Max's Sad Anniversary

Today marks one year since Max has left us.

He's gone, but not forgotten.

In fact, Max will be returning soon through the written word.

He's with me always...

Max Was My Santa Dog

As I stated in my last post, this is the first year we will be celebrating Christmas without Max, my Welsh Corgi. In his memory I'd like to revisit and share a blog post from 2010. Notice how he treated the Christmas tree vs. our new addition...

My Santa Dog

One of the happiest members of this household to see the return of the Christmas tree is my dog Max.



He watches carefully, wagging the nub as we hang the lights and ornaments, and waits patiently while we vacuum up all the pine needles. That's the one time he doesn't attack the vacuum cleaner! Although Santa does bring him a new toy each year he doesn't wait for the 25th to find his present. As soon as we're done vacuuming Max fetches his "babies" and places them under the tree.



From now until we take the tree down you can find Max lying under it, baby by his side, treat in mouth, watching himself in the mirror. Max is my little Santa Dog. And yes, I actually did name him after the Grinch's dog. Max is so smart that when presents are placed under the tree he puts his babies on top of them and he has never, ever eaten the cookies we leave out for Santa.



What a good boy, and cute too! Now if only I could get him to stop smoking those stogies he'd be the perfect pet...

The Power of a Pet

Too many Christmas carols and the memories they bring have affected my shopping habits. It seems I can't go into a store without stopping midstream. As soon as I hear Nat King Cole sing "The Christmas Song," I think of my mother cutting crosses in chestnuts and placing them in the oven. My heart swells as I notice the sweater, perfume, or a million other things at my fingertips that would have been the perfect gift for her, if she was still alive.

When the first strains of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" rings out of another store's PA system, I find myself in front of a VHS-DVD recorder that my father would have been amazed by, and think of the countless hours we could have spent transferring his enormous collection of tapes.

Boris Karloff calls forth my cousin John Paul and the roast beast dinners we shared on Christmas Eve at Grandma's as children. The Grinch doll winks at me in the Hallmark store, and I flee before I break down.

I sit on a bench in the bustling mall, alone, surrounded by people.

I think the puppies will make me feel better so I head there, but stop myself when I see the picture of a Welsh Corgi hanging on the wall. Max. This is the first Christmas without Max. "O Holy Night" has nothing to do with him, but it sends me over the edge and out the doors.

I arrive home, empty-handed, once again. Bella keeps her distance as I cradle the tin that holds Max's ashes. Once the tears begin, Bella jumps on the bed and wipes them away with her tongue. Her snaggle tooth sticks me in my lip, and her love snaps me out of my grief. That's the power of a pet. If you don't have one, please consider visiting your local shelter and take one home. Give yourself a Christmas gift...a pet, the best gift ever.

Creatures of Habit

We always said Max was a creature of habit. With him gone, we've come to realize we were the creatures of habit.

Sitting on the couch, my legs extended I find myself moving my feet back and forth to rub the back of the dog that's not there. As my husband goes to putter in the yard, he waits a moment holding the screen door open for his little buddy, who's no longer here to follow him. As I ride my bike in the basement, I keep looking toward the basement stairs awaiting the sound of Max barrelling down them. Next to me the rug with the half-eaten chew remains empty, and my hand reaches to pet the air.

When my husband comes home I say, "I didn't even hear you come in," and with a long face he replies, "I know." He no longer says, "Go ahead, tell them I'm here," and I no longer reply, "Okay, okay, I got it, Daddy's home."

That's the saddest phrases we no longer say, but not the only ones...

"Did the dog eat?"
"Feed the dog."
"Ya gotta go outside?"
"Ohhh, you got your baby?"
"Leave your baby inside?"
"Gimme that baby."
"You want to come to the patio?"
"C'mon Boo, inside."
"Frankie, go clean the dog's yard."
"Did you clean the yard?"
"When are you gonna clean the yard?"
"Didn't I tell you to clean the yard?"
"Go put down a towel, Max wants to eat his chewie." "How do you know?" "He's mind-probing me." "You were right." "He's a dignified dog. He doesn't eat on bare floors. He needs a tablecloth."
"Max wants water." "How do you know?" "He's mind-probing me." "You're right, his bowl is empty."
"Don't give him table food. He's getting too fat."
"Okay, stop mind-probing me...you can have my pizza crust."
"Where's Max?"
"Is Max outside?"
"Someone let the dog in."
"Did you give him a treat?"
"He's waiting for a treat."
"He won't be denied his treat."

And the one that I still say before going to sleep...

"It's bedtime, Boo..."

I've decided the best way for me to handle his absence is to be places where Max wasn't with me. And when I have to be home, I pretend he's at the groomer, or sleeping on the floor by the side of my bed. Sometimes I can even hear him snore.

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

They shoot horses when they become lame, don't they? Yes, yes they do, but I just can't pull the trigger on my dog.

My world was rocked this morning when I brought my corgi, Max, to the vet to find out what was wrong with his front left leg. I thought he sprained it or something, and was not prepared to hear the vet's diagnosis...most likely due to a ruptured disc, he was paralyzed on the left side of his body. As he was almost 11 years old and overweight, surgery would not be recommended, and the only option was to put him down. The poor baby was shaking like a toddler at the pediatrician's office waiting to be pricked with a needle. I'm sure my hysterical tears didn't alleviate his anxiety.

There was no way I could do that right then, right there. My children had no clue what was going on, and I couldn't bear to tell them when they returned from school, Max was "sent to a farm." The vet understood and said he wasn't in pain so we could wait until the end of the day. She also said he probably wouldn't walk again, and if we thought we could take care of him in his present state that would entail flipping him from side to side so he wouldn't get sores, carrying him around and outside to do his business, but in all likelihood, he would do that just lying down.

I couldn't believe it. Yesterday he was fine. As he was everyday, he was my shadow. He was walking fine, and even came down the basement stairs to lay next to me as I rode my bike. So naturally I Googled his condition and found out that corgis do indeed suffer from it. Usually it strikes both of their back legs, and some dogs have been successfully fitted in a wheelie device. Since Max's front and rear leg was affected, this wouldn't be an option.

The kids came home from school and I broke the news to them. Stunned, they couldn't accept Max's fate. All the loving caresses and tears certainly alerted Max that something was not right. He looked up at me with tears in his eyes, most likely due to allergies, but today it didn't feel like that. I felt like he was mind-probing me telling me he didn't want to leave yet. Lying on his side he looked so pathetic, but when the telephone rang he sprung up and ran to it. He got a couple of feet before he stumbled. We all looked at each other perplexed. He wasn't supposed to be able to walk.

The floors in my house are either tiled or hardwood, so even when all four legs were functioning Max would sometimes slip and slide. My son carried him to the backyard. Max walked around the yard, yes walked, and then did his business. He struggled walking for a bit. He kept looking at me as if to say, "Look Mom, I can walk, even if I look drunk." As the hours passed and we got closer to the death clock, Max began to adapt to his condition. He would walk a couple of steps and when his paw buckled under, he'd stop, not fall, and flip up his leg so that the paw would land flat on the ground. "Look what I can do Mom!"

I must have asked the kids a million times, "What should we do?" None of us wanted to pull the trigger. When my husband pulled up I thought to myself, "Ah, the voice of reason" so I was taken aback when he took one look at Max and said, "It's not his time yet. Call the vet, tell her what he's doing and make sure he's not in pain." When he saw my surprised look he said, "You thought I was here to bring him. Look at him. He's not in pain. He's eating. He's going to the bathroom. So, he's got numb legs. Marie's leg is numb. My hand is numb. Are you going to pull the plug on us? He's like a senior citizen that had a mini stroke. Would you just send me to the farm, if I did?"

So I called the vet and waited for a callback. All afternoon, our stomachs turned as we watched for progress. We gave him his favorite, pizza. We let him on the couch. We got excited as we watched him go to the bathroom on his own. We gave him twigs from the trees which he chewed on without the usual left paw help. We watched him plead with us, "Not yet." The vet called at 6:00 and when she heard he was walking and going to the bathroom on his own, she understood our desire not to rush him to the grave. She assured us he wasn't in pain, but said the end was near and inevitable. We agreed that if his quality of life suffered too much and he got to the point where he couldn't walk at all, or began doing his business while laying down we would put him down. But today is not that day. Hopefully tomorrow won't be either, but it may very well be. I just don't know. Right now he's sleeping under my feet with his baby Booda snuggled under his chin. Damn, this is the hardest thing I've ever had to do.