommy Tunes’ Dad’s house to board up his windows for him before Irma hits.  She is his guardian angel.  We have to help my mom aid our friends.”

I invited them inside and made them cocoa.  “I understand you boys want to help people, we all do.  I have even met with Mother Nature.  She is one fierce witch.  But there is nothing we can do.”

12 cleared his throat.  “If Mommy can get Tommy’s Dad’s windows boarded up from four time zones away then there must be something we can do.”

“I wish I could think of something buddies but I can’t.”

“What if,” Chappy began, “like a team an angel superheroes we fly into the hurricane?”

I spit out my cocoa.  “Fly into a hurricane?  We would be knocked to Jupiter.”

“I don’t think so,” 12 said.  “I have the size and strength to impede the storm, Chappy has the charm to lessen its anger, Fuzzy has the ferocity to combat it, and a hurricane is nothing but a bunch of swirling air.  No one sucks the air out of a room like you Foley.”  Everyone else’s superpowers sounded so much more impressive.

“Our jobs are to be angels,” Chappy contributed.  “If that means flying into the hurricane in a feat of futility then that is what we do.”

“It is futile Chappy!” I said.  “But, we are angels, and the job of an angel is often futile, so I say let’ fly.”

We took off that night because if you are going to do something stupid you need to do it right away before you think it through.   We approached the storm from the west.  12 took the lead.  We flew into the wind, and the four of us bounced off of it.  We regrouped.  Chappy suggested we form a spear with 12 at the tip.  We flew into the storm again, and this time we penetrated deep inside of it.  We were violently thrashed back and forth.  12 put his shoulder to it and tried to get it to move, Chappy tried to reason with it, Fuzzy barked at it, and I tried to suck up as much wind as I could.  

We found ourselves in the eye of the storm.  Chappy told us to follow him, and he found a weak spot, and we flew out of the hurricane.  We landed at my house where we all curled up and went to sleep.

we awoke, we hurried to see what fury the storm had wrought.  I don’t know if we accomplished anything except giving ourselves some bruises, but even if we were able to decrease the wind speed by one mile an hour, or push it just a mile out to sea, it was worth it.

Every little bit helps when the rain falls, the wind blows hard, and the tide surges.  

I know, like 12, Fuzzy and Chappy’s mom everyone will do what they can to help.  We are all one another’s angels.  

Chappy is our May 11, 2014 Pup of the Week

The British, and some Americans, refer to males as chaps.  “He’s a fine chap,” they say.  I don’t think I have ever heard anyone use “chap” in any other connotation other than describing an upstanding individual.  The term chap is derived from chapman, an old English term for an honest tradesman.

When I first joined Doggyspace 7 years ago, on my very first day, I made three unique named friends from California:  12, Chappy and Whiskey.  Oh how those names rolled off the tongue.  12, Chappy and Whiskey:  Like Tinkers, to Evers, to Chance, or Crosby, Stills and Nash.  

What wonderful, wise, kind, true friends they became.  In an illogical world we could find sage advice in the comments under their picture.  When we were down, they provided furry shoulders to cry on, paws to hold, and smiles.  They celebrated with us, played with us, prayed for us, and were our rocks.  We believed they would be with us forever.

Their pack expanded.  There was first Fuzzy Bacon, whose time was brief, then Blue  Last March we lost 12, the leader of the pack, and while Jasper, a fine dog and great friend joined them, we knew we lost a great leader in 12, and missed our original terrific trio.

At the beginning of October a small growth on Chappy’s side grew alarmingly.  The little growth had grown into a cancerous monster and Chappy needed emergency surgery.  12 and I put on our angel wings and watched over the surgery.  It was difficult.  The tumor was very large.  But the doctor consulted with 12 and I and we termed the surgery a success.par

A month later my parents, and Pocket and River, got to meet Chappy’s wonderful parents at Pokey’s house.  My pack found Chappy’s parents to be wonderful, kind, generous people.   I must admit I went into a snit for a week that I had gone to the Bridge before I got to meet them, but I have slipped into their sweet dreams to be able to spend time with them and get to know them better, and if I wrote a pet parent of the year blog it would very likely be about them.

Two months ago another large tumor appeared on Chappy’s side. Again, the surgery was successful, but a short time later two more growths appeared and Chappy asked his parents for no more surgeries.  He was going to spend as much time with Mom and Dad as he could, and then when he was ready, he would cross the Bridge to join 12, and his other siblings, Travis, Irie and Fuzzy.

Which brings me back around to the origin of the word chap, because Chappy is the definition of a good chap.  He always put others first.  He made the decision for his Mom, collecting his best bandannas and telling his Mom it was time to depart.  Before he came to the Bridge he contacted me to make sure I was ready, and had me gather his Bridge Pack to meet him.   

His sibling were so overjoyed to see him, and being Chappy he greeted everyone graciously.  There was lots of running, romping, and tail biting. But I could tell he missed his family, and once everyone had calmed down I took him to the River of Life so he could watch over them.  He’s been doing that a lot since he arrived.  He wants to know his Mom is going to be all right.  We keep telling his she will, but it takes time, and we do have a lot of that here.

Chappy’s Mom’s and Dad’s hearts will heal in time, and he will check on them less, just like 12 did before him.  Sort of the way things work in these parts.  

But as for now, I lay next to Chappy as he watches his Mom’s reflection in the river, for as long as it takes, because that’s what a fine chap would do.

The Gustavson Pack is our July 24, 2011 Pack of the Week

Often life is like a trip at sea.  For days you have sunny skies and clear sailing.  Then the sea gets rough, a storm comes in, a sail is torn, the mast snaps, and you become swamped as your family starts to sink.  All you can do is chart your course and hold on tight.

That is what happened this week to our pack of the week, Fuzzy Bacon, the late, beloved macaw Irie, now flying at the bridge, their canine siblings, 12, Chappy and Whiskey, and their strong and courageous parents, The Gustavsons.

Their lives have gone up and down, listed from one side to the next, but under the study hand of their parents, they keep moving forward.

Fuzzy originally answered to Dexter when he was rescued by Roxy, Dutchess and their Natalie who fostered him until his forever home could be found.  That home seemed to belong to the Gustavsons who opened their home, their heart, and their great originality at naming pups, changing Dexter to Fuzzy Bacon.  When Natalie put Fuzzy in his new Daddy's arms he snuggled in with a sigh realizing this was home.  Each Gustavson pup came out to greet Fuzzy with various degrees of enthusiasm.  But he was accepted as one of their own.  Soon they were all playing in the yard.

Shorty after Fuzzy joined the family their macaw sister, Irie began passing blood through her cloaca which is a birdie butt and a good word to know in Friends With Words.  At first the birdtor thought it was just from her laying eggs.  But it was just the first swell of an incoming storm.


Like many of our rescue friends Fuzz had aggression issues.  Let's call them the dark clouds on the horizon.  His parents decided to send him to a K9 Clinic for re-hab, and, as we sadly found out this weekend, when someone says you need to go to re-hab, you do not say no, no, no.  But the clinic wasn't sure if they wanted to say yes, yes, yes because there were some "red flags" about Fuzz's personality that might prove to be too difficult to overcome.  His mother cried, knowing, at heart, Fuzz was a gentle soul.  His Dad gave him confidence, telling him he knew he could do it.

The wind began to rip at the sails.

Fuzzy was diagnosed as being a stealth aggressor which would be great if we hadn't already caught Bin Laden, and ironic since Osama did not eat bacon.  This means that he goes from being happy with his tail wagging to being angry without warning.  It would probably be easier for people to understand if it was called Nicholas Cage syndrome.  But then people would be confused that Fuzz's aggression came from massive amounts of cocaine and not something that happened in his past life.

Fuzzy had to go to pre hab before he went to rehab.  It is exactly what it sounds like, prison before re-hab, Lindsay Lohan land, when they watch you and evaluate how much rehab you need.  After that it was a trip to AA Aggressors Anonymous.    Fuzzy got dropped off and told his Mom and Dad he would do his best to make them proud.

The staff decided Fuzzy needed even more pre hab and obedience which was silly.  Whiskey was a tough rescue and his parents did a wonderful job with him teaching him obedience.  What was different with Fuzzy?  But the people at pre hab were "experts" so their parents  went along. 

Then the expert gave them the most distressing news.  He thought that Fuzz needed a new home.  That he needed to be an only dog.  They began the sad task of finding Fuzzy a new home.

Then his father came to a great realization, the "experts" were a bunch of ass hats.  Mom and Dad decided for a second opinion from another expert who was more pert than ex.  They found another person to evaluate our friend, this one came highly recommended by another dog owner they know.  So they busted Fuzzy out of rehab and brought him home, back to his family.  We don't know what the new expert will say, but whatever Fuzzy Bacon's fate will be it will be decided out of love and patience, and he's a very lucky dog to be a Gustavson.

But there are times the storm won't let you free. 

This week Irie the Macaw passed from this Earth in her Mama's arms.  From the Gustavson pack's blog breaking the sad news to us:  "Mom and dad were gently petting her and telling her how much they love her.  She had started pooping blood again, and even a trip to the vet yesterday was not enough to save her"

I don't know why such bad things happen to such a wonderful pack.  I have spent much of my life lying in the sun asking such questions. 

Life is a ride on rough seas.  Some days it's calm.  We've got to learn to enjoy the calm before the storm.


12, Chappy, Whiskey, Fuzz, Mama and Papa Gustovson, we love you.   We love your unwillingness to give up on a family member, the love your give our kind, the inspiration to others you give, the kindness, the wise advice, the friendship.

You are our pack of the week, and will always be number one if our hearts.

Pocket has had it with Government Poopcare

Just when I think I am out of politics they pull me back in. Let's be truthful pups. While we adore our Mommies and Daddies, and while we delude ourselves into believing that we control the house, the truth is that we are the citizens and Mommy and Daddy are the government.

We understand the need for government. But we do not want government in every aspect of our lives. There are parts of our lives that government should stay out of: our toys, the stuff we roll in during walks, and most importantly our pooh. But now comes a story from Santa Cruz California.

There is a young dog there, Chappy, who enjoyed an occasional taste of pooh ala carte. Then the government stepped in and began feeding it's citizens pineapple. The unsuspecting citizens, totally trusting their government, and, to be honest, if they will eat pooh, are up for chowing down on anything, eagerly ate the pineapple.

And then they found out that the government has infringed on our precious bodily fluids. His pack took their morning Vicks, and then he went to enjoy his constitutional right to enjoy a morning stool when the most malicious odor arose from the object of his desire.

Then he realized where that smell had come from. It was the smell of his new treats. Pineapple! And it wasn't the sweet smell of steamy pooh, it was bitter, and as much as the Vick drew him in the awful smell of the forbidden fruit drove him away.

The government had taken control of his stools, stolen the simple treat of shit snacking. I say this is enough! It is time that we stand together and take back our Vicks. The government neither owns our bodies or what we put into it, or slip out of it.

And Chappy, a true puppy patriot, the next day, found the courage, found the intestinal fortitude to stomach the smell and chomp down on his stool. This brave dog did not let the Government ram poop care down his throat, he ate crap even without the appetizing smell of pooh.

So I say to the Government enough! Back off our shit! You do not own our bodies! We will not stand for Government controlled poop care! Our ancestors died for the right to eat their own excrement and we are willing to do the same. So be warned Government. You will take my pooh when you wrench it form my cold dead paws!