I’m not going to write today about anything related to fostering dogs.
And, I apologize in advance if this post becomes disorganized or reads like a stream of consciousness. This week was full of activity with little time to focus thought to the blog.
I’m going to talk about my Daddy.
My Daddy Collects
I’m currently on the Alabama coast. It’s where I grew up and where my parents reside. Both of my parents are in their 80’s and live in a house that is way bigger than their needs. It is time to begin to help them downsize and simplify. In normal circumstances, it is a big task. What we are clearing out is nothing normal.
My sister says it will take a year.
My father is a “collector”, to sugarcoat it. Because they live with acreage, you wouldn’t know it was significant unless you look. He likes paper and magazines and has every piece of paper ever generated or received since he began his engineering business some 60 years ago.
It’s a mound of paper.
He also collects “projects.” We all have them – those “I’m going to get to that someday” ideas or fix-it tasks we talk ourselves into postponing. Except, my dad’s projects are cars and tractors and small engines, or those “somebody out there will want” this or that broken object. These items are all hidden behind overgrown scrub brush so they cannot be seen from the road. They’ve been on his “to do” list for decades.
When he still drove a car, he filled his automobiles. He picked up all sorts of things tossed on the curb from someone else’s trash pile, seeing the value or a second life. A pair of swim fins had a home in his van for years. I’m not sure why. We just found them, stored elsewhere. He never threw them away.
If he couldn’t find what he needed amongst his collections, he’d go buy new.
It is a debilitating condition, compulsive hoarding. There is no logic, no reasoning to it, the urge to acquire and save is strong and the mere thought of getting rid of an item can cause tremendous anxiety. It’s hard to watch a family member struggle, and the battles to clean up are wearisome.
Clearing It Out
To add to this disorder, my daddy (finally) received the diagnosis of dementia this year. He should have been diagnosed 10-15 years ago, when he was under the care of a “dementia expert” in Atlanta. Big miss.
Dad’s type of dementia is called ‘vascular’ dementia – where a little area of the brain dies after a “mini stroke” or TIA. Daddy has had many, many mini-strokes. Over time, the brain functions a bit like trying to weave a thread through the holes in a block of swiss cheese. If the thread makes it from one side to the other, you get a complete thought. But it takes a lot of effort to make that happen, and many times, there’s a dead end.
My dad’s stubbornness, cleverness and grit have helped him cover up his loss of function quite well until late.
Finding The New Normal
I guess the blessing in the sadness of my dad’s progressing dementia is that he doesn’t have the “fight” in him to insist that his stuff (trash) stays. It’s too hard, cognitively, for him to argue and shout and be puffy – he gives out and deflates because he cannot put together an argument. And we are learning our boundary. I’m sad he struggles so, but grateful we are in a place where we can help him without the blasting protests.
So, we’ve started the process of towing away the old rusted cars, one at a time, one day at a time, and recovering his personal things stored in them. Yes, miraculously, things survived and have been salvaged. He’s amazingly fairly accepting of the process. Importantly, we make plans for one item at a time and don’t ask him to think about too many different things all at once. He’s not happy, but he seems to have come to terms with the activity.
Yesterday, I hauled off 120 pounds of brittle, plastic, 5-gallon buckets to the landfill after gathering them from all four corners of the property and in between. He said, “I need 4 buckets!” I assured him I’d already saved the best ones and they were safe (and I had) and he was OK with that decision. Had I filled the truck full of a variety of different items, he would be anxious and want to examine each item. I guarantee he would have taken things out.
He left every bucket in the truck.
Taking The Dogs Away - Hard, Hard Decision
The Brittanys were the first to go, a decision we made immediately after my father was awarded a guardian by the courts, some months ago. It was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve made, not because there was any question as to if it was right or wrong, but because I was taking his beloved dogs that he’d become incapable of caring for. My nephew took over the duties months prior, and dad hadn’t visited the pens at all. It was time.
Both dogs went to the National Brittany Rescue and Adoption Network, were beautifully rehabilitated, health restored, and are now adopted in loving homes, perfectly matched to their personality and social needs. They live indoors.
I’d been trying to help his dogs for years. The law in Alabama said they were fine: fed and watered daily and they had shelter from the elements. Even when it was cold outside, my dad had a stash of blankets and cushions and he bought fresh hay to help them stay insulated in their dog houses. Their dog pens were under a thick canopy of overgrowth providing cool shade. If they were visibly sick or somehow injured, they received care from a veterinarian. He kept them parasite free. But, they lived hard lives recently, in my opinion.
Daddy refused my offers to bring him newer, bigger, outdoor pens. I offered so many times. Back when dad was more physically able, he’d let his Brittanys out, one at a time, to run, play in the brush and practice bird hunting drills. They hadn’t run in a couple of years, at least.
I offered to buy new, better dog houses. He refused, with no reason why. I pushed, and he’d give me the famous puffy outburst. He knew I was walking out to the pens at each visit, hoping to find a lawful reason to call in a complaint with animal control. I walked out in the pouring rain one day, fully expecting both dogs to be drenched. Both came out of their dog houses bone dry and bright eyed.
A Surprised (And Not-So-Surprised) Response
I was prepared for my father to be enraged at the decision to remove the Brittanys. He wasn’t; he protested a little at the restrictions placed upon him in terms of access to the foster home (I also didn’t have access to the foster home) because he had “important information” to share with them. But, as I shared with him the progress each dog was making and could share with him the photos of the dogs with big smiles and sparkles in their eyes (thanks to a very thoughtful rescue coordinator) he was satisfied with my efforts. His biggest protest? That the male was neutered, or that his sperm wasn’t harvested and saved. An example of another disconnect – so proud of his dog’s lineage, but not committed to providing them with better living. It makes zero sense.
With some distance on the event, Daddy and I have been able to talk some, and it has been meaningful. He actually thanked me for taking care of his dogs and acknowledged “I just lost steam. I couldn’t do it anymore.” When I said, “Yes, they’d had a hard few years”, he nodded his head, but didn’t want to talk more about it. And that’s OK.
What if?
I tried to fall asleep last night with this on my mind: If he’s not fighting hard on the family taking away his collection of rusted cars and plastic buckets (nor his dogs!), would he have rejected my gift of newer, bigger dog pens and new dog houses if I’d just done it anyway? I know he’s different cognitively, now, but what if? What if I insisted? If I brought in pens and houses in the dark of night or on a Sunday morning, what would he have done? Knocked my work down? Burned a brand new dog house? He might have. But, I’ll never know.
Giving up on offering help for anything after his multiple rejections of our offers over the decades is understandable. I won’t deny it. As a loved one, you get tired and you tell yourself when they want help they will ask for it. It isn’t necessarily so.
I’m grateful for rescue, grateful for skilled, committed, and loving foster homes, and grateful that these two Brittanys now wear big Brittany grins and get exactly what they need and deserve.
I’ll try to not do to much woulda, shoulda, coulda. I can, I will and I shall is a new mantra.
Dad Befriended A Feral Cat
Dad still has a cat. And it’s a good fit. The female is feral, and we took her for a spay and vaccinations. She loves him and runs to him when he arrives to her hideaway. He feeds her and she catches field mice. On occasion, she lets him pick her up, and she will purr. He created a place for her to get out of the elements. I’m satisfied with where she can come “indoors”. His comment to me yesterday, “I really enjoy her.”
I check on her frequently to make sure she’s doing well. Dementia is a progressive disease, and I have to make sure that dad can continue to keep her safe. I won’t take “no” for an answer if she’s in need.
What a beautiful post! I’m glad the dogs are enjoying their new life and that your dad is enjoying the feral cat. My dad had vascular dementia as well. He passed away last February. Dementia is so hard to watch – not to mention hoarding.
I’m sorry about your dad. Yes, it is hard to watch. Going through his things I can see where he began to show signs of decline a decade ago. I’m not home much and he is always so guarded with me. I worked in the psychiatric field for 25 years, I guess he was worried about that. It’s all sad, but I’m grateful for the opportunity to help him now.