don't worry about her weight, she'll bulk up like you and norm sr. in no time
fixed.
Winnie is beautiful! Welcome to "the best thread in the message pit"!
If I had known then what I know now...
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
5 years old, a treatable eye/skin condition, super ugly cute. Sweet as can be, a farm dog rescue. Right now we're fostering him. And calling him - wait for it - Madison.
I just checked him out....he looks like a lovable goof!
did you catch the new name, norm? it's not a town in Wisconsin reference....
If I had known then what I know now...
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
I love Madison E! He looks like the dog I posted and named George.
Winnie is a lovely girl!
The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.
This is the best place to come if you need any help.
Thanks. I think I'm gonna need it. Couldn't be more excited. This dog is just chilling too. Have had so many guests and she just walks up to each and says I.
Winnie just might be the latest doggie thread superstar!
If I had known then what I know now...
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
I don't mean to be Debbie Downer, but Codie found this on the internet. Some of you, unfortunately, know how this goes...
The Dog, Cancer, and Me: Better Than Yesterday He turned down food, and let a deer in the backyard go unchecked. We’re both still here.
The old dog is dying, it’s hard to say if he knows.
He lies on the floor, in front of the glass door in the outbuilding where I work, too spent to climb up onto the leather chair where for 10 years or so he has drowsed while I peck away at the keys. It’s raining outside and a deer walks past, not 20 feet away, and the dog lifts his eyebrows, enough to cause his forehead to wrinkle into furrows, and then drops his chin back onto his paws and goes back to wherever he was. It’s strange to imagine, but inside him there is a storm.
The speed of it seems impossible. Three weeks ago—a day or two more now—he wakes me up in the night, panting. We head into the kitchen, and I offer him some fresh water. He turns it down and stands by the door, and after I let him out he drinks rainwater from Mrs. Dexter’s flowerpots. Then he lies down on the porch for half an hour, cooling off, and I sit by the door, reading, and at 2:30 or so he comes back in.
Three hours previous, back before the first time we went to bed, I’d cleaned the goop that runs out of the inside corners of his eyes, as I do every night. That was midnight. At 3 a.m., the stuff is back, two inches long and darker than before. He is a pale Lab, almost white, and in the dim light the stains are there again, running from the corners of his eyes—which are almost black—and, together with the lines of goop, look like old-fashioned keyholes.
He takes a shot at getting up on the bed and misses, scrambling at the edge of the mattress, looking for some purchase for his hind feet, and then drops hard back onto the floor. I pile pillows beside the bed and cover them with a sheet, and in the five or 10 seconds before I am back in bed myself he is snoring.
In the morning, he turns down breakfast. It takes a minute for this news to settle: Henry is turning down food. This is exactly as likely as finding him down by the river playing a harmonica.
***
Friday afternoon Dr. Parent takes the dog’s vital signs, as they say, and then pulls some blood for tests, and then examines the entire creature, running his hands up and down his coat. The dog pants and licks at a few drops of spilled water on the examination table. Dr. Parent does not like what he is feeling, and all there is to say about the next 10 minutes—if there is something more to this story than the end of a dog—it is that what you do when there’s nothing you can do can matter for a long time.
Henry continues not to eat. I stir-fry chicken, he can’t stomach the smell. In the morning—it’s Saturday now—I fry a reduced-for-quick-sale, 28-ounce boneless rib-eye steak, rare. Enough meat on that plate to run for president, and he turns away. A couple of hours later, I try a 3-ounce Fancy Feast Chicken Hearts & Liver Feast in Gravy Sliced Gourmet Cat Food, which comes out of the can whole, quivering like Jell-O, and which the animal has in the past swallowed in its entirety while I have turned away for the half second it takes to call the cat. But not this time. This time he can’t eat and I know about that.
***
Oddly enough, we have been through this before, Henry and I. Except last time I was the one who was supposed to die. I’d been bitten by a dog—not Henry, by the way—a puppy who got excited while we were playing—and the infection settled in my spine first and then spread everywhere, into joints and many of my favorite organs. Ten weeks in the hospital, most of it at what was a called a select care facility in Phoenix.
It was a bad time—hallucinations, depression, nightmares—all the connections to the regular world fading, and the world, particularly the nursing staff, was amazingly indifferent. And without going through the sorry story of that hospital, I would mention that truly horrible people reveal themselves when you are helpless and expected to die any day.
In any case, part of it, a small part, was not being able to eat, meaning I understand what the dog is feeling now. You understand but can’t actually remember, I suppose— not until it’s on you again.
***
Sunday night I talk him into a few bites of American cheese and a mint patty. Later—back around 3 a.m.—we move to the outbuilding where my office is and a spare bed, so as not to awaken Mrs. Dexter anymore than we already have. Mrs. Dexter has over the years developed an unfriendly response to being stirred at this hour, knowing from a lifetime of experience that good news does not come at 3 in the morning.
Meanwhile, over in the outbuilding/office, we leave the door open so the beast can come and go as he wants. The outside temperature has dropped into the low 30s and inside the temperature has also dropped into the low 30s, and this time I lift the dog into bed because without him I will freeze. On Friday, before he stopped eating, Henry weighed in at 131 pounds at Dr. Parent’s office, and whatever he weighs now, my lifting him into bed is like the stories you see now and then where Grandma lifts the Studebaker off Junior when it falls off the jack.
Monday the test results come in. Stage Four lymphoma, and you only get five stages. The vet—a different vet, a cancer specialist—says that if the chemotherapy works Henry might last another year. A good year, maybe. Chemo is easier on dogs than it is on people, at least until it comes back. And it will come back, she is pretty clear about that, and next time it won’t work as well, or for as long. And it will go on a year, maybe more if you’re lucky, and in the end the cancer is going to win.
***
And a week and a half goes by. Chemotherapy every Tuesday, pills every morning. Checking his temperature. Last night he was strong enough to get back up on the bed but we are still sleeping in the office.
And I am sitting here thinking of Arizona, of the afternoon I finally got out of the last hospital, and was sitting in a wheelchair waiting for Mrs. Dexter to bring the car around when instead she walks in holding Henry on a leash. He sees me and tears himself and the leash out of her hand.
He has been in a kennel 10 weeks. A hundred pounds of bone and muscle with a 20-yard head start, and I am in a wheelchair, emaciated down to not much bigger than the dog, and in that moment—equal parts relief, happiness and terror—I was back among the living.
As for Henry, I don’t know what he was thinking then—I never claimed this was the smartest animal in the world—or what he’s thinking now. He’s better today than yesterday, though, and was better yesterday than the day before, and according to the vet that is how it will probably go, day after day, until it doesn’t.
If I had known then what I know now...
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
There's a lot of familiarity there. Along with the memory that what follows is a pain in your heart that feels like it will never end.
I often slip and call Scout "Django." One of my co-workers said to me, "You still miss him, don't you?" Oh yes, I do, and all of my little pack who wait for me to come someday. Most of them died of cancer. I loved them all dearly and I hope that I made their passings as peaceful as I wanted them to be.
I don't mean to be Debbie Downer, but Codie found this on the internet. Some of you, unfortunately, know how this goes...
The Dog, Cancer, and Me: Better Than Yesterday He turned down food, and let a deer in the backyard go unchecked. We’re both still here.
The old dog is dying, it’s hard to say if he knows.
He lies on the floor, in front of the glass door in the outbuilding where I work, too spent to climb up onto the leather chair where for 10 years or so he has drowsed while I peck away at the keys. It’s raining outside and a deer walks past, not 20 feet away, and the dog lifts his eyebrows, enough to cause his forehead to wrinkle into furrows, and then drops his chin back onto his paws and goes back to wherever he was. It’s strange to imagine, but inside him there is a storm.
The speed of it seems impossible. Three weeks ago—a day or two more now—he wakes me up in the night, panting. We head into the kitchen, and I offer him some fresh water. He turns it down and stands by the door, and after I let him out he drinks rainwater from Mrs. Dexter’s flowerpots. Then he lies down on the porch for half an hour, cooling off, and I sit by the door, reading, and at 2:30 or so he comes back in.
Three hours previous, back before the first time we went to bed, I’d cleaned the goop that runs out of the inside corners of his eyes, as I do every night. That was midnight. At 3 a.m., the stuff is back, two inches long and darker than before. He is a pale Lab, almost white, and in the dim light the stains are there again, running from the corners of his eyes—which are almost black—and, together with the lines of goop, look like old-fashioned keyholes.
He takes a shot at getting up on the bed and misses, scrambling at the edge of the mattress, looking for some purchase for his hind feet, and then drops hard back onto the floor. I pile pillows beside the bed and cover them with a sheet, and in the five or 10 seconds before I am back in bed myself he is snoring.
In the morning, he turns down breakfast. It takes a minute for this news to settle: Henry is turning down food. This is exactly as likely as finding him down by the river playing a harmonica.
***
Friday afternoon Dr. Parent takes the dog’s vital signs, as they say, and then pulls some blood for tests, and then examines the entire creature, running his hands up and down his coat. The dog pants and licks at a few drops of spilled water on the examination table. Dr. Parent does not like what he is feeling, and all there is to say about the next 10 minutes—if there is something more to this story than the end of a dog—it is that what you do when there’s nothing you can do can matter for a long time.
Henry continues not to eat. I stir-fry chicken, he can’t stomach the smell. In the morning—it’s Saturday now—I fry a reduced-for-quick-sale, 28-ounce boneless rib-eye steak, rare. Enough meat on that plate to run for president, and he turns away. A couple of hours later, I try a 3-ounce Fancy Feast Chicken Hearts & Liver Feast in Gravy Sliced Gourmet Cat Food, which comes out of the can whole, quivering like Jell-O, and which the animal has in the past swallowed in its entirety while I have turned away for the half second it takes to call the cat. But not this time. This time he can’t eat and I know about that.
***
Oddly enough, we have been through this before, Henry and I. Except last time I was the one who was supposed to die. I’d been bitten by a dog—not Henry, by the way—a puppy who got excited while we were playing—and the infection settled in my spine first and then spread everywhere, into joints and many of my favorite organs. Ten weeks in the hospital, most of it at what was a called a select care facility in Phoenix.
It was a bad time—hallucinations, depression, nightmares—all the connections to the regular world fading, and the world, particularly the nursing staff, was amazingly indifferent. And without going through the sorry story of that hospital, I would mention that truly horrible people reveal themselves when you are helpless and expected to die any day.
In any case, part of it, a small part, was not being able to eat, meaning I understand what the dog is feeling now. You understand but can’t actually remember, I suppose— not until it’s on you again.
***
Sunday night I talk him into a few bites of American cheese and a mint patty. Later—back around 3 a.m.—we move to the outbuilding where my office is and a spare bed, so as not to awaken Mrs. Dexter anymore than we already have. Mrs. Dexter has over the years developed an unfriendly response to being stirred at this hour, knowing from a lifetime of experience that good news does not come at 3 in the morning.
Meanwhile, over in the outbuilding/office, we leave the door open so the beast can come and go as he wants. The outside temperature has dropped into the low 30s and inside the temperature has also dropped into the low 30s, and this time I lift the dog into bed because without him I will freeze. On Friday, before he stopped eating, Henry weighed in at 131 pounds at Dr. Parent’s office, and whatever he weighs now, my lifting him into bed is like the stories you see now and then where Grandma lifts the Studebaker off Junior when it falls off the jack.
Monday the test results come in. Stage Four lymphoma, and you only get five stages. The vet—a different vet, a cancer specialist—says that if the chemotherapy works Henry might last another year. A good year, maybe. Chemo is easier on dogs than it is on people, at least until it comes back. And it will come back, she is pretty clear about that, and next time it won’t work as well, or for as long. And it will go on a year, maybe more if you’re lucky, and in the end the cancer is going to win.
***
And a week and a half goes by. Chemotherapy every Tuesday, pills every morning. Checking his temperature. Last night he was strong enough to get back up on the bed but we are still sleeping in the office.
And I am sitting here thinking of Arizona, of the afternoon I finally got out of the last hospital, and was sitting in a wheelchair waiting for Mrs. Dexter to bring the car around when instead she walks in holding Henry on a leash. He sees me and tears himself and the leash out of her hand.
He has been in a kennel 10 weeks. A hundred pounds of bone and muscle with a 20-yard head start, and I am in a wheelchair, emaciated down to not much bigger than the dog, and in that moment—equal parts relief, happiness and terror—I was back among the living.
As for Henry, I don’t know what he was thinking then—I never claimed this was the smartest animal in the world—or what he’s thinking now. He’s better today than yesterday, though, and was better yesterday than the day before, and according to the vet that is how it will probably go, day after day, until it doesn’t.
The first night we kept her in our "mud room". its like a 7 by 7 area by our kitchen. Gave her a bed, toys and all. First night she did great. Last night she was howling and crying and it was really upsetting. We let her out and she seemed to be perfect all night. I never heard her moving around and no issues this morning. Fingers crossed.
cliffy - we've always used a crate....the crying usually stops after a few nights. Also, the crate is a safe and easy place to leave Winnie when you, say, go out for dinner.
If I had known then what I know now...
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
Crates seem to work very well. It might help if you bring the crate into your bedroom. That's usually enough closeness for a dog. After a short time she'll start to feel safe in your house and the mud room will be OK.
Our dogs sleep in the utility room until they're trustworthy enough to have the run of the house. Scout hasn't reached that age yet. I'm really convinced that our dogs need to be near us at night. But I don't start at that point.
crates are also helpful when you travel. When we go on the road, we find pet friendly lodging. The dogs stay in the crate in the car, and when we get there, we bring the crate into the room. The dogs know when they are in the crate it's 'quiet time' and we've had several hotel owners comment how good and quiet the dogs are.
The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.
The Dog, Cancer, and Me - We lost our sweet Jake a few months ago. I miss him terribly. We are now a one dog family but I still catch myself saying "the dogs" or "they". Even though losing them is absolutely the worst part of being a dog owner, the good still outweighs the bad by far.
The Dog, Cancer, and Me - We lost our sweet Jake a few months ago. I miss him terribly. We are now a one dog family but I still catch myself saying "the dogs" or "they". Even though losing them is absolutely the worst part of being a dog owner, the good still outweighs the bad by far.
The Dog, Cancer, and Me - We lost our sweet Jake a few months ago. I miss him terribly. We are now a one dog family but I still catch myself saying "the dogs" or "they". Even though losing them is absolutely the worst part of being a dog owner, the good still outweighs the bad by far.
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.
Comments
Hi Winnie
Congratulations!
don't worry about her weight, she'll bulk up in no time
Winnie is beautiful! Welcome to "the best thread in the message pit"!
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
did you catch the new name, norm? it's not a town in Wisconsin reference....
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
Winnie is a lovely girl!
- Christopher McCandless
These dogs need the care and love and sanctuary you've given them. Way to go!
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
The Dog, Cancer, and Me: Better Than Yesterday
He turned down food, and let a deer in the backyard go unchecked. We’re both still here.
The old dog is dying, it’s hard to say if he knows.
He lies on the floor, in front of the glass door in the outbuilding where I work, too spent to climb up onto the leather chair where for 10 years or so he has drowsed while I peck away at the keys. It’s raining outside and a deer walks past, not 20 feet away, and the dog lifts his eyebrows, enough to cause his forehead to wrinkle into furrows, and then drops his chin back onto his paws and goes back to wherever he was. It’s strange to imagine, but inside him there is a storm.
The speed of it seems impossible. Three weeks ago—a day or two more now—he wakes me up in the night, panting. We head into the kitchen, and I offer him some fresh water. He turns it down and stands by the door, and after I let him out he drinks rainwater from Mrs. Dexter’s flowerpots. Then he lies down on the porch for half an hour, cooling off, and I sit by the door, reading, and at 2:30 or so he comes back in.
Three hours previous, back before the first time we went to bed, I’d cleaned the goop that runs out of the inside corners of his eyes, as I do every night. That was midnight. At 3 a.m., the stuff is back, two inches long and darker than before. He is a pale Lab, almost white, and in the dim light the stains are there again, running from the corners of his eyes—which are almost black—and, together with the lines of goop, look like old-fashioned keyholes.
He takes a shot at getting up on the bed and misses, scrambling at the edge of the mattress, looking for some purchase for his hind feet, and then drops hard back onto the floor. I pile pillows beside the bed and cover them with a sheet, and in the five or 10 seconds before I am back in bed myself he is snoring.
In the morning, he turns down breakfast. It takes a minute for this news to settle: Henry is turning down food. This is exactly as likely as finding him down by the river playing a harmonica.
***
Friday afternoon Dr. Parent takes the dog’s vital signs, as they say, and then pulls some blood for tests, and then examines the entire creature, running his hands up and down his coat. The dog pants and licks at a few drops of spilled water on the examination table. Dr. Parent does not like what he is feeling, and all there is to say about the next 10 minutes—if there is something more to this story than the end of a dog—it is that what you do when there’s nothing you can do can matter for a long time.
Henry continues not to eat. I stir-fry chicken, he can’t stomach the smell. In the morning—it’s Saturday now—I fry a reduced-for-quick-sale, 28-ounce boneless rib-eye steak, rare. Enough meat on that plate to run for president, and he turns away. A couple of hours later, I try a 3-ounce Fancy Feast Chicken Hearts & Liver Feast in Gravy Sliced Gourmet Cat Food, which comes out of the can whole, quivering like Jell-O, and which the animal has in the past swallowed in its entirety while I have turned away for the half second it takes to call the cat. But not this time. This time he can’t eat and I know about that.
***
Oddly enough, we have been through this before, Henry and I. Except last time I was the one who was supposed to die. I’d been bitten by a dog—not Henry, by the way—a puppy who got excited while we were playing—and the infection settled in my spine first and then spread everywhere, into joints and many of my favorite organs. Ten weeks in the hospital, most of it at what was a called a select care facility in Phoenix.
It was a bad time—hallucinations, depression, nightmares—all the connections to the regular world fading, and the world, particularly the nursing staff, was amazingly indifferent. And without going through the sorry story of that hospital, I would mention that truly horrible people reveal themselves when you are helpless and expected to die any day.
In any case, part of it, a small part, was not being able to eat, meaning I understand what the dog is feeling now. You understand but can’t actually remember, I suppose— not until it’s on you again.
***
Sunday night I talk him into a few bites of American cheese and a mint patty. Later—back around 3 a.m.—we move to the outbuilding where my office is and a spare bed, so as not to awaken Mrs. Dexter anymore than we already have. Mrs. Dexter has over the years developed an unfriendly response to being stirred at this hour, knowing from a lifetime of experience that good news does not come at 3 in the morning.
Meanwhile, over in the outbuilding/office, we leave the door open so the beast can come and go as he wants. The outside temperature has dropped into the low 30s and inside the temperature has also dropped into the low 30s, and this time I lift the dog into bed because without him I will freeze. On Friday, before he stopped eating, Henry weighed in at 131 pounds at Dr. Parent’s office, and whatever he weighs now, my lifting him into bed is like the stories you see now and then where Grandma lifts the Studebaker off Junior when it falls off the jack.
Monday the test results come in. Stage Four lymphoma, and you only get five stages. The vet—a different vet, a cancer specialist—says that if the chemotherapy works Henry might last another year. A good year, maybe. Chemo is easier on dogs than it is on people, at least until it comes back. And it will come back, she is pretty clear about that, and next time it won’t work as well, or for as long. And it will go on a year, maybe more if you’re lucky, and in the end the cancer is going to win.
***
And a week and a half goes by. Chemotherapy every Tuesday, pills every morning. Checking his temperature. Last night he was strong enough to get back up on the bed but we are still sleeping in the office.
And I am sitting here thinking of Arizona, of the afternoon I finally got out of the last hospital, and was sitting in a wheelchair waiting for Mrs. Dexter to bring the car around when instead she walks in holding Henry on a leash. He sees me and tears himself and the leash out of her hand.
He has been in a kennel 10 weeks. A hundred pounds of bone and muscle with a 20-yard head start, and I am in a wheelchair, emaciated down to not much bigger than the dog, and in that moment—equal parts relief, happiness and terror—I was back among the living.
As for Henry, I don’t know what he was thinking then—I never claimed this was the smartest animal in the world—or what he’s thinking now. He’s better today than yesterday, though, and was better yesterday than the day before, and according to the vet that is how it will probably go, day after day, until it doesn’t.
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
There's a lot of familiarity there. Along with the memory that what follows is a pain in your heart that feels like it will never end.
I often slip and call Scout "Django." One of my co-workers said to me, "You still miss him, don't you?" Oh yes, I do, and all of my little pack who wait for me to come someday. Most of them died of cancer. I loved them all dearly and I hope that I made their passings as peaceful as I wanted them to be.
RIP
Artie
Sadie
Riley
Tess
Buffy
Pete
Django
The first night we kept her in our "mud room". its like a 7 by 7 area by our kitchen. Gave her a bed, toys and all. First night she did great. Last night she was howling and crying and it was really upsetting. We let her out and she seemed to be perfect all night. I never heard her moving around and no issues this morning. Fingers crossed.
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
Philly- 2005, 2013, 2016, 2024
Camden 2000, 2003, 2006, 2008, 2022, 2023
Philly Spectrum 2009 x4 - We closed that MFER Down Proper
Baltimore- 2024
DC- 2006, 2008
New York- 2008, 2010
Boston - Fenway 2016 (night 2) , 2024 (night1)
East Rutherford, New Jersey- 2006
Chicago - Lollapalooza 2007
Seattle- Gorge 2005
EV Solo- DC x2, Baltimore x2 , Newark NJ x2, Tower Theater x2
- Given To Fly
Our dogs sleep in the utility room until they're trustworthy enough to have the run of the house. Scout hasn't reached that age yet. I'm really convinced that our dogs need to be near us at night. But I don't start at that point.
- Christopher McCandless
We lost our sweet Jake a few months ago. I miss him terribly. We are now a one dog family but I still catch myself saying "the dogs" or "they". Even though losing them is absolutely the worst part of being a dog owner, the good still outweighs the bad by far.
RIP Jake.
Very sorry for your loss of Jake.
welcome to the doggie thread!
Vegas 93, Vegas 98, Vegas 00 (10 year show), Vegas 03, Vegas 06
VIC 07
EV LA1 08
Seattle1 09, Seattle2 09, Salt Lake 09, LA4 09
Columbus 10
EV LA 11
Vancouver 11
Missoula 12
Portland 13, Spokane 13
St. Paul 14, Denver 14
- Christopher McCandless
1995 San Francisco
San Jose
San Diego 2 shows
2003 Missoula
2005 Missoula
2006 Denver 2 shows with Tom Petty
Gorge 2 shows
2009 Utah
LA1
LA2
2012 Missoula : Meet and Greet : "Instant Classic show"
2013 Portland
Spokane
2018 Missoula