Monday, May 26, 2025

Rest In Peace, Oscar Mayer







 

Oscar Mayer Who…

By David Waite


Who wore out his welcome with at least one family

Who, as a 6-month-old puppy, adopted us in 2008

Who was my best birthday present ever

Who graduated from puppy school, but refused to do “tricks”

Who came with the name that inspired the names of two to follow

Who welcomed Tootsie Roll and Jimmy Dean to the family

Who each in the pack is named for what they look like 

Who played dog toy tug of war with Tootsie and Jimmy

Who was supposedly a dachshund, but was also something else

Who looked kind of like a dachshund, but not quite

Who could do things dachshunds do not do

Who could jump over obstacles and chase flies

Who barked at animals he watched on TV

Who kept the squirrels on their toes

Who pulled out a field mouse from its tree stump burrow

Who did not like getting in trouble for peeing on the puppy pad

Who learned to flip the pad over to hide his crime

Who loved to play hide and seek, and always found us

Who weighed 10 pounds but thought he weighed 100

Who liked to jump up and bark into the faces of the big dogs 

Who would be your best friend as long as you knew he was in charge

Who patrolled the neighborhood, large and in charge

Who, like cats, had 9 lives, maybe more

Who once fell off a 12-foot retaining wall, and was OK (long story)

Who once swallowed a large dog treat and nearly died (long story)

Who grieved for the passing of Tootsie in 2020

Who then slowed down gradually, year by year

Who eventually could no longer fly and chase flies

Who developed limited vision, hearing, and trouble walking

Who sometimes fell down and bumped into things

Who no longer patrolled the neighborhood, but… 

Who still knew who we were and where to find his food

Who grieved for the sudden passing of Jimmy in February 2025

Who then did not want to eat, except from our hands

Who recovered with the warming weather and went on walks

Who happily hopped and stumbled as best as he could

Who, on 25 May 2025, peacefully crossed over the Rainbow Bridge 

Who again lives large and in charge in the great dog park in the sky

Where Oscar, Tootsie, and Jimmy play dog toy tug of war once again








Monday, April 14, 2025

 



Jimmy Dean passed away on 3 February 2025 at the age of 16

Dear Jimmy Dean Waite:

        His paws are warm. He twitches under my soft palm. All is focused on breathing. All other systems of his small body are shut off. He barely blinks. There is no food left in his digestive system. He won't eat. Can’t eat. Only the fast rhythm of his heart. The medicine he is forced to drink is sour and disgusting. It leaves a horrible taste in his paralyzed mouth. His tongue sticks out, no longer able to swallow or keep it in. 
He twitches again. There's fear of having another stroke especially when he's already gone through two of them. His eyes are glossy and accepting for what's to come. He knows I'm here with him despite being blind and so close to the cliff of death. There is no pain anymore. 
I leave. I regret leaving him. I thought he had more time. I thought I would be back before he departed from our world. But I went anyway. 
When I came back, he was gone. Fifteen years. Ten were with me.
His paws are cold. Ears are cold. Eyes still open but a void of life and now dry. Rigor mortis takes over. His body is stiff. He lays there in his dog bed. Even his brother grieves. My tears are no more. My eyes are puffy and hurt from crying quietly. His body is still warm, cooling now. As I lay my hand on his chest, there is no heartbeat. No breathing. No more life. I lay my head on his firm stomach. There is no growling. No breathing, No warmth. No more life.
        An hour passes. I refuse to leave again. I don’t go until I’m pulled away.
“He’s dead,” I would repeat to myself. Dead. Dead. Dead. It doesn’t fully hit me. I realize, it never will. Never. Grief is not something you get over, it’s simply something you learn to live with. 
        Two days is all it takes—only a day to understand he’s leaving, only hours to sit and cry and wait. Every minute is another accomplishment until it's not—until he's gone. The feeling of your stomach sinking into the abyss never passes. The throbbing in your skull never goes. The tearing of the muscle in your heart never dies. But Jimmy died. Jimmy went. Jimmy passed. Death makes you appreciate life. If you've never seen it, you aren't living. Well, life until– you have no more. No more life. 
        He's dead. I stay by his side. Hoping. Waiting. Hoping and waiting for a heartbeat, a small breath, a simple twitch. But, I know he's gone.
I miss you, Jimmy Dean. 

By Elsa Rose Hess