Stripping 101 . . . The Final Reveal!

As promised, this is an update post of the process of stripping Max. After the last photo it took me a few days to reduce his coat to what I like to call "The Royal Ruff" - pun fully intended:

As you can see he is as happy as ever at having his photo taken.

Finally, I got around to finishing the entire grooming process. Now, I should say that while I have all the confidence in the world that given the inclination and time I can beautifully strip the body of a Border Terrier, I have no such confidence when it comes to the head. Each time before attempting Max's head again I carefully go over all the head shots of Border Terriers in the various books I have as well as looking at photos on the internet. I have spent no small amount of time in pursuit of this knowledge needed to groom the perfect Border Terrier head, but I am sorry to say I still wind up making him look more like a Schnauzer than a Border. It's embarassing really. I've come to believe, however, that the problem is that I only groom him twice a year, and the head needs to be maintained more frequently. I'd like to say I will try to address this issue this time around, but I expect that in 6 months time I will be lamenting the same sad fact. Anyway, here's the picture for which you have all been waiting:

No, I did not cut off the tail to avoid showing you the overstripping that occurred there - I'm just a really bad photographer. But there you go. He's done, if not perfect. Over the next few weeks I will continue to pull off the various missed hairs that are far longer than the others and in about 1.5 month's time he will have filled out his top coat and look quite handsome. Until then, this is about as good as he is going to look:

Stripping 101 . . . for Border Terriers!

I love my dog, as you have surely figured out if you've noticed my presence anywhere on the internet. There is little I have touched in the electronic world that does not have a picture of Max somewhere within it's files, often up front and center as my avatar. I can't help it, he's just so darn cute! But in all the love I have for my boy, there is one aspect of having him in my life that I don't love - stripping.

For those of you uninitiated into the joys of owning a Border Terrier, or a dog with similar coat needs, stripping is the term that refers to pulling out the longer, harsher 'guard' hairs of a dog's coat while leaving the shorter, softer, 'undercoat' behind. This process allows the dog to maintain the coarseness that provides waterproofing and also loft for warmth. Were the dog still used for it's original purpose, running along with a fox hunt to 'go to ground' and bolt the fox from it's den, the longer hairs would naturally be pulled out by shrubbery, thorns, and the like leaving a dog with a coat with very little maintenance needs. Unfortunately, the Border Terrier kept as a household pet, even when allowed plenty of outdoor activity, is very unlikely to ever be able to maintain his coat as of old. This is where the owner comes in. The dog must be stripped, variable based upon each dog's needs, about twice a year.

Some people choose to clipper the dog's coat short, but this ruins the texture of the coat, eliminates the waterproofed aspect, and can allow the hairs which need to be shed to cause infections in the dog's skin. There are times when it is kinder to the dog to clipper, but it is mostly advisable to maintain the coat as decades of breeding have dictated.

So when faced with a lack of gorse bushes through which to send your dog running, a desire to do right by the traditions of the breed, and the need to maintain your dog's health, you are faced with two options: Learn to strip the dog yourself, or hunt down a groomer who actually knows what stripping is and subject your dog and your wallet to the professional grooming experience. As my dog started of his early years as a casual show dog, I chose to learn how to groom him myself so that he could always be in good coat for the next show. I can't say we were always 100% successful on that front, but I won't go into that here.

The basic rundown of stripping is as follows: Using your bare hands, vinyl gloves, rubber secretary's fingers, a specialized tool known as a stripping knife, or some combination of the above, you choose a place to begin on the dog and gradually work your way over the whole body, pulling out the longer hairs of the coat, in the direction of growth, in small clusters, sometimes just a couple of hairs at a time. If the dog's coat is fully 'blown,' meaning ready to be stripped, this process can be quite simple, quick, and entirely painless for the dog, barring a few of the more tender areas which it is generally considered kinder to clipper. If the dog's coat is not ready to be stripped, the process is much lengthier and certainly more uncomfortable for the dog. So, I generally wait until Max looks like a a cross between a hyena and a fluffy porcupine before I strip him.

Now, as I said above, you can choose a place to begin this process. In the past, I have usually chosen to start between his shoulder blades as this seems to be the area which has the fastest growing hair and so is ready to go sooner. Unfortunately, since this is a painstaking task, it is often necessary to make one full grooming last over the course of a few days. This delay has left me with a dog who looks like this:
But recently I decide that if Max and I had to go through this painstaking task I was going to have more fun with it. So this time I started out with his legs and then moved on to a small portion around his butt. Amusing, but nothing stellar:
Finally, at least as finally as I have so far progressed, I moved the work further forward and down around most of his belly as well. I'm quite pleased with the result and regret that I will have to finish up, but after the Eismann gave me a very confused look and I attempted to explain in Germlish exactly what was going on, I figure it will just have to be done if I don't wish for my German neighbors to call the loony bin on me. Still, I think he looks kind of royal with his cape, excepting the much suffering look he always gives me when I make him pose for a photo:
I'll be sure to post the final photo when he's done.

Edward Gebhardt 1962 - 2010

For years I never questioned it, my connection with my middle brother Edward. Of my three brothers, all of whom were much older than I, Eddie and I had the closest relationship. 11 years old when I was born, I found out only recently that his school was having financial trouble and he was on a half day program for a portion of that first year of my life. Unlike other boys of that age, however, he didn't take all that extra time to play and get himself into trouble. Instead he was there to assist my mother with my day to day care. Apparently he could change my diaper and feed me and was always willing to do so, even telling my mother not to worry about me, that he would take care of me. I, of course, remember none of this and have only learned it through conversations with my mother. What I do remember, though, is a brother who always told me I was his favorite sister. It never mattered that I was his only sister, though I reminded him of this often, because it was the way he said it that told me how very much he loved me. I, in turn, loved him dearly too and felt closest to him of my three siblings.

As I grew older, Edward became less a part of my life. The difference in our ages ensured that as did the difficulties inherent to a boy becoming a man in the seventies. I was exposed to recreational drug use very early due to two of my brothers' willingness to allow their kid sister to hang around. Though he always treated me kindly, I got to see Edward become angry and belligerent with his friends, with my other brothers, and with my father. I once had a birthday party with fewer guests than expected because Eddie and another brother chose the start time to get into a fist fight by the front door. More than one parent drove right by upon seeing that. Such instances and the far too adult knowledge I gained of their cause definitely played their part in who I became when I was a teenager. Watching the misery brought upon Edward by his choices gave me enough reason to avoid the same choices and the same path in life. Such as it was, Edward was still doing his part to raise me even when I was no longer an infant.

From those teen years to adulthood, nothing much changed in Edward's life. He did become a very skilled carpenter from absolutely no formal training, but he was always finding himself without the tools he needed to do his work because he would sell them for money for drugs and alcohol. Many a Christmas my parents purchased the same gift as the previous year for him. Eventually he was no longer able to keep a job for any length of time because his constant inebriation and resulting belligerence made him unemployable. The last time I saw him was when I stopped by his home unexpected. He was not immediately there, but arrived home from work already in a state of inebriation and confusion and it was only 5 PM. You never know when the last time you will see someone is, but if I could have known I would have never visited that day.

For years afterward I would occasionally get a phone call from Edward at odd hours. My mother and father have often said they could never tell if he was drunk when calling, but I could always tell. There was no trick to it - he was always drunk. I loved him and would tolerate the phone calls, but was always happy when I moved locations since I knew it would be a while before he acquired my new phone number from a careless parent. When he moved to Arizona and eventually became homeless the calls became fewer. I was not particularly conflicted with guilt at my relief. The real guilt came later when I too, through no correlation, moved to Arizona as well, mere miles from where he was sleeping, and I impressed upon my family that Edward was never to know I was in Arizona. He never did.

For the entire time I lived in Arizona I would keep up to date on Edward's condition from my parents but always afraid that I might somehow run into him somewhere. He was getting by, occasionally finding a home with someone until his behavior landed him back on the street. Sometimes he would acquire a job but it always ended badly as he could not accept being told what to do by someone, nor could he accept that he wasn't being given jobs commensurate with his talents. No intelligent employer would do so and eventually no employers at all would even give him the most menial of tasks. Days before my marriage in Las Vegas my father stopped in Arizona to meet my husband and also to connect with Edward. The broken, toothless, and slightly crazy individual my father met with and reported back upon was the last image any of us would have of Edward.

A short while later my husband and I moved from Arizona to Texas and a short time after that from Texas to Germany. I had no personal contact with Edward until about a year ago when I told a parent that they could share my number with him. He called a couple of times, the first of which we talked for nearly two hours. I believe he got some solace from conversations with me because, while I was not always willing as an adult to open myself up to the pain of actively loving him, I never judged him for his choices nor criticized his way of life. I'd seen my parents do it for years and I'd seen the lack of results. Edward was simply Edward and would, as best I could tell, always be so. In my last conversation with him we talked about the pacemaker he had installed and how he was having problems with it. I was amazed that it would be his heart which would cause him problems first, but not surprised that something besides his teeth had finally given out. I didn't expect him to live much longer.

I received the phone call at the end of last week from my youngest brother. He and Edward never got along so I was not surprised to hear very little emotion in his voice as he told me the news; Edward was in the hospital in Arizona, he had complete liver failure and near complete kidney failure, was being kept unconscious for the pain, and wasn't expected to live another 24 hours. I wasn't shocked. There wasn't a member of the family who hadn't expected this call sooner rather than later. I think the lack of overt emotion shown by any of us was an indicator of how mourning Edward had been something we had all been doing for years.

For me, the single saddest part was that this was it, the final chapter of his life. As long as he was alive I could always entertain a small foolish hope that one day he would learn how to find peace without a bottle, but now what I had known all along was confirmed - Edward's life would never be anything but what it had always been, one of misery, depression, and rage. It didn't help that I could identify with the so much of what made Edward the way he was. I have for years seen that we were both bothered by the same things in this world, and I have suspected for just as long that he suffered from the same chemical imbalances that I do. I don't know why I was able to make my way past them and he was not. It hurts me to think that his examples of how not to take on the world might have been exactly what allowed me to come to terms with all the demons that tormented him.

Two days after the initial phone call, I received confirmation that Edward's life had ended. I had encouraged my father to make it clear to the doctor that he would be doing no good for my brother by prolonging his life but would be kindest to him if he simply made those last few hours as painless and peaceful as possible. The irony that, in dying, Edward would finally get some of the peace and oblivion that he had been for so many years searching was painful to me, but it was all I could hope for him. My father passed this on to the doctor and the doctor obliged. Edward never woke up. I think I was the only one who wanted to be there with him but I knew I wouldn't make it in time, Edward would never have known I was there, and I wasn't entirely sure I could have handled seeing him. I now realize that I will have to live with the remorse that I didn't try when I was the only one in the family who would even be expected to care enough to do so.

My father made arrangements for Edward's cremation and he offered Edward's remains to my mother. She declined and I quickly informed my father that I would take them. I believe in nothing after death, no spirit of my brother looking down upon me nor any eternal soul writhing in hell. Edward simply exists no longer except as he lives in others' memories. In a show of sentimentality that belies my normal stoicism, I feel that my brother's remains should be with the person who loved him most. I may not have loved him as much as one might hope, but I loved him as much as I could.

When I was a teen Edward promised me that we would go skydiving together when I turned 18. I believed it then but by the time I moved to Arizona at 29 years of age I had long known that it was never going to happen with Edward. I went for a tandem jump on the spur of the moment at the suggestion of a co-worker, and only realized afterward that it was on my brothers 40th birthday that I took that leap. When I receive my brother's ashes I will jump again, with him for our first and only time together. For me, life has only the meaning with which I ascribe it. Foolish or not, that jump may be the most meaningful moment in my relationship with Eddie.