Carpetblogger

Annus Horribilis Continues: May the Better Dog Rest in Peace

It is an indisputable fact that Whitney was always the Second Carpetdog. Mo, who died in January, visited a dog neurologist. Whit was lucky if she got wormed. Mo was a interactive, manipulative personality who overreacted to every real or imagined slight. Whitney was content to lie quietly under a table and have her ears scratched. Mo never met anyone who could throw a ball more times than he could bring it back. Whitney only put a ball in her mouth when she thought the novelty would draw someone's attention away from Mo for a few minutes. Mo sucked the air out of a room. Whit was referred to as the supermodel -- beautiful but a bit dim.

For ten years, every anti-social or irksome dog habit was blamed on her. The carpets were always covered in her hair. She was the one who barked her head off when someone came to the door. She shredded the mail. She woke up every morning at six asking to go out. Her insecurity was the reason we could never take dogs to an outdoor cafe or tie them up outside the supermarket while we shopped.

In early December, Mo began to spectacularly disintegrate. Within six weeks, he was gone. Simultaneously, in what at the we interpreted to be one of her most ineffective attention-getting gambits, Whitney's nose would, upon occasion, expel gallons of blood. Preoccupied as we were with the decline and fall of The Most Precious Dog, we did not pay as much attention to this as it might have merited. We feel bad about this.

After Dr. Elif exhausted all diagnostic options (make no mistake, there is a wing named after us at the Anipoli Veterinary Clinic in Cihangir), she recommended we take Whitney to the Istanbul University Veterinary Hospital, under the suspicion that the bleeding and breathing problems were caused by a tumor in her snout. If you don't comprehend the depth of dread this recommendation inspired, you don't read this blog very often. Revisit some of our Azeri vet experiences.

We really should have posted at the time about the experience of hiring a dog taxi to take us halfway to Bulgaria for the surgery (it might not have been far, but anywhere we can't walk to is halfway to Bulgaria) on a gray, wet March day.  As always, Dr. Elif went far, far beyond the call of duty, setting up all the logistics ahead of time, ensuring that a slightly mental, barely literate yabancı could deliver a sick dog to the correct surgeon. (We know this is a digression, but it's a good story and it's not been told yet).

The vet hospital was neither new, nor shiny nor very technologically advanced, but it was clean and staffed by compassionate young students with whom Whitty trotted off to the surgery while we hyperventilated. Since the waiting facilities were sparse, we explored the stables (racehorses are treated there) and petted the giant Kangals (dun colored, black-pointed Turkish shepherds) that made up most of the clinic's incoming patients. Occasionally, a vet assistant came out to ask us to purchase more gauze or a different gauge needle from the on-site pharmacy (patients are responsible for providing all the necessary equipment for the surgery). 

After several hours, Dr. Murat emerged from surgery proudly holding a gelatinous grey mass in his palm. It was just a small portion of the tumor he removed from her sinus cavity. It was so big he was unable to get all of it, he said, and he suspected it was Transitional Cell Carcinoma, one of the most common -- and untreatable -- cancers in dogs. He wrapped it in a paper towel, handed it over to a vet student and instructed us both to carry it over to the human part of the hospital to have it biopsied. 

Dr. Murat's diagnosis was correct. He prescribed an anti-inflammatory that would mitigate, but not cure. He gave her a few months to live.

For five months Whit lived, despite everyone's predictions, quite comfortably with a giant tumor in her head. During this time, something funny happened. She emerged from her role as the quiet dog that no one ever paid any attention to become the dog about whom everyone said, "what a nice dog this is! Why didn't you tell us she was so sweet?"

We could take her to a cafe and she'd lie quietly beneath the table. There was hardly any hair on the carpets. We sometimes didn't notice if someone came to the front door. In fact, in a household that was often maligned by mailmen and meter readers for its decibel output, she was a silent, polite doorway greeter. Sometimes we got to sleep until 8:30 am. She seemed to smirk at us. We feel bad about this, too.

Last night, we came home from dinner with dear friends who, having known Whitty for almost half her life, offered toasts to her memory and made delicious food. But we opened the front door to silence. It was the worst silence we have ever heard.

Ask Carpetblogger: What are your options if your pet dies in Istanbul?

Because we like to answer questions you didn't know you had and we like to write about things we're pretty certain no on else has and because we wish someone else had written about this already, we're going to tell you what options you have if your dog dies in Istanbul. We're servicey like that.

The answer to the question "what do we do after?" created a pit in our stomach well before any dog headed that direction. We imagined having to put them out with the trash or futzing around with taxis and shovels in Belgrad Forest, the only sizeable piece of undeveloped real estate within an hour's drive of home. Neither option appealed in the least.

Thinking the worst and incapable of asking the questions ourselves, we tasked the able and Mo-loving Villa Luna with assessing the alternatives. We dreaded her report, but we were surprised when she told us we had three choices, not all of them awful:

• Istanbul has a pet cemetery. Who knew? We didn't care much for this option, but we were surprised to hear such a thing exists.  Someone who has more motivation than we do should look into the who/what/wheres of this. In a culture where keeping animals as pets is a relatively new phenomenon and dogs carry lots of theological baggage, this is sort of intriguing.

• Official burial in Belgrad Forest. Apparently you can get a permit to bury your pet in the forest north of the city, which is the watershed for Istanbul's water supply. This option didn't appeal either but it's surprising to know it exists. We have no idea where you'd go to get such a document or how long it would take or who you'd have to bribe or if it wouldn't just be easier to be low profile about doing it yourself. It's a big forest and probably there are lots of things buried there without a permit.

• Cremation. You may or may not know that, like many observant Jews and  Catholics, Muslims don't cremate. So, while pet cremation is pretty common in the US (our ancestors have boxes of childhood dogs lying around), it was hard for us to imagine cremation was an option in a culture where people aren't cremated. As it turns out, it's expensive, but possible. Seriously, we didn't devote much energy contemplating the logistics surround this process so don't ask, but his ashes were returned a few days later, albeit in inappropriate packaging. The Turkish Life sought out a more appropriate container, which turned out to be a cookie jar from the bazaar.

Carpetblog: Answering questions you didn't know you had for a couple years now.

R.I.P. July 4, 1995 - January 19, 2009

After a long decline and a quick illness, our friend Mo left us Monday afternoon. Now we have only one carpetdog and she's as sad as we are.

You know how some people are about kids? That's how we were about this dog. He was also exhibit number one for why we should never have kids -- we openly favored one dog over the other, played them against each other, left them both for a year with a complete stranger while we traveled around the world and frequently let basic principles of obedience slide.

Mo was 14 and lived in four countries, as well as in San Francisco and Portland. We got him in August, 1996 from the San Francisco SPCA at 11 months old. He flunked out of obedience class twice and never achieved Canine Good Citizen status that would have opened all kinds of doors to him. A herding dog with no herding instinct, he was still always able to identify the "stupid sheep," the person in the room whom he determined needed a little extra supervision (Red State Sibling was the original stupid sheep). Despite being unnaturally attuned to the emotional state of humans, he was unable to distinguish between public displays of affection and aggression, and would loudly insert himself between people engaged in either, except, inexplicably, when the Producer had Deli Komsu in a headlock.

People who knew him in America would be surprised how much he'd slowed down over the last few years. People in Istanbul, Kyiv or Baku never saw him keep up with the greyhounds at the park, hike 12 miles a day or chase a tennis ball until he collapsed in a heap in the grass. Years of hard living left him crippled with arthritis but I have the sense he had few regrets. By the end, we held him together with baling wire and duct tape.

After bad vet experiences in Baku, we had deep reservations about the quality of vet care in Istanbul. Fortunately, Dr. Elif Turan at the Anipoli Clinic in Cihangir provided compassionate, highly competent care until the very end, even though I second-guessed her every step of the way. She methodically ruled out possible diagnoses and bird-dogged new treatments that she thought might extend his life. When he couldn't walk the three blocks to her office, she came to the house to keep him comfortable. She was compassionate enough to know when to quit and how, despite a cultural gap the size of the Bosporus, to communicate her thoughts to us.

Having gone through both birth and death here in Istanbul, we feel a profound sense of community and support. As the unthinkable became unbearably thinkable, dear friends stepped up to help coordinate details that neither of us could face. For this, we are grateful and indebted.

The whole experience was as awful as it always is, but probably not sufficiently so that, next time we see a cute puppy, we will remember how, in the end, animals always break your heart.

Tophane: Carpetdog Hot Spot

This is an interesting article about the historic Tophane area of Istanbul, which, the writer neglects to mention, is also prime Carpetdog habitat.

Stage for social life

  One of the first structures encountered at Tophane apart from the Nusretiye mosque is the impressive fountain that occupies the corner of the square opposite the mosque.

  Erected in 1732, the richly decorated, monumental fountain was the end of one of the water pipes leading downhill from Taksim.

  In contrast to the solemn, military atmosphere of the nineteenth century, in the eighteenth century Tophane Square was lively and populated, dominated by the fountain at its center and surrounded by large trees. Travelers busily arrived and departed at the ports, goods were sold at market stalls on the square, women strolled with their children and men relaxed at the fountain.

Carpetdogs Take Issue!

As moderates who appreciate the tenuous position of dogs in Muslim countries, the Carpetdogs were outraged when they heard about how the Iranian police are cracking down on dog owners by confiscating their dogs! Dog ownership, it seems, is a symbol of western depravity and another excuse for the police to insinuate themselves into people's private lives. The Carpetdogs are many things -- lazy, insolent, disobedient and haters of kedis -- but they object to being called depraved!

Now, doggies are caught in a theological standoff. As on many other questions, Islamic scholars are divided over whether dogs are unclean like rats, or if Allah says in the Koran that nothing bad has been created in this world.

Carpetdogs know there but for the grace of Allah go they. Something must be done!

Doggie Liberation Brigade Is In Training

Since life is slow in Istanbul and the Carpetdogs underscheduled, they are ready to leap into action. Perhaps there is U.S. funding to organize dogs in support of regime change, democratization? They are experienced revolutionaries as well, you know. Perhaps they could sneak over the border as freelance liberators?

Then we can make a movie about them. It would be like "Not without My Daughter," only with dogs.

Super Dog!

Any day, any place, Skip!

Animal Planet

Someday, when I no longer live in Istanbul, I will remember it every time I smell cat pee and coal. Since coal-burning season is past, ripe cat pee is pretty much the dominant summer odor of my 'hood.

Istanbul's neighborhoods --like Baku's -- are lousy with cats -- mangy, skanky, smelly scrapper cats. And they breed like rabbits. Lately, we've had many of what we referred to in Baku as "dead kitten days" -- days that are so hot, the little kittens just can't cope and collapse on the sidewalks.

On one hand, I think they are a blight. On the other hand, in a city where much food-related garbage lies around on the street, they provide a very useful service. I figure for every cat I see, that's several rats I don't see. Although I am an accredited rat master, independent rat control contributes to my overall quality of life, so I tolerate the cats.

The Carpetdogs, however, have an adversarial relationship with them. Any cat that shows fear and runs away is asking for a whoopin'. Some cats strike pre-emptively, with a well-timed hiss and swipe, which establishes detente. Lately, however, tensions have increased.

The guy we bought the house from suggested I not leave the windows open because the cats come in. "Ha ha ha," I said, "like that will ever happen. What kind of a stupid cat would do that?" Turns out, several kinds.

The day I moved in, the Carpetdogs went batshit insane at 4am, which pretty much took seven years off my life. An orange tomcat had entered through a window I will never leave open again. I ran downstairs to see it flying through the air five feet above my head, looking for a ceiling escape hatch, like a feline Jack Bauer. It wedged itself in a window and wouldn't exit via the door or other open windows, no matter how much I poked it with a stick and the dogs barked their heads off.  Now my entryway smells like cat pee.

Yesterday, the Carpetdogs stepped outside to greet visitors. A cat was sitting near the front porch and they approached it with hostile intentions. The cat struck a defensive posture and the conflict escalated within seconds. Rather than escaping behind the fence or under a car, the cat decided to fight back against two Carpetdogs that clearly hoped to inflict grave bodily harm.  Its primary tactic included attaching itself to Mo's head, like velcro.

The cat fought so intensely, it was like a battle between the hyenas and the lions on Animal Planet, making it nearly impossible to stop watching and intervene. But intervene we did and the cat fled. I have no idea in what condition.

It left its mark, however, having pretty effectively shredded Mo's ear. While the injury was hardly serious, let me tell you how much dog ears bleed. There were pools on the wood floors, spots on the carpets and arrays on the walls. My house resembled an abbatoir. The bloody-headed dog did not receive much sympathy.

As a result of the skirmish, our fortress seems to be coming under increasing attack, either in retribution or because we have been assessed as weak. Another cat entered an open window into the kitchen today, just three feet from two sleeping Carpetdogs. Several others have sat right next to the window, taunting them with yellow eyes, while they bark and whine and snorffle impotently behind the bars. Cats need to learn a lesson, so the only Turkish word these dogs know is "kedi," as in "get the kedi!" But the cats don't seem to be scared at all.

I feel we are surrounded by hostiles and unless we keep vigilant, this will end badly. We cannot let these terrorists win!

Focus on the Family

Family is the cornerstone of civilization. What a shame that it is under threat from so many different directions these days. That's why, when the Carpetblog family is together, we plan activities in which everyone can participate. It helps strengthen the bonds of love and affection and makes every individual feel valued and loved.

Cleanliness is next to dogliness

If Mo Had a Blog

He thinks it would look a lot like Skip's. Skip is able to pull it off pretty well and he has a lot more spots and the same number of opposable thumbs.

Custody Battle!

The Producer is moving into a new home/office Baku-style McMansion with a pool and a huge yard. This is a good thing. He's moving out of the ghetto apartment next to the trauma hospital where the trauma sometimes stumbles in on a bloody stump.  He's going to end the gravy train for Samaya the Azeri cleaning/sleeping-on-the-couch lady. No longer will the kitchen and the bathroom serve as the shower. Goodbye to the Mecca tag and the ceramic model of the Karbala shrine, stuffed with feathers and camel weed, hanging on the wall.

But there have been rumblings lately, subtle comments, about my fitness as a single mother. There have been insinuations about the quality of life enjoyed by dogs who have only one park and limited educational and social opportunities. He recently quietly questioned my judgment for rushing the Most Precious Dogchild to the vet for $200 in blood tests when he refused to eat breakfast one morning, the very act of which seemed to cure him (totally fine, BTW. No liver failure, thanks for asking).

The Producer going to start a custody battle!

One one hand, I cannot live without my assistants. I went three days this week without talking to anyone who speaks my language. If I didn't have dogs, I would become a crazy lady and start collecting cats (as if lengthy conversations with dogs falls in a category that's not called "crazy lady"). The Carpetdogs are natural mood regulators. I don't think The Producer wants live with the consequences of a wife who works at home in a foreign country and doesn't have a lot of friends.

On the other hand, I know the Producer. He sees poor street puppy living on the site. He sees his big yard. He thinks, "we need a guard dog." And just like that, we're moving three crates of dogs and 200kgs of luggage on and off crappy airplanes. I cannot have this.

I have two dogs. He has none. OMG! Sophie's Choice!