Merci Beaucoup!

On Monday, Jack left for France and I dragged myself out of bed to let Max, my 13-year-old golden Lab out the back. He had been for his full check-up last month and the vet and all involved commented on what a beautiful dog he is and how fit for his age. But when I opened the door, counting in my head the things I needed to do that forced me to put my reluctant two feet on the floor, I noticed that Max’s two hind paws were listing to the side. He stepped off the deck and veered sidewise into the woods. I can’t even recount the thoughts that went through my head as I stood momentarily frozen, but most of them culminated in “Oh God, please no.”

One day, if I can ever bear it, I’ll try and put down in words the feelings I have for that old dog. He has been arrested several times and could win the pain-in-the-ass award for Dogdom. One day, after many years of living with and complaining about Maximus mischief and with me arguing for the defense, Jack, in a fit of rage, threatened to take my yeller feller out in the woods and shoot him. I calmly told him that if he ever did so to pack his bags and not look back. It was the end of the conversation. Would Jack ever do it? Probably not in a million years, but to me it isn’t something to talk about—killing one of your own. And that’s what Max is to me.

Anyway, I walked out after him into the woods in my pajamas and no shoes, calling him as he fell and struggled up again, trying to help him up, guide him toward the door. He staggered and vomited. The wind was blowing and I couldn’t lift a 100-pound–plus dog, but he kept getting up. I knew then, as I know now, that if I started crying, I might never stop. I had to call David from college, an hour’s drive away, to come and help me lift Max into the car. I felt guilty pulling David out of class but I was desperate.

Examinations and $300 worth of blood tests later, they told me that if Max had suffered a stroke not much could be done. His eyes were jumping around, disabling his balance. They gave me antibiotics and ear drops with the hopes that he had an inner ear infection. I brought my laptop upstairs because I discovered that an article I thought was due at the end of the week was due the next day. Then, oh my gosh, the Sears repairman rang the bell to look at the dishwasher—another $150. Bad day at Black Rock. I waited for hours for David to get home so that I could go to the bathroom because Max tried to follow me as he always does and he kept falling. We placed the ironing board across the stairwell to stop Max from toppling down.

I didn’t sleep well, waiting for those blood tests and waking up to look at Max who was too dizzy to jump up on the bed with me. I’ll admit I just kept praying. Listen, if you can’t pray for a good old dog, then there’s something really wrong with you (in my humble opinion). He, on the other hand, slept well. Next day the vet called to say that the blood tests all looked fine and the medicine seems to be working well enough that Max is ornery about the eardrops, walking steadily, and smiling in his sleep. I know I can’t keep him much longer, but sometimes the plusses of a few extra days, hopefully months or years, make you very grateful for small favors.

Meanwhile, after sharing the details with Jack over e-mail, he wrote me back that he couldn’t call because of the expense. I wrote him back that those corporate assholes could pay for one friggin’phone call. (Pardon my French.)