Why don't I just...

I welcome everyone’s comments even it they may be a bit hostile or negative. Each of us has a right to an opinion and a right to voice that opinion. In fact, one commenter says I’m a “sick f***” and that I would drive a person to drink if they weren’t already an alcoholic. So this post is dedicated to all those who think end-stage caretaking is a form of amusing entertainment for sadistic Nurse Nancy’s and bitter spouses.

Why don’t I just… put Riley in a long-term care treatment facility?

No matter how sick a person is if he is not declared incompetent, that person cannot be forced into any alcohol treatment facility. Even then, most of those types of facilities would not accept an individual that has been forced in a facility through an incompetency hearing. Recovery just doesn’t work that way.

As for a regular nursing, physical rehab or long term facility – they will not allow the consumption of alcoholic beverages on their grounds. They offer no detox care so they are not equipped to handle an end-stage alcoholic. Most end-stage alcoholics have been through the detox and rehab process many times with the end result being a return to drinking. Because of that statistic, it is extremely difficult to find even a rehab center that will take on a multi-relapse end-stage alcoholic. The reasons for that are that they want to invest their time in people who really desire sobriety and also to eliminate a risk of injury on their premises. After the last detox episode (when Riley had a stroke) there was no rehab facililty of ANY type that would accept Riley as a patient within a hundred miles of our local area. He was too big of a risk for a potentially fatal fall.

Why don’t I just… have him declared incompetent?

That’s not as easy as it sounds. Riley is incompetent to handle his own finances or any other legal matters. But, he is aware what a competency hearing is all about. He knows he is supposed to do to pay bills and buy groceries, etc. He has no ability to follow-through on those tasks and that is hard to prove. He often will appear to others as being perfectly capable of managing his own affairs. Outward appearances are deceiving and he has the ability to “pull the wool over the eyes” of medical professionals who are not truly trained in alcoholism.

Being an end-stage alcoholic is degrading enough all by itself. Having your spouse, parent, partner or whoever declare that you are incapable of the simplest things like choosing what you want to eat for dinner – is beyond degrading. It’s not my job to make him feel any worse about himself. He does that on his own.

I have full power of attorney which gives me the ability to act on his behalf over everything that is relevant. It’s all I need for now. I’m fortunate because Riley doesn’t usually cause me problems that would require court intervention. The only issue we don’t seem to be able to resolve is his desire to drive drunk.

Why don’t I just… let him drive?

OK. Well… now… that’s just a stupid question. Drunks should NEVER be allowed behind the wheel of a 4000 pound potential lethal battering ram. Anyone who has to ask that question is not someone I would want on the road when I’m running my errands.

Why don’t I just… pack him up and send him on his way?

I took on this task as a means of preventing my daughter or grandson from becoming Riley’s caretaker. If I sent him on his way – he would find his way into their homes and thereby create insanity in their lives. I am his legal spouse. He is my responsibility. Many years ago I took a vow that said something about “sickness and health.” This is the sickness part and I will stand by that vow.

If a family member were sick of some other disease – Leukemia, Alzheimer’s, Stroke, etc – I would not pack them up and send them on their way. I would do the best I could to provide a safe haven. Riley has suffered a stroke as a result of abusing alcohol; he can’t remember simple things like how to get a message off the answering machine or to remove a pan from a hot burner. If he lived on his own, how soon would it be before he burned down his house? I don’t know, but I’m not willing to take that risk.

He’s not my prisoner. He’s my sick husband who would not survive in the real world.

Why don’t I just… pick him up when he falls?

I’m an old lady who is not even five feet tall and I don’t have a lot of physical strength. Riley isn’t a huge guy, but when he falls he is like dead weight. He has no muscle mass and cannot (or will not) assist in any effort to get himself upright. Even my daughter has failed at attempts to pick him up after a fall. But, because he won’t “push” or “pull”, even she has stopped trying to come to his aid.

I could call 911 and the paramedics would race to my door and get him back into his chair. The problem is Riley falls multiple times during the day and I truly believe the EMT’s might have people who are in urgent need of assistance. Someday, I’m going to need them to come running – quickly – so I don’t want to be the little girl who cried wolf.

Why don’t I just… make him use a walker or wheelchair?

Using a cane, wheelchair or walker, in Riley’s opinion, is an indication that he is old or not physically fit. In Riley’s mind, he is perfectly fit and is young. He mocks the seniors at the local senior center and laughs at the frailties of the aged. He wants no part of anything that would make him appear to be more “seasoned” than he wants to be.

In order to use any devices that would aid in his mobility, he would need some upper body or arm strength. Riley has no muscle strength from which to draw.

Why don’t I just… make him wear a diaper?

See the above answer. Same thing applies here. Diapers are for babies and old people.

Why don’t I just… stop buying him booze?

Taking away Riley’s alcohol would throw him into a self-induced detox which could be fatal. Detoxing without medical supervision is extremely dangers and it becomes more dangerous each time it happens.

By the count of the centers listed in the workbook that I keep on Riley, he’s been through five – FIVE – medically supervised detox experiences. Each one was worse than the last in terms of the actual process causing seizures and strokes. None of the detox sessions ever led to long-term sobriety. After the last hospital stay, I promised Riley I would never push him into detox again. I do, however, encourage him and ask him if he wants to go. But, I don’t insist and I don’t push.

Why don’t I just… take him to AA or get him some help?

For Riley, AA is just a social activity. He would go all the time if they would just stop harping on the drinking thing. Because they don’t stop, he won’t go. He knows there is help there. He was very active in AA for many years, but now he just wants nothing to do with the “brainwashing” of any 12 step program.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. It’s the same way with alcoholics and counseling. While I think it would be one of the best ways for an alcoholic to recover, it requires pure, unbridled honesty. Most active alcohols are incapable of being completely honest. Many drink to cover their true feelings. I think it’s unrealistic to expect a counselor to take on the impossible of task of getting a drunk to tell how he/she really feels.

Why don’t I just… stop laughing at him?

I don’t really laugh AT him. I laugh at the circumstance. I laugh at the absurdity of the situation. I laugh at the comedy of errors. Many times, Riley joins me in the laughter. Most times, he doesn’t even know or understand that what he is doing is laughable. He just goes about his business.

I laugh because I don’t want to cry. Those tears were spent many years ago and what did I gain from that? NOTHING. If I do not laugh, Riley will become a burden to heavy for me to bear. I would crumble under that weight and that would defeat my purpose

It's finally ready...

FINALLY!!!

Hot Off The Presses!!!

The Workbook

for

Caretakers

of

End-Stage Alcoholics

by

Linda Jane Riley

This workbook is comprehensive, information packed guide that provides aid in every step of caretaking an end-stage alcoholic. Although the focus is on end-stage, it can be used at any stage of caretaking and any type of medical situation.

Use the workbook to track the general overall condition as well as specific areas, such as liver function. The charts and graphs make improvement and decline easy to visualize for both the medical personnel and caretaker.

Also included is a section on legal issues, such as Living Wills and Power of Attorney.

Get your copy today!!

Simply click the

BUY NOW

button in the right sidebar under Workbook for Caretakers of End-Stage Alcoholics

THIS IS WHAT'S INSIDE:

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Welcome to the Workbook for Caretakers of End Stage Alcoholics
Disclaimer
My Simplified Story
How to Use the Workbook
How to use as a hard copy
How to use from your desktop
How to take advantage of this workbook
A bit about the medical community
If you don’t have insurance
What to Expect
The Caretakers Chores
Tips for Maintaining Sanity
Basic Information
General Medical History
Current or On-Going Conditions
Resolved Conditions
Family History
Vital Signs and Current Conditions
Lab Results
General Lab Work
Liver Function Tests
MELD Score
Child-Pugh Score
Sample Lab Report
Sample MELD and Child-Pugh Calculation Charts
Detoxification History Record
Rehabilitation History Record
Summary of Condition
Example of Overall Condition Report
Legal Stuff
The Advance Medical Directive
The Living Will
Durable Power of Attorney
The Limited Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care
It’s Just My Opinion
Samples of Legal Stuff
Websites and References

If you should have any issue with downloading the book or using the book – please send me an e-mail immediately at immortalalcoholic@gmail.com. Please put “download issue” in the subject line. I’m a beginner at e-books and still might be working out all the kinks.

My disclaimer...

It's the first of a New Year and now is a good time to reiterate what I am and what I am not:

The following is a list of things that I do NOT claim to be:

1.                  A medical professional in any capacity;

2.                  A counselor or social worker of any sort;

3.                  A legal professional at any level;

4.                  A representative of any rehabilitation center;

5.                  An employee of any pharmaceutical endeavor;

6.                  A member of any anti-alcohol organization;

7.                  An affiliate of any governmental agency.

The following is a list of all the things that I DO claim to be:

1.                  The wife of an end-stage alcoholic;

2.                  The mother of a child who died as a result of alcoholism;

3.                  The step-parent of entire family who died after being hit by a drunk-driver;

4.                  A member of a family that has had many addiction issues;

5.                  An advocate of safe driving and healthy living through responsible choices;

6.                  The author of The Immortal Alcohol blog, The Workbook for Caretakers of End-Stage Alcoholics, and The Buffalo Buzz Newsletter.

Drunk driving bitch...

As we approach the New Years Eve party extravaganza, I feel that driving need to talk about drunk driving – again.

I live in a “community property” state. That means whatever is his is hers and vice versa. If a divorce takes place the property can be slip right down the middle. Assets, such as houses and cars, are sold for the cash and then the cash is divided 50%-50%. The same thing goes for the bills. All the money is added up and each much pay half of the bill to close out the account. Of course, what most likely happens is that the couple comes to some kind of amicable agreement about who actually gets or pays for what. At least, that’s what normally happens if one part of the couple isn’t driven by greed or insanity.

Let’s do a hypothetical:

You’ve been married to your spouse, Jane, for 25 years and have never entertained the thought of getting a divorce. She’s a good wife, excellent mother and fabulous lover who understands you totally and completely. Boy – those marriages are rare – aren’t you a lucky guy!!

Jane works for a travel agency and she has just closed a deal that sold out the entire cruise ship for a famous cruise line. The revenue earned is in six figures. The whole office is elated and everyone wants to celebrate the good fortune. She calls you and says she will not be able to get home for dinner, but she’s ordered take-out to be delivered so you won’t have to worry. Wow! She thought about your needs and accommodated for not being able to fix dinner. She’s the best!

The entire office group piles in their individual cars and heads up the road to a four-star steakhouse and karaoke bar. A couple of Appletini’s get things loosened up and when dinner arrives, a couple of bottles of champagne are uncorked. Talk is flowing freely, passes are made, and how about a bottle of wine to go with the prime rib? Oh – there are so many of us – we need a couple bottles. Someone is having chicken, so that’s a bottle of white. A glass of brandy with dessert and then everyone heads to the bar for some nails-on-the-chalkboard singing of “You Light Up My Life”. 

Jane deserves to have a good time and she’s partaking in it all, the appltini’s, champagne, wine, brandy and a couple drinks to get up enough courage to go on stage. She knows she’s probably had too much to drink, so she starts ordering coffee. The steakhouse is not in the best neighborhood and she doesn’t want to leave her brand new Aviator in the parking lot. She thinks if she just sits and drinks coffee for a while she’ll be fine to drive home and thereby avoid leaving her car and taking a taxi.

Just before Jane leaves the bar, she calls you to tell you she’s on her way home. You tell her, NO. Wait there, you’ll come get ner. But she insists she’s OK to drive and for you not to worry. She sounded fine, so you give in to her wishes.

An hour later, and after much flirting with the Daniel Craig-ish bartender, Jane gets into her Aviator and drives a few blocks when it happens. Jane runs a red light and slams into the driver side of a car from the cross street. She is not injured and runs from the car to help the driver from the other car. There is blood everywhere and the driver is moaning in pain. Jane calls 911 who responds quickly to her call.

Jane is arrested and taken to jail for drunk driving. The injured driver dies on the way to the hospital while Jane, in her neat little three-piece suit, primly waits inside a cell, for you to bail her out. She is stoic and remorseful that she has caused so much damage from her night of libations. But, she has never been in trouble before and isn’t sure what exactly to expect.

Fast-forward to months down the road, Jane has been to court, fined, put on probation and is moving on with her life. You’ve discovered that Jane was having an affair with the bartender at the steakhouse and you’ve filed for divorce. You are also moving on with your life. You have custody of the kids and your family home. You’ve just taken a very well paying job and look forward to vacations with the kids on the beaches of Cabo San Lucas.

But wait --- the family of the injured driver has filed a suit against Jane and her “estate” for damages resulting from the death of the driver. You think this is a hard blow for Jane, but it really has nothing to do with you even though you are also named in the suit. Jane has next to nothing in her estate to give the family of the dead driver and the two of you go to court.

The judge sits up on his high bench and you can’t believe what you are hearing. You live in a community property state and the “estate” includes everything you both own jointly and separately while you were married. The accident happened before a divorce was obtained, so you are also liable for the expenses incurred as well as Jane. The court orders a judgment in the amount of millions and you sit in amazement as you realize that you and Jane, together, must come up with this money. Your life will never, ever, be the same. Financially, you are destroyed.

Jane, your wonderfully loving and considerate wife, turned drunken adulteress, has taken your idyllic life from you and you must PAY for it. Life truly sucks.

Back to reality –

This is New Year’s Eve coming up here – like soon. Maybe it’s time to start planning on protecting yourself for the possible outfall of a night of celebrating the forthcoming fresh New Year. I’m well aware that I’m suggesting that you do what is nearly impossible to achieve. I’m suggesting that you find a way to keep the alcoholic in your life from getting behind that wheel and ruining the lives of many people – your life included.

I’m fortunate that I don’t have to worry about Riley driving. I’m a bitch about the whole car issue. I refuse to get his car registered or make it drivable. But, if he did have access to a car, I would probably be enough of a bitch to keep it from moving out of my driveway. One of the tires would mysteriously go flat, or the keys would be missing, or maybe I’d remove a couple of fuses.

I once read where a woman made one of those magnetic signs and put it on the back of her husband’s car -- just above the license plate. It read – “I’m a drunk driver. Please call 911 and stop me from killing someone.” It was in big letters and very noticeable if you just happened to be sitting at a light behind this car. Her husband drove an SUV and he never thought to look at the back of the car before leaving the house.

When the husband got out of jail, he reveled in telling all his friends about what a bitch his wife was to put that sign there and cause him to get arrested.

Her response – “I am proud to be a bitch and we are both lucky that you’ve taught me how to be one.”

Riley's brain damage...

            Riley’s drinking over the past year hasn’t been as bad as it was the year before. It’s because he was drinking beer instead of vodka and the actual intake of pure alcohol was less. But it really doesn’t change anything. The same things are happening inside his brain and liver as they would if he were drinking moonshine. Beer, wine, vodka, moonshine – they all damage the liver and the residual toxins accumulate in the frontal lobe of the brain. It’s a fact that cannot be denied especially if you were a visitor in my house on Christmas Day.

            Since Riley has changed from beer and wine to vodka, things have been getting a little more absurd than usual. His behavior is becoming less rational and more demanding. He is falling several times a day and talks to himself (and the TV) constantly. He is unable to walk through the house without holding onto a piece of furniture or the wall. He eats very little and usually ends up giving his full plate of food to Jade when I’m not looking.

When things get like this I do a little review of the facts to help me see things clearly. I came across this picture and thought this would be a great thing to share with my readers. I remember first seeing this when Riley and I were going through his first rehab center via the Navy. It’s been around a long time and I’m not sure who to give credit to for it’s existence.

            This illustration clearly shows which part of the brain controls what functions and from studying it, I can see that Riley’s Cerebral Cortex and Cerebellum have been damaged. The only thing that confuses me is that in my research, it is always the “frontal” lobe of the brain that gets damaged the most. So maybe it’s the frontal portion of the Cerebral Cortex that is the most at risk. So I found another picture:

(How Alcohol Attacks the Brain is from www.kickoff.net/au/alcohol.html. Please visit their most informative site.)

            Both of the illustrations have helped me understand why Christmas Day was filled with the off-beat humor gained from observing an end-stage alcoholic.

First thing in the morning, Riley appeared in my office wearing no shirt – which is very unusual. He queried me with – didn’t I think it was a bit chilly in the house. I replied that he might be warmer if he put on a shirt. His response – he didn’t put on a shirt because he hadn’t made the coffee yet. I’m not sure what one has to do with the other.

Riley fell getting out of his rocking chair while Alea was here on Christmas Day. She tried to help him get back into the chair, but he had no muscle strength to help pull him up. So she just left him on the floor – where he stayed for hours while we snacked and cooked dinner. We would hand him appetizers while he was on the floor. It was such an odd sight – Riley spread out across the floor between the loveseat and rocking chair – Jade sitting at his side and watching with interest – munching on the bite-size bread topped with prosciutto and mozzarella. A bite for Riley… A bite for Jade…

Since Alea was doing the cooking, she apologized to her father because dinner would not be ready at our normal 5 p.m.-ish dinnertime. He responded that he didn’t want dinner until 8 p.m. today. She replied that she didn’t know that we ever ate that late. He countered with he didn’t like eating at the same time everyday – he liked to change it up so it would be a different time everyday. Alea and I looked at each other with that look that implies “What????” She asked him if he lets me know when he wants dinner. His response – “It doesn’t matter. She should just always know when I want it.” Oh!! I was never trained in the art of mind-reading. I better find some classes on the subject.

Later on that day, I passed through the den to find Riley sitting in his rocking chair wearing just his red bikini tighty whities. I guess they aren’t whities if they are red. Anyway, I asked where his pants were. He said he had wet himself because he didn’t know he had to go and so he took them off. My next question – did you change your underwear? And, do you want me to find you some clean pants? The answer – He didn’t change the underwear because they didn’t get that wet. And – no he didn’t want to put on any other pants. I don’t know how you get your jeans wet without getting your underwear wet when going to the bathroom in your pants.

Seeing the pictures helped me understand the “why” of what happened. But, that really isn’t as interesting as seeing the humor in the absurdity of the day. Riley was never in any real danger and nothing he did really hurt anyone else. Well, OK, the fall could have hurt him – but it was a gentle fall rather than the one that gave him a blackened face. He was safe with his illogicality. Seeing for all of it for what it is makes it easier for me to snicker to myself and think – it could really, I mean REALLY, be a lot, lot worse.

A peaceful holiday...

I wish for all of you – a very peaceful holiday season. Living with an alcoholic can feel noisy and chaotic. So the carol “Silent Night” takes on a whole new meaning for us caretakers. A silent night is what we really want and I truly hope you get that – even just for a little while – sometime during the upcoming week.

My Christmas suggestion to you is:

To the Caretaker – take care of yourself. Treat yourself to some special time doing exactly what you would like to do. Read a book. Take a bubble bath. Go fishing. Take a walk. Go to a concert. Get a massage. Do whatever makes you feel at peace.

To the Alcoholic – the gift I suggest you give is not just for you, but for everyone in your family who loves you. There should be links on the left side of my blog for rehab centers that are advertising on my site. Click one of them. If there’s none there – search for one on the internet – there are many. Some of them have on-line chat so you can talk to a counselor TODAY. Even if you don’t agree to go into rehab, at least TALK to someone about it today. Give yourself the gift of a full, happy and productive life. Discover the world outside the body. Be the person that everyone, except you, knows you can be. And, give your caretaker the gift of seeing you happy. That’s all any of us really want.

A friend of mine wrote about when the right time is to tell your kids that there isn’t a Santa Claus. To that I say NEVER!! I wrote a story based on an actual experience that I had intended to submit to a contest on the trauma of telling your kids about Santa. Since I lost track of time, I didn’t get it submitted in time. So my Christmas gift to all my readers is this story. I hope you all enjoy it.

My Santa Story

No one gets through childhood without the harsh glare of reality that the real Santa does not sit on a big red chair in the middle of a large department store. How absurd! Everyone knows he is really in his workshop at the North Pole working with the Elf’s creating all those wonderful toys that are loaded into his big black bag. Just the idea that there may not even be a workshop is so disheartening that the child in cringes at the mere thought.

During my days as a reporter for the local newspaper, I was assigned the task of writing an obit for a gentleman who died just a few days before Christmas. Harry Barker was the owner of a small auto garage in an eclectic area of town known as the “Village.” He settled there as a young man, got married and raised four daughters, one of which, Susan, was a mechanic who worked with him in the garage.

I attended Mr. Barker’s Christmas Eve memorial service. He was highly regarded in the community. He often extended credit on just a handshake. If a customer was in hard financial times, the bill simply got “lost” in the shuffle of paperwork on his desk.

I offered my condolences to Mrs. Barker. I told her I would pray that she would get through the holidays with wonderfully sweet memories. To my surprise, she looked up at me and said “Oh dear, I don’t know what to do about Santa. What am I supposed to do?” I took her hand and tried to reassure her that everything would be OK. But she insisted, “Harry is gone and I’m the only one who knows! You have to help me.” I tried to stay calm while trying to calm Mrs. Barker, but calming people down just wasn’t my forte. I truly did not understand.

I asked her, “What can I do to help?” To my surprise she said, “There’s a list. We have to find it.” She grabbed my coat and tossed it to me as she hurried for the door asking Susan, for the shop keys as she tried to slip by her.

“Mom, let’s wait and go to the shop in the morning. We have guests. Whatever is it, it can wait.” Susan gently tried to redirect her Mother back toward the guests. But, Mrs. Barker was insistent. “No. There isn’t much time. Susan.” And with that we proceeded to walk the three blocks to the shop in confused silence.

Mrs. Barker searched through her husband’s desk, opened all the cabinets, and then… in the back of the shelves, among countless Haynes auto repair books, she found what she was looking for -- an old-fashioned frayed green cloth account book. She opened the book and we saw 1956 written in large block numbers across the top of the page. Below the year there was a list of names and addresses in one column and a description of something in the second column. The book contained year after year of the same sort of list. The last entry was the current year, 1998, and, just like the other years, there was a list of names.

Mrs. Barker sat behind the desk with Susan and me waiting for an explanation. “Harry loved this community. He had such a big heart and felt so blessed to have so much in our lives. We really didn’t want for much of anything. We had financial independence, beautiful girls, our life was full. Harry saw so much trouble in the lives of others and he was driven to give people help and hope.”

“Mom, everyone knows how generous Dad was. It was no secret.” Susan quietly reminded her mother.

Mrs. Barker continued, “You really didn’t know. He wouldn’t tell any of you girls that he wanted to be Santa Claus.”

I sat in the old wooden chair listening and shades of clarity were beginning to form. “Mrs. Barker, are you saying that Harry acted as Santa to people outside his family?”

“Yes! Yes! He wrote down names all year long. These people were ones who had done some unnoticed good deed for someone else. Some of the people would have had difficulty providing Christmas dinner or gifts for their own children. He wrote them all down. Here. Right here.” Like a fog that lifts in the afternoon sun, Susan and I could clearly see what Mrs. Barker was trying to tell us.

“Remember? After Christmas Eve dinner your father always had to go back to work for some reason or another? Yes, he went to the shop, but not to work. He put together baskets of things, food, toys, clothing, gift certificates, and maybe even a small tree. Then he took them around to the different houses on his list and dropped them at the front door. Sometimes he’d do a ‘ring and run’ thing. Sometimes, he’d call them anonymously from the shop and tell them to go to their front door. If was so much fun for him and he was always exhilarated when he returned home.”

Mrs. Barker and Susan decided not to let Harry’s tradition die. They took over his identity of Santa Claus and although Harry was gone – Santa was not. I helped them load the baskets and deliver them to the names on the list.

It was revealed to me at a very young age by my older brother and cousins, that Santa was really my parents. I was devastated. If there was no Santa, there was no hope of me ever getting anything I really wanted at Christmas. But, on the Christmas Eve of 1998 at the age of 34, I learned that there really was a Santa Claus named Harry.

The reality is there are probably a lot of real-life Santa’s out there, but mostly Santa is in the heart of everyone who believes in the good of other people.

My name is Jade...

Jade

And I’m a dysfunctional, co-dependent, Flat-Coated Retriever, mixed with some Spaniel. I live in a house in the country with my human Mommy and Daddy. Daddy is a drunk and so I am a Dog of a Drunk Daddy (DODD). I don’t know if there is a support group for that, but if there is I should probably be going.

Jax the Max Catz

I have a brother, his name is Jax, but I don’t think he is very much like me. He doesn’t bark. He makes this strange sound that sounds like crying and he does it a lot. He runs under me when I’m walking and rubs up against my face when I lay down. He’s all fuzzy and has spark-like needles that come out of his paws when he is mad. He always climbs trees when he is outside. I don’t know if he’s dysfunctional and co-dependent like me. He’s very independent and doesn’t pay much attention to anything other than the mice in the yard. No one rubs his head and says “good dog” or “bad dog”. Mostly they just rub his body without saying anything. I don’t understand why the humans talk to me and not to him.

I didn’t always live with this human couple. When I was just a tiny puppy I lived with Emily and her Mommy and Daddy. They were never home because they worked all the time. I had to stay locked in the place with the big white water bowl. It was small and there were no windows and I heard so many scary sounds. I wanted to protect the house so I barked and barked at all the scary things to make them go away. But they did not go away. They kept coming back all day long. I didn’t like that place.

When everyone came home they took me out and played with me. But they were tired so they couldn’t play with me for very long. I got to go outside for walks, but I had this thing around my neck and every time I wanted to go in a direction the neck thing pulled at me so I had to go where my human wanted me to go. I wanted to run. There were so many different smells. I have a very sensitive nose and could smell what everyone on the street was having for dinner. I wanted to go there and taste what they had. There was so much to explore and my time outside was very short.

I got too big to be in the white water bowl place, so Emily’s Mommy and Daddy locked me outside on the screened porch while they were gone during the day. That was much better than the white bowl place because I could see all the things that scared me before. There was the mailman and cars that screamed as they drove down the street. The screaming cars had colored lights on top that flashed. I didn’t like those cars and I wanted to chase after them. But I was locked on the porch.

Eventually, I found out that I could use my paws to scratch away the screen and escape to the outside world. It was joyous! I ran and ran and ran – all over the neighborhood! I met other puppies and other humans. Almost everyone was nice to me so I jumped up and tried to kiss them on their faces. I don’t know why they pushed me down and yelled at me to “go home!!!” – I just wanted to be friends.

When Emily’s Mommy and Daddy got home, they would tell me I was a “bad dog” and bring me inside the house. After that, they tied me up outside when they left for the day. I didn’t like that very much. I pulled at the rope and it choked me. I wanted to go visit my puppy friends and chase the screaming cars. But I couldn’t. I was attached to a post.

Emily and her family moved into a great big house on a hill with the Mommy and Drunk Daddy. There was a big yard and I was free to run all around it. But when I got to a certain place I would get a little sting on my neck and I learned that I should not go past the driveway.

A great big piece of water was just down the road and I really wanted to go there. Retrievers and spaniels love to swim and Emily’s Mommy and Daddy had taken me to the beach lots of times. My new human Mommy tied me to her and took me down to the big piece of water. It wasn’t as pretty as the other beach, but there were lots of birds to chase. Mommy threw sticks into the water and I would swim out to get them. Oh how wonderful it was to feel the water around me and to paddle with my legs! I didn’t want to go home, but she always made me come with her back to the great big house on the hill.

I was happy there, but I was confused. My new Mommy was always trying to get me to be calm and submissive and when I sat still for a few minutes, she would tell me I was a good dog. But when I put my paws on the countertop to get to the roast beef, she yelled at me and told me I was a bad dog. The meat smelled so good and tasty. I just wanted to know what human food was really like. When I tasted it – I loved it. I wanted more.

My Drunk Daddy would give me bits of his food from his plate. Human food was wonderful and I loved being paid attention to when he was eating. He petted me and talked softly about me being a good dog. He said I was his dog. Then Mommy would come and take away the plate and tell me I was a bad dog. I don’t really know what being a “good dog” or “bad dog” is… but somehow I think maybe it doesn’t really matter.

My Drunk Daddy would pat his shoulders and I would jump up to put my paws where he had patted. He let me lick his face and he rubbed my head telling me I was a good dog. Then he would give me a bite of his human food and keep telling me that I was his dog and that he loved me. But when I tried to do that with Mommy, she would push me down and tell me I was a bad dog. She told me to sit still and I did what she wanted – for a little while.

One day, Mommy took Drunk Daddy somewhere and he did not come back for a long time. Dark came and Drunk Daddy didn’t come home. I sat on his bed and watched out the window because I knew he had to come home soon. I missed him and the little bites of human food that he gave me. I missed hearing him tell me I was a good dog while rubbing my head. I wanted him to come home. It was a long time, but he did come home and we were so happy to see each other.

The happiest day of my life so far was when Mommy and Drunk Daddy put me in the car and took me to a place where I could run without getting a sting in my neck. They took off the stinging thing and I ran all over the open flat ground. There were birds everywhere and I could chase them until I was too tired to run. Another dog came from across the street to say hello. Her name is Maggie and we became instant best dogs. We chase each other all over the open ground and when there are humans with black sticks that make a big noise and smoke (Drunk Daddy calls them guns) in the woods we bark and try to chase them away. I don’t know what they do with those guns, but I just know someone is going to shoot their eye out.

There's a game I play with Mommy and Drunk Daddy. I grab the soft fluffy things from the sofa and show them to Drunk Daddy. He says "Oh, Jade, you're not suppose to have that pillow." Then Mommy yells "Jade -- Drop it!" But I don't drop it, I make her chase after me all around the house. Then when I don't have anyplace else to run, I drop it. She says "bad dog" and puts the soft thing way up high so I can't get it. I love having things in my mouth -- water bottles are really good because they squeak when I chew on them. I like chewing on things like Drunk Daddy's slippers. Mommy chases me to get those back too. I love those games and I will play them forever.

I think I’m dysfunctional because my Mommy tells me one thing and my Drunk Daddy tells me something else. I really don’t know what to do, so I just follow my instincts – like when I took the steaks off the big black thing that was outside. The black thing was hot, but it wasn’t too high for me to jump up and snatch what was there. Drunk Daddy and Mommy came out and there was nothing on the big black thing for them to eat. Mommy was yelling at me that I was a bad dog. Drunk Daddy just rubbed me head and said “Those were good steaks, huh, Jade. You’re such a good girl.”

Jade and Riley taking a nap.

If my Drunk Daddy was not so drunk all the time, I probably wouldn’t get those bites of human food. My instincts tell me that he would agree with Mommy more often and I would have to take a lot more baths and eat a lot more of that stuff from the bag that gets put into my bowl next to my water. I love my Drunk Daddy just the way he is and I wouldn’t want to change anything about him.

I heard Mommy say that she has a new stinger thing to put around my neck. She says it will help to make me a “good dog.” But, I’m not sure I want to be a good dog. I’m afraid that if I am the way Mommy wants me to be, Drunk Daddy will not rub my head and tell me I’m his dog anymore. I’m afraid I won’t get any more steak.

Maybe I should be more like Jax. I should just ignore everything and go climb a tree.