Prison For Dogs

Two weeks before we moved to England we had to say goodbye to our dog, Bonnie. Bonnie was a middle-aged Black Lab. She was the darling of our hearts. We said goodbye to her because we were flying her over to England two weeks before we left. It was a very pathetic scene in our living room. I remember the huge travel crate that was sitting there, waiting for her. Waiting for her body. We were all crying and hugging her and saying goodbye. I know she was just a dog, but she wasn't stupid. She knew something was going on and it wasn't good. The worst thing about it was that she couldn't understand us. I was miserable over this, because what was about to ensue was only going to get worse.

You see in England, they don't have rabies and so any animal that is brought into the United Kingdom must undergo what is known as Quarantine. Depending on the animal, depends on how long the quarantine. For dogs, it was six months. Now just in case you're thinking that quarantine is like "The Kennel" it's not. When you take your dog to the kennel the dogs usually get free time from their crate to run around and chase other dogs and play together outside.

Quarantine is not like that. It's basically prison for doggies. The cell's are about three and half feet wide and about 12 feet long. They are made of cement and the dogs are not allowed to have plush toys. Rubber things were OK, but that was about it. The dogs were also not allowed to have interaction with each other and they were not allowed to play outside at all. Half the cell was indoors and it had a small doggie door that connected to the rest of the cell which was outside, but completely enclosed.

Three weeks or so later, we were finally able to see her. I remember getting out of the car and you could hear the sound of barking and howling from the parking lot. I was sick to my stomach about what it was going to be like.

Here was this dog that we had for seven years. She was loyal...waiting by the door for us to come home from school every day. She came to wake up each family member in the morning with her nose and her tongue in your face. She didn't play favorites with us kids. She adored us as much as we adored her...and we sent her to jail. I was nervous about how she would react toward seeing us again.

After we entered the place, we were led down a sterile, gray cement corridor. As we walked along we saw all the other dogs in quarantine howling, barking or sitting very forlornly on the floor. And then we were led to her cell. The "warden" unlocked her door and we were allowed in two at a time. You couldn't fit more people than that. She wagged her tail and wiggled her bum and barked for us. She was so happy to see us. I was relieved. But I still wanted to cry. Her surroundings were so bleak and mean-like and cold.

I remember sitting down on a little stool next to her. I couldn't even stretch out my legs completely because it was so narrow. Then I sunk through the doggie door and threw a ball to her on the cement run that she had. She had to be careful not to run too hard or her paws would slide on the cement and she would run into the back wall which was actually a metal fence.

It was so depressing. There was nothing to do. So I also just spent some time sitting on the ground with her. Eventually we had to leave. I don't recall that we could spend a lot of time visiting. But leaving was awful. We gave her kisses and hugs and started getting up. You could see the panic in her big brown eyes. She got up too and began to pant and make circles around us. I know what she was thinking: "Wait! Where are you going?" "What are you doing?" "Don't leave me here!" "Take me with you!"

Heartbreak, I mean stick a spoon in your heart and gouge it out heartbreak. She would try to get out with us and we would have to push her back and shut the door. Then the howling started and the whining. It was the kind of whining and whimpering that she had done in her puppy years. She wouldn't stop. We had to walk away. We would walk down the hallway to the office and we could hear her whimpering and howling over the other dogs. I was sobbing. I never left that place with dry eyes. Ever. I hated that place. I hated myself because we chose to put her there.

Eventually my mother began bringing raw-hide bones and would pull them out right before we left in order to distract her, and it worked. Finally after the horrid six months were over, we were finally able to bring her home. But she was never quite the same. That place aged her considerably and even though she lived for another four more years, that place just made her older, faster.

When she finally got out, we brought her home to our new house and new surroundings and eventually she adjusted too the oddity of it all.

Five years after we moved back to the States, we brought everything home with us and all the things we picked up along the way. But of all the new and exciting things that we brought back to the States, there was one thing that we had to leave behind. It was the little gravesite behind the garden that held the ashes of our darling dog. The one and only, Bonnie.

Lunch for Two (The hardest thing I've written so far.)

I arrived at my grandmother's apartment this afternoon with lunch in hand for the two of us. I was supposed to take her out for lunch, but she said was feeling weak and would I mind if we just stayed inside instead. So I brought sandwiches on rye bread and coffee with me.
When I arrived she buzzed me in and in the front foyer there was a soft buzz of conversation by all the old ladies sitting around. That is until I walked passed them. They grew silent and wide eyed when I said hello. They all sat around and reminded me of old ostriches, for some funny reason. Curiously arching their necks, I suppose they were wondering who I was there to see.

When I walked into my grandmother's place she was waiting for me inside, propped on her walker and smiling from one pearly earring to the other. I secretly wanted to burst into tears. She has become so frail and feeble. But it's not her aging that makes me want to cry. It's her desire to keep going and not allow herself to fall apart, even though her body would have it otherwise.

For a woman who is 87 years old, she is still beautiful to me. She still gets nicely dressed. I'm not talking velour jump suit and orthopedic shoes either. I'm talking pretty turtle necks, tasteful jewelry, shoes and socks that match and always, lipstick. I adore this woman and she adores me.
As I walked into the kitchen I saw that she had already set her little table for two. Complete with wine glasses! And cheese cut up with tooth picks sticking out the top along with a little pyrex cup filled with sliced pickles as our hors d'oeuvres. It was such a humble little setting, but the fact that she took the time to prepare it for me touched me deeply.

She sat down and I distributed our tasty meal. We had such a lovely time. Talking and laughing together in her kitchen. We drank pomegranate juice out of the wine glasses. " I know! Let's get drunk!" She chuckled.

Then after I cleaned up we moved to the couch and she asked me to read the stories that she has been writing for the newspaper that circulates around her building. Now how do you like that? Eight seven, hands disfigured from arthritis and she is hand writing her memories and posting them for the enjoyment of others. I read her stories out loud. Stories about the circus coming to town, about growing up during the depression and about helping to harvest the tobacco fields in Massachusetts. I didn't even know that tobacco could be grown in Massachusetts.

We sat and continued to laugh and ate chocolates and be still and enjoy one another. Eventually though, I had to go. "Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea, or a piece of pie?" She asked me. I wanted to say yes so badly, but the lump that began forming in my throat when I got there was becoming harder to swallow. "I wish I could, but I need to get going." I said. "It's just that, I don't know if I'll ever see you again." She said. This was killing me now. "You'll see me again." I reassured her, but I think I was also trying to reassure myself. "Well, I want you to have this she said and gave me a beautiful silver ring that she got out of a little box and I want you to take anything else that you want from here with you. " "I can't." I said, fighting the tears that were brimming. I took the ring because she gave it to me, but I couldn't bring myself to go around and shop for whatever else I wanted.


"Wait, I want you to have this too." She said and handed me some cash. "No, please." I pleaded. "Take it. I want you to have it." So I took the cash and stuffed it in the back pocket of my blue jeans. My grandmother is so broke, she's like the widow who gave the two mites in the Bible. Only my grandmother gave those two mites to me.


I gathered my things. Told her I loved her. Hugged her little body and kissed her wrinkled cheek. "I love you too, My Little Honey Bun." She said to me. (That's what she's always called me.) Then I smiled and walked out the door. I fought back the tears as I walked down the hallway and out to the car. But before I reached the car I turned around to see her waving from her window and I waved back and shouted as loud as I could "I LOVE YOU!!"

Then I got into the car, drove off and pulled over by the side of the road and dissolved into tears. I cried because she is so old and unwell. I cried because I only get to see her twice a year. I cried because a generation in my family is dying off and I can't hold on to anyone.

This is what I think about my grandmother and the elderly in general. I think they are really precious. I think they are also sorely overlooked in our society today. It breaks my heart over and over again. I think about them being alone, being sick, being poor, not having people to come and visit them. I can't stand it. So when I go home, I 'm gonna try and do something about it. But I'll keep that private for now, I gotta work out the details....