It is no big secret, if you have spent much time reading the dreck I spill out on the pages of this blog, my opinion of dogs is generally higher than that of the upright species to which we all belong. I've had this nagging worry lately. The kind of worry that hangs out in the darker recesses of the brain. The kind of worry that causes you to whistle as you walk past the graveyard late at night. That tiny yet creepy voice that whispers " If you run or look behind you, a thousand nightmares will spring from the earth and chase you down". So you continue to pretend to ignore the voice, the fear, as you nonchalantly stroll past. Still it's there. Always in your ear.
Most of you are familiar with Max the Yorkie, and no this isn't his obit. He is alive and kicking, actually he's sleeping, curled up against my leg on the footrest of my recliner. The same spot he has occupied since forever. But it's coming. Max is closing on 10 years. Teeth are starting to disappear, his step has slowed a bit. His muzzle is starting to gray. When that day comes, I'm not sure how much time will pass before I come to grips with it, find the words to write it down. It's coming. I can hear that little voice. So I just whistle a little louder and keep walking.
I was about a year out of the joint when I got Max. A Christmas gift from a girlfriend at the time. I saw him born. I'd keep him to the back of the litter when prospective new owners came to buy a pup. Max was the smallest of an already small litter of pups. That made him the most desirable. I suppose my attachment was so evident that the former girlfriend took pity on me and announced he was my Christmas gift. Best gift I've ever received. He outlasted that relationship by a good 8 years or better.
Max walked down 5 years of federal parole with me. He gave me a sense of responsibility. I knew he relied upon me, much like a child. As much as the years of criminal life, prison time, the constant looking over the shoulder wore me down, as much as those things kept my mind right, it was that sense of responsibility for Max that kept me out of trouble. That probably sounds crazy as hell to some of you. You would think doing right is something you just do. But we've already established that my mind, a criminal mind, doesn't necessarily work like the mind of your average square world type. So it is what it is.
We walked the streets of Midtown, skirting the winos, the beggars, and crackheads. We made the Christmas cover of The Pitch together. We have only been apart for one week his entire life. One day Max went MIA on me. I was frantic. Running up and down the streets yelling his name to no avail. Turns out he had walked in a closet door that was ajar. I found him napping away in the corner of the closet. When I opened the door of the closet the light spilled back in the far corner and he gave me a "what the fuck you waking me up for" look. There were closer calls. A bout of near kidney failure brought on by a moron behind our house here in Independence who sprayed weed killer like it was glade air freshener. Fortunately for that particular douche bag, Max made a full recovery, but it was touch and go for a couple of weeks.
We have a new life in a quiet Independence neighborhood. A girlfriend that has outlasted all 3 of my previous marriages combined and it gets better with each day. Life is good. Far removed from the a quarter century of lawlessness. A different world from the once gritty now hipster inundated streets of Midtown. Max has a fenced yard, two other dogs to run roughshod over. When the girlfriend is on a day off and I'm at work, he spends his days either tucked against her leg, or as the shadows begin to slip across the window he waits on the wide sill knowing I'll soon be pulling in the driveway. Every time I walk through the door he acts as if I've been gone an eternity, no matter if it's hours or minutes in actuality.
Life is good. But I know it's coming, so I whistle a little louder, drowning out that tiny voice that warns not to look behind me.
Here's a tune for Max and all the other dogs out there.
ReplyDeletehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBlQYDBiBfU
There is almost nothing which can beat sitting in a chair, scratching a dog's head.
DEar MM: Great posting!! Some famous political statements about dogs: A) Shortly before being guillotined by the infamous Maximilien Robespierre during the French Revolution, Madame Roland said: "The more I look at humanity, the more I admire dogs. B) Harry Truman summed up the political culture of Washington, DC when he said: "If you want a friend in Washington, buy a dog." Says all that needs to be said. Sincerely and Respectfully, Ernest Evans
ReplyDeleteWe all need to stop and count our blessings.
ReplyDeleteMark, odd as it sounds, my ex girl friend has a squirrel-hating yorkie named Max. Best friend I've ever had. Max will be 16 in September. He's gone deaf and damn near blind in the past year, lost a few teeth, and started sporting a grey streak down his back recently. I still go by and see him from time to time, after all it was the girl I didnt get along with. Not the dog.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating-only mothers and dogs love you unconditionally.
Great job. I needed to read that today.
Max is so cute!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful story. I can relate. My Gabe just had a pacemaker put in. He's "my Max" (but only 4) and I couldn't let him die.
ReplyDelete....hipster inundated streets of Midtown.
ReplyDeleteBut I thought all hipsters hate other hipsters? It follows that there would be a maximum hipster density, right?
great post. simple. smart. beautiful, really.
ReplyDeletewell said
ReplyDeleteWe found Black Jack, a pit/lab, wandering around the neighborhood his prior owners had moved from without him. They were kind enough to buy him a collar as a pup, but left it on him to choke him as he grew up a stray. When we found him, we had to peel it off his skin. He was loyal, true and a great frisbee dog. He let the kids use him for a pillow. He slept next to my side of the bed each night. He died of cancer just a couple of months ago, and it still brings a tear to think of him. Some may say we saved him, but our lives were bettered by knowing him.
ReplyDeleteGreat read.
ReplyDeleteMy litle dog is 11, same thing.
He is the best.
Max looks happy. :)