Saying goodbye to Squirt

Squirt slipped away so peacefully a the end that I couldn't tell she was gone.

That disturbed me some at first, but I've decided that she used up all of her spurt, her energy, and isn't that the way to go?

Eighteen years is a long time, and I still find myself going to her bed to pet her; her presence has been such an ingrained part of our lives.

 She taught us some valuable lessons in those years. Like all dogs, Squirt had an innate sense of fun, and it was mixed with, in her case, a quiet kind of stubborn determination that wasn't evident unless you got to know her will.

She underscored the power of exercise. We're convinced that her longevity is due to the fact that we took her regularly on long walks, plenty of runs and lots of trips to the dog park. We pushed her her hip sockets began to erode, and that kept her as mobile as long as possible.

For me, that means I need to keep running until I can't run anymore, then walk until I need to stroll, then shuffle behind a walker. Don't quit.

Her time at the end got me thinking plenty about the existence of God and the joy and sadness of the nature's system of life. I'm not sure I can accept a God of the Bible, particularly as he is in the New Testament, the one who cruelly tests people, sets some rather harsh, weird rules and is prone to fits of murderous anger.

I mean, when he created us, an All-Knowing, All-Powerful God would have known we would be prone to screw up and make allowances for that.

But something is underneath it all, maybe not a grand puppeteer, but something. Squirt fought for life in her in own Zen way, and if it were purely an existence predicated on survival of the fittest, I think she would have thrown in the towel long ago. But there was something more there, a love of life, an acknowledgement that it was important. If I only knew why.

The last days of little Squirt

At 18 years old, the fact that this little American Eskimo dog is alive is pretty remarkable.

But she's always been full of moxie, this little dog, barking and running and brawling with bigger beings since she came into our lives 16 years ago.

When we first saw her, she was shivering in the back of a humane society cage, and we thought she would be this meek little lapdog. She immediately put that to rest, running and playing with Maverick, our Vizsla as if she knew him forever.

Squirt moved in quick little bursts of energy. She would nip at the heels of Mav, then squirt away from him. She always was a Squirt.

She would run with me and Mav, too. pulling on the leash like a sled dog. It was nothing for her to go five, six miles. But a few years ago, her physicality slowly started to erode. I would take her for half mile jogs, then walks, then around the block, then just up the street.

Finally she was reduced to staggering around the back yard like a drunk. Then she lost the use of her back legs.

We carry her where she wants to go. We know that she won't last long, and we agonize over the decision to put her down. Are we keeping her with us because of us, or because of her? Here's the thing: Old dogs usually tell you when they are ready to go. Something dims in their eyes, and they look at you as if asking for your help to make it all go away. So far, Squirt hasn't had that look.

She looks at you with bright little eyes, pointy ears perking around at attention.

Squirt is tough, and there's something innate in her that values life.

Back in the saddle

Tonight's bike ride won't win any Strava king of the mountain points.

I rode 1.6 miles with about an 8-mph-average, a slogging loop through the neighborhood on a single-speed mountain bike.

This was my first bike ride of the year. It was 10 degrees out. I nearly wiped out riding through a three-inch rut made in one of the city streets, where car tires wore grooves into the hard-packed snow that covers the pavement. It was dark.

I'm not sure if it was fun or not.

I had planned to go nine miles, or three loops around my Southeast Wausau neighborhood. 

I wanted to stay close to home. It's dangerous riding at night, and especially so on a night in this winter. No driver is expecting to see a cyclist at 8:30 p.m. in conditions like this, so they're apt to run me down, thinking I was no more than an illusion, a snow mirage.

That is, if the driver saw me at all. Riding through these streets, with their four-foot high snowbanks, is like riding through frozen canyons or a winter maze, and nobody in a car can see anything coming off from side streets. So they -- and I, if I'm honest -- just plow ahead and hope for the best.

Traffic was quiet, though. 

But I turned around halfway through my first loop, or about 1/6th of the way through my journey, because my headlight went dim.

I bought this light last year, and it cost about half what my first car did. I love it. It's a shining beacon that helps lead me through the darkness, and it lasts and lasts and lasts. But even it, as good as it is, needs to be recharged once in a while. I think the last time I had used it was last July.

So really, I'm lucky that it lasted the 12 minutes it did. It goes dim when it runs low on power, giving me a chance to turn around, or worry or get another light for a while longer. I'm not sure how much longer it will last when it goes into the power-saving dim mode, and I'm hoping never to find out.

It's saying much about this particular winter in that I haven't ridden at all, and here it is March 4.

Usually I can ride through most of it, with January the only month I have to take completely off, and even then I can get out for a jaunt or two.

Last year I rode six miles in a temperature of 9 degrees below zero. This year I vowed not to ride if it was below 20.

But it's been so cold, the 10 degrees tonight felt downright balmy, and I was half tempted to wear shorts.

Last year by this time, I had ridden 70 miles. Not much by many standards, but not bad either.

It's going to be tough to catch up. I need a recharge, too.