Life's a Bear

Time does fly when you’re not having a good time. Another major loss of income resulting in raised APRs from late payments despite my best efforts, tax time, and the loss of my beloved friend and fellow in crime—Lab Max. His death eclipsed everything and enshrouded me in a muffled cocoon of constant pain. Occasionally, that pain explodes into anger, but how can I describe it? Ever since I can remember, when an event in my life seems without escape, I go into a state that is bearable and unbearable at the same time. I feel as though I personify pain in a pillow.

Edward Munch’s "Silent Scream" has spoken to me since I first saw it. In fact, its miniature dirigible duplicate on my desk attests to my sick streak of humor. I don’t know how long it will take for me to write about my “Macky Doodle All the Day.” I’ve braved only two trips to his resting place and still talk to him when I wake up in the morning and he isn’t reclining beside my bed with that beatific smile on his sweet face. “Good morning my Macky Doo. Hope you’re so happy today. I miss you my sweet, sweet boy.” This is as far as I can go at this moment, so all mention of that dog that was my heart must temporarily stop, because I am dissolving at the thoughts and the agony caused by attempting to put my feelings into words.

So do all things happen for a reason? Can we control anything? To the first question, I’m still in a quandary. To the second, control freak that I am, I think the answer is a definitive no. Moses, my puggy, who has never lived a day for the past 12 years without his Max, whom I know he saw as a loved one and a constant irritant, went into a funk. He would not eat. He would not drink. We were afraid that he was dying of grief. The vet gave him an antibiotic for an indication of a mild infection, but things were not looking good. I even held water to his mouth on my fingers and he wouldn’t respond.

Over the years, as our beloved pets have aged, bringing in a puppy always appeared to pep up our geriatrics and kept them alive for several more years. I began looking on the Internet for a rescue pup. I felt guilty about all the older dogs that needed homes, but Moses is a little guy and just didn’t need any intimidation. We found a little pound rescue whose mother had been adopted (thankfully) and that would be available when weaned. We filled out surveys that almost made us promise our only child in exchange. As a result we were rewarded with a pup named Linden that would not be available some two months after losing our Max. (Jack hated the name, so as a compromise to not confuse the pup, we agreed on London.) We reasoned this would be good timing for our little Moses and for us.

What happened next is so typical that I’m amazed I still allow myself to occasionally be excited or calm about upcoming events. Two months ago, David, my son, going to school up in Athens and working part-time at a pet store, called me in desperation about a dog that had a sign reading “Last Chance” on its adoption cage. Max was still with us, and I sympathized but held steadfastly that we could not help him. David called my sister in Blairsville and found the dog a home in the mountains. It seemed perfect. This was a seven-month-old Newfoundland mix. Does anyone know how big a purebred Newfoundland is? Up to 150 pounds!

Long story short, the adoptive woman, very kind and animal loving, happened to have seven other dogs, several of which were attacking the Newfoundland. Lynn, my sister called telling me that my son got her into this mess and that the least I could do was foster the dog until we could find a home. I held firm; Jack said it was the least we could do.

Guess who drove to the mountains to get this dog that is still a pup but strong as a horse and smart enough to know it? Guess who left for Canada on Monday and left me with a dog that looks just like a bear and is named the same, a dog desperate for affection, yet still looks as though he could eat me alive? Guess who is trying to present as the alpha dog to a canine already half her size, while anticipating bringing in a new puppy this Saturday? Guess who has already decided that this big ole thing is a piece of work that will be living with us from now on unless he eats me first?