Ed's Duck

There is a saying, “no good deed goes unpunished,” and I’m beginning to believe it might be true.

Last week, I was in a Walgreen’s drug store having some prescriptions filled. As I waited for my drug dealer to count out pills and put them in plastic containers, I walked around the store just to pass the time. Occasionally, Walgreen’s—whose motto is “Buy one for the price of two”—will have some merchandise marked down to prices that would actually be considered sale prices in the real world, and I found some of that merchandise in the pet section. There was a whole bin full of stuffed toys—the kind my dogs like to eviscerate—marked down to one or two dollars. The dogs that live with me have a toy box overstuffed with plush and rubber toys, but I recently noticed many of them had been gutted and only the hides remained, so I decided to refill their coffer.

I plucked out about 20 dollars worth of stuffed cats, footballs, squirrels, several rubber chickens, and one duck. Most of the toys had that little plastic squeaky thing buried inside them that is supposed to delight dogs when they chomp on the midsection, however, the duck had an electronic quack track. If the duck is bitten just right, it will quack for about 15 seconds. The tinny, electrified quack, quack, quack amused me, and I felt it would amuse the dogs.

I picked up my drugs, paid my supplier, and carried the drugs and toys out in a large sack. When I walked into the house, it was canine Christmas; Em Claus began dispensing toys amongst the pack, and great frivolity ensued. Although there was a bit of squabbling—Pathetic Bob ripped the green frog out of Zipper’s mouth, and Paco whined until Sophie gave him the yellow and blue snake—everything soon settled down. Everyone had a present with plenty more left over. The duck lay in the corner by the couch unnoticed, until Lily pounced on it. The force of her body landing on the duck’s midsection triggered a burst of quacking that took the dogs by surprise. They all froze. Then, all of them except Ed the basset hound ran away.

Of all the dogs that live here, Ed is undoubtedly the most goofy, fun-loving member of the pack, and when he heard the quacking, he went over to check out the duck…and fell in love. He bit it, it quacked at him, and he laughed. He did his basset dance, picked up the duck and discovered with just the right amount of pressure from his jaws, he could make the duck talk to him. He was in Ed nirvana. I was highly amused.

It is now a week later, and I am not amused anymore. Ed’s duck is driving me insane. He must have it at night when he sleeps with us on the bed; quack, quack, quack at two in the morning kills brain cells. I tried hiding it, but his whining was worse than the quacking. When I’m in my office trying to write, Ed and his duck are in there with me. Quacking does not inspire literary greatness. I took the battery out of Ed’s duck and rendered it mute, but Ed fell into a deep depression, and I simply could not bear to see him so sad.

Ed’s duck has new batteries installed in it, and whenever I try to sleep or write, I pour hot wax in my ear.

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Rain Dogs

The sky over San Antonio is as gray as Gizmo’s muzzle today, and it is dumping its excess moisture on thirsty lawns. I’ve been at the computer most of the day, when I haven’t been mopping up dog urine. Most members of my pack dislike peeing in the rain. In fact, most of them believe water—unless it is in a bowl—is something to be avoided at all costs.

As the rain picked up velocity and the thunder ricocheted off the roof tops, I noticed Sophie, Gizmo, Zipper, Judy and Beyonce (the Yorkie that is staying with us for the week) laying on my office floor with their heads stuck out the sliding-glass door. It appeared they were in deep contemplation. Pathetic Bob, Lily, and Paco were not so sanguine about the weather; they huddled close together underneath my desk making out their last wills and testaments.

“Why don’t you guys go out and play in the rain?” I asked. Silence was the answer I received.

I then decided to try an experiment. I got up and went to the kitchen, followed by eight canines that truly believe every time I go into the kitchen, food magically falls out of my pants. However, I didn’t stop in the kitchen; I passed through it to the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. After pushing the button on the garage-door opener, the large, metal door began to roll up, revealing a semi-river flowing down the street in front of my house. The downpour was ferocious.

Opening the door connecting the laundry room to the garage wider, I said, “Do you guys want to go outside?”

This time, a stampede of fur and tails flew by me towards the freedom of the neighborhood. The sprint for the outside lasted only a second as the dogs slammed on the brakes just as they passed the edge of the eave on the roof. Their course was reversed, and dashed back to dry ground. “Hey, it’s raining out there,” said Bob.

“Duh,” said I.

I sat on the stoop in the garage for a while as the dogs wandered around smelling my tools and peeing on five-gallon buckets of paint. Then, I noticed Sophie tentatively step out of the garage and on to the lawn. Immediately she was soaked, but the lure of my neighbors’ yards proved to enticing for her to worry about her sogginess and she bolted. Lily followed suit, then Pathetic Bob, and finally Judy trotted out in the rain. Zipper, Gizmo, Paco and the Yorkie watched the others go and shook their heads. They remained within the comfort of the garage.

A few minutes later, Lily returned, followed by Sophie and Judy. Pathetic Bob was nowhere in sight. I got a towel to dry off the three dogs, sure that Bob would return shortly. He didn’t. I called his name several times, but he chose to ignore me. I sure wasn’t going to chase him down in the rain. I let the other dogs back in the house, but I remained in the garage to wait out Bob’s return. A few minutes later, an intense boom of thunder crashed overhead. I looked down the street and spotted a miniature Greyhound hauling ass up the road at hyper-speed. As he skidded to a stop inside the garage, Bob’s eyes were wide and he was quivering like a piano wire. “Holy crap, what was that”” he asked.

“That, Bob, was the result of you leaving the yard. I installed a device in your collar that will raise the ire of Thor, the god of thunder, every time you go more than a hundred feet away from the house.”

I closed the garage door, and as we went back into the house, Bob said, “Take that damn thing out of my collar.”

“No,” I said.

“Well, take my collar off then.”

“I’m going to do that right now; you need a bath.”

“Uh-uh. No way. You know I hate water.

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A Theory From My Button

Today, I dressed in cargo shorts, flip-flop sandals, and a pullover, short-sleeved, white shirt with a collar. The shirt did not have a designer emblem on its front or back; I generally hate giving large companies advertising space for free. There were three buttons on the shirt, all of them near the neck. I never wear shirts that have been buttoned all the way up; it is much too restrictive for me. Neither do I wear shirts unbuttoned below the second button; that seems to be a sign of a man who is trying to hard. The two-out-of-three button arrangement is the style I prefer on sports shirts.

Shortly after I finished buttoning the two lower buttons, the middle one spoke to me. “What’s up with all these twigs and leaves on the floor,” it asked.

“The Cheegle brings them in,” I answered.

“You know,” my button went on, “I don’t get out of the closet that often, but it seems to me that little dog is acting like a bird that is gathering material for a nest.”

I was a little surprised my button knew about bird nesting; it had never mentioned the subject before. “I think you’re right,” I said, “and I think that is very perceptive of you.”

“I have a theory,” said the button.

“Yeah, what’s your theory?”

“Well,” said the button with great authority, “by observing all the dogs that live with you, I think a case can be made that dogs evolved from dinosaurs. All I have is empirical evidence, but it seems to me to be a plausible theory.”

“To be honest,” I told the button, “I believe your theory is rather daft. I think the prevailing scientific belief is that dogs evolved from wolves.”

“That’s true,” my button said, “as far as it goes. But, you need to go back further than wolves. Where did wolves come from?”

“Wolverines?”

“Very funny. Wolves came from dinosaurs who came from birds, ergo, your dogs are birds.”

“Get out of here. The six dogs that live at this house came from a shelter.”

“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

“Not very. No offense, but you are only a button after all.”

“I understand. Uh, you might want to take a look at the dog bed in the corner. I think the Cheegle laid an egg.”

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The Test

Last night, as I lay in bed surrounded by six softly snoring dogs, I decided I was going to take a test. Unlike the tests I’ve seen posted on various Internet blogs, the test I was going to take would be able to tell me far more than what percentage hermorphaditic, gypsy arborist I was. It would go far beyond telling me if I was a cartoon character, a liberal spelunker, or a well-regulated sexual gymnast. This would be a test that would absolutely define me in all aspects.

The test promised to inform me of things known and unknown to me. The test would tell me about my character, my health, my prejudices, my desires, my fears, and my altruism. I would find out if any of my actions have led to the death of another person or enriched someone’s life. It would examine the good in me…and the evil. It would evaluate my perceptions, it would test my loyalty, and it would see how well I dealt with joy and tragedy and stress and pain and pleasure.

The test would be long, but there would be a time limit. Many of the questions would be repeated over and over. I could go back and make some corrections, but I still had to beat the clock. There are a lot of study guides available for the test, but many of them are contradictory so, at best, they are unreliable. You are not allowed to speak with anyone who has taken the test, and from what I understand, it probably wouldn’t do you any good if you could. There is really no way you can cheat on the test. You can lie, but that’s part of the test. No, this test is a solo effort.

I couldn’t sleep last night; I kept thinking about this test I was going to take. I got out of bed at 3:00 a.m. and went into my office to prepare for the test. The dogs followed me. When I sat down in front of my desk with a hot cup of coffee, I glanced over at Roxie, my canine friend that is dying. She was doing well this morning, and as I looked at her she walked over and put her head in my lap, hoping for a morning head rub. As I looked at her, something began to dawn on me: I was already taking the test.

The test, of course, is Life. I couldn’t tell you how well I’m doing; I have no idea who is scoring it. I just hope I don’t run out of number-two pencils for a while.

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Zipped Up

“We’re not getting another dog,” said my wife when I asked her to accompany me to the Hilltop Nursing Home for my monthly pet-therapy visit. “We already have four, and that’s enough.”

“I didn’t say anything about getting another dog; I just asked if you’d like to go with me today. Since I’ve been spending a lot of time volunteering at the shelter, you’ve mentioned you might like to do some volunteering also, and I thought today would be as good a day as any to see if you will like it. We’re just going to take a dog to see some senior citizens. Come on, you might have fun.”

“Well, Ok, I’ll go with you, but no new dogs.”

“Sure,” I agreed, “we’ll just do the therapy thing and then help out at the shelter a bit, and come home.”

When we got to the ADL—the largest no-kill shelter in the southwest—LaTrenda, the volunteer coordinator had Zipper ready to go. The previous day, I had taken Zipper to an elementary school to give several presentations about dog care, and I had arranged for him to go with me today.

I introduced Zipper to my wife Linda, and we took him to the car, where he hopped in the back on command. My wife was impressed. I told her what I knew about Zipper’s past: he is a two-year-old, mix-breed stray, that a policeman brought to the shelter after he saved him from an attack by two mastiffs. Zipper was cut and bruised and had his eye torn a bit. In addition, Zipper was positive for heartworms and was undergoing treatments. He had been at the shelter since September 1.

During the ride to the nursing home, Linda kept turning around and stroking his head and speaking much sweeter words to him than she ever does to me. At the nursing home, I let her take him around for the old folks to pet, and she remarked frequently about how gentle he was. One old lady, deep into senility, was especially fond of Zipper, and he seemed to draw her out of her inner world. As we were getting ready to leave, the old woman began to cry. I gently held her in my arms, and sensing he was needed, Zipper came over and laid his head on her lap. I think it was then my wife fell in love with him.

When we returned to the ADL, Zipper went back into his kennel, and Linda walked around visiting other dogs while I went to the office to do some paper work. When I finished, I came and found Linda standing in front of Zipper’s kennel. “Did you notice,” she said, “that he never barks?”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that before. He’s really a great dog. He’s very curious, and he’s a four-eyed dog.” (Four-eyed dogs have darker markings above the eyes that look like eyebrows. The Native Americans of the Southwest believe four-eyed dogs are special and have great insight.)

“I wonder how long he will have to be treated for heartworms?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s go ask Heike, the shelter manager.”
Heike is a tall, blond walking encyclopedia of dog knowledge and an extremely dedicated champion of animals. She filled us in on the details of Zipper’s treatment, and then said, “Why don’t you take him home for the weekend and foster him and see how he gets along with your other dogs.” I didn’t tell her I was not allowed to get another dog.

Linda looked at me, and I could tell there was some kind of struggle going on in her lovely head. Finally she said, “Yeah, sure, why don’t we do that.”

Two hours after we returned home with Zipper, he had made four new dog friends and met a cat who seems to like him. Two hours and one minute after we returned home, Linda had me take her to the pet store to purchase Zipper a bed, a collar, a leash, a dog bowl, and some toys. Zipper is here to stay.

A short while ago, my wife said, “I just realized, you knew we were going to get that dog when you asked me to go with you this morning.”

In my defense, I told her, “Well, that’s not exactly true. Yesterday, Zipper told me he was going to get us.”

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Lucinda Whacks Another One

Edgar Smoil was a happy man. His dog Jonny, a pug, had won “Best in Breed” earlier that day in the Canine-Orama Dog Show in Bakersville, California, and with Jonny safely asleep in his cage upstairs in the hotel room, Edgar was on his third scotch in the hotel lounge. It was Valentines Day.
Edgar Smoil was 39 and had no woman in his life. As a matter of fact, his dog was his only companion. He had been married, albeit briefly, in his early 20s, but his wife Simone quickly became bored and left him for another man. Although he had dated a few women over the years, by the third date, they were ready to move on. Edgar had pretty much given up on romance, and even if he was interested, between his job as a chemical engineer specializing in polymers and traveling to dog shows with Jonny, he hadn’t much time for the pursuit of love. But this was Valentines Day, and Edgar he was happy, and he wished he had someone to share that happiness with.
Lucinda Rainwater was also in Bakersfield at the same moment. She had driven down from Carmel to attend an antique auction, and being an animal doctor, had decided to catch the dog show as well. She, too, was happy. A particularly fine piece of art deco glassware had come up for sale at the auction, and hers had been the winning bid.
Lucinda Rainwater was sitting at the long, oak, hotel bar, three stools down from where Edgar Smoil sat. She was enjoying a Campari on ice when her internal electricity tripped a breaker and reset automatically. This was unfortunate, for when Lucinda’s electrical system faltered, she would go into her serial-killer mode. It had happened 25 times before. She turned her head, and saw that Edgar Smoil had the number 26 painted on his forehead.
With her antique railroad spike nestled in her handbag, Lucinda moved down two stools and asked Edgar, “Do you have a light?”
Shaken out of his reverie and slightly startled, Edgar looked at the pretty, blond woman next to him and stammered, “Uh…no…sorry…uh…I don’t smoke.”
“That’s OK,” responded Lucinda, “neither do I. I just thought you looked lonely, and it’s Valentines Day and all. Hi, I’m Lucinda.”
Pretty women did not come up and talk to Edgar, so he was more than surprised that this one was paying attention to him. “Uh…hello. My name is Ed,” he said, preferring the shortened version of his name because he felt it sounded manlier. “I’m here for the dog show. Uh…can I buy you a drink?”
It was then Lucinda knew for sure her railroad spike would find its Valentines Day heart.
In addition to notching up her 26th kill, Lucinda Rainwater found an unexpected benefit on Valentines Day: she now owned a beautiful little pug.

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Career Day

Yesterday, I spent the morning at Adams Elementary School giving Career-Day presentations to third and fourth-grade classes. Although I don’t actually have a career, I was there speaking on behalf of the Animal Defense League, the largest “no kill” animal shelter in South Texas. Two women—also ADL volunteers—were supposed to assist me, carrying a box full of printed handouts, etc, but for various reasons they were unable to attend, so it was left to me and Simone to handle the gig. Simone is a four-month-old black, Labrador retriever who is great with kids, but not very handy toting boxes and water bowls.
After spilling brochures, coloring books, and a water bowl in the school parking lot, Simone and I finally made it to the teacher’s lounge where we awaited our call along with a police officer, a water company employee, and a guy who sold cell phones, a university professor, a fireman, and several others from various professions. Everyone loved Simone, but voiced their concerns about “following a dog act.” I could understand their pain; if you show a kid a cell phone and a puppy, guess which one is going to get the most attention.
The school officials suggested I talk about: a) the kind of work the ADL does, b) other careers working with animals, c) educational requirements and subjects one would need for animal-related careers, and d) why the kids should stay in school. As I said, these were suggestions, not requirements, so I immediately threw them out the window. Instead, when I entered the first classroom—Mrs. Ramirez’s third-grade class—I held up the dog and said, “This is Simone, and her job is being a dog. How many of you would like to be a dog?” Nearly all the hands in the class shot up.
“Cool,” I said. “Being a dog is fairly easy, you have to now how to eat, pee, and play. I would guess that most of you already know how to do this.”
A loud chorus of “Yeahs” broke out, while Mrs. Ramirez eyed me suspiciously. I was tempted to take a bow and leave on a high note, but my devotion to duty got the better of me. Simone and I stayed, and I went through a 15-minute spiel about careers, education, and the behavior of pets. I don’t know how much of what I said was actually heard by the kids; their attention was riveted on Simone. They interrupted every few minutes with “Can we touch her.”
The last part of the presentation was the “question and answer period,” which is always fun for me. As I walked Simone around the classroom so the kids could pet her, tiny hands would rise. “Do you have a question? I would ask.
“Yes,” most of them would say. “I had a dog, but he got out of the yard and was hit by a truck,” was typical of the kind of questions I got.
“That’s a good question,” I would respond. “Anyone else have a question?”
“I have a Chihuahua, and it ate my sister’s bra.”
“Another excellent question,” I would say.
After all the kids got to pet Simone, I thanked them for allowing us to visit and then passed out some “activity books” filled with pictures to color and connect-a-dot puzzles.
Before we left, I said, “So kids, be sure to stay in school and read a lot of books, but if I were you, I’d give serious consideration to being a dog. A dog doesn’t have to have a job, pay taxes, get married, go to war, worry about changing fashions, or pay a mortgage. And, you can even eat a bra.
After that first presentation, the principal asked me to wait in the teacher’s lounge while Simone did the remaining four presentations by herself.

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The Blood-Sucking Cheegle

I’m being nibbled to death by a cheegle. At the moment there are 24 wounds on my wrists, fingers and forearms the tiny beast has inflicted. Blood oozes from four of them, but the remainder have clotted and are dressed in crusty sports coats. Although the wounds are not deep, when the cheegle’s sharp, little teeth sink into my flesh corpuscular fluid flows in copious amounts. I am slowly being bled to death.
The cheegle, who goes by the name of Lily, masquerades as a small, adorable puppy, is, in fact, a voracious vampire who attacks without provocation when I am trying to rest. As soon I stretch out on the bed for an afternoon nap and close my eyes, sweet Lily bounds up the steps next to the bed and jumps on my head. She then proceeds to attack my fingers. I curl my digits into my palms, and she digs for them for a while, finally giving up and attacking my wrists.
“No,” I yell, but it falls on deaf ears, well, on floppy, non-English-speaking ears. I push her away, but to her, it is only a gauntlet thrown down to challenge her persistence. She is relentless; I am defenseless. I play dead, and she finally retreats from her attack on my person and concentrates on making a small hole she has made in the blanket larger. With bloody hands, I fall into a cautious sleep, wondering if I will exsanguinate during my afternoon nap. In my dreams, I see the young, blond surfer dude I once was. When I wake, I see the chew toy I am now.

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A Bird In The Brain Pool

For the past two days, I've had a mind fungus growing. Although its medicinal properties may have helped prevent unwanted bacteria from running amok in my frontal lobe, the fungus seems to be interfering with the small, creative-juice pool in my cranium. It is running dry.

Since I try, for the most part, to post original content on this blog, I am desperate for material. In the past, when I've fallen into a creative slump, I have resorted to posting pictures of the dogs and cat that live with me. It is a cheap, yet effective, way to offer visitors a snack when I'm too tired to prepare a meal. So it is today.

I found the little bird pictured in this post in my backyard. It could not yet fly, and Sophie and Lily were barking at it. There are a lot of large trees in my yard, and I could not determine from where the bird fell, so I made a nest for it and filled it with grass, bird seed and water, hoping its mother would somehow rescue it. I put it on the picnic table so the dogs would leave it alone, and then went back into the house and let nature take its course. A couple hours later, I checked on the bird, and it was gone. A happy ending, I hoped. About 15 minutes later, Catherine the cat delivered the dead little bird to me as a present. Is it just Catherine's nature to kill, or is she evil? The question is not unlike that I ask about man. I think the real question might be, "Do I care?"

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Cat Saves Dog: News at 11:00

I am hesitant to call the cat that lives with me a hero. “Hero” is a term that has been tossed around way too much this century; it seems that anyone who puts on a uniform of any kind is automatically bequeathed the honorific these days, deservedly or not. The feline that roams my house and backyard is indeed a fine animal, but she is also a serial killer of lizards, birds, and other small creatures that come across her path. She may be a Heroine or a Horror, depending on the illusions of the one doing the observing, but last night I observed her performing rather nicely as a puppy rescuer.
A little after 11:00 last night, I took the dogs outside for their pre-slumber evacuations. Pathetic Bob, Judy, Lily and Sophie circled the deck around the pool in search of he perfect spot pee. Bob and Sophie, unable to find suitable pee spots, wandered down stairs and widened their search into the surrounding gardens. I relaxed in an Adirondack chair, smoking a cigarette, while the dogs leisurely preformed their nightly business. Cat came by, and Lily, the little dog, pounced on her for their nightly wrestling match. Cat lets Lily win a few rounds, and then soundly kicks her tiny little ass. It was a good night in River City.
When the last of the carcinogenic smoke passed my lips, I stood up and called for everyone to reassemble in the house. Bob, Judy, Lily and Cat filed in the patio door, but Sophie was AWOL. After several stern calls from me, Sophie had still not returned so I began a search. It didn’t take long for me to hear Sophie’s trademark whine emanating from beneath the deck between the house and the pool. Although I had put up basket-weave fencing around the bottom of the deck to prevent canine ingress, over the years, it has yielded in places (especially behind the ivy), and the curious animals occasionally crawl under the deck in pursuit of whatever they happen to be pursuing.
After locating Sophie, I located the place she entered the under-deck and tried to call her over. It didn’t work. I got a flashlight and shined it through the spaces in the boards, hoping to guide her to the exit. She didn’t follow. Thirty minutes of coaxing later, it was apparent she was not going to follow me, so I had to move a very large pot and pull up a 16-foot, 2x6 deck plank. I could see Sophie, but she would not come to the opening. Picking up the crowbar, I tore up another plank. More whining, but no Sophie. Finally, she showed her cute little head, but when I tried to grab her and lift her out, she scampered away. “Goddamnit Sophie,” I said in the nicest possible way, “I’m not going to tear up the whole deck to get you out.” Sophie just whined.
About this time, Cat came strolling over and looked down into the opening. She then looked at me as if to say, “What’s the problem?” and jumped down under the deck. As I was getting ready to pull up yet another board in hopes of retrieving both the dog and Cat, Sophie came bounding up the stairs on the other side of the deck and ran inside. Cat came over to me and said, “Why didn’t you call on me first, that dog will follow me anywhere. Have fun rebuilding the deck, I’m going to bed.”

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One Is The Lonliest Number

“It’s not fair Ellen; it’s just not fair,” Regina Stanton cried into the telephone, “God, I love them both so much.”
Ellen’s brassy voice echoed in the small apartment, “Well Reggie, you gotta do something. This thing has gone on far enough. You have to tell him.”
“I know. I know I do, but with him being in Iraq and all, it seems so, uh, bitchy to write him a ‘Dear John’ letter. I feel so guilty.”
“I know you do girl, but you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”
Regina picked at her flannel pajama bottoms with serrated fingernails, as she cradled the phone between her shoulder and cheek, a nervous habit she’d had since childhood. “I never meant for this to happen, you know? It’s just that John’s been gone so long, and then they extended his tour. I was lonely, so damn lonely. The walls in this apartment were closing in on me; I needed company. Oh Ellen, I don’t want to lose either one of them.”
“Listen baby sister, you knew how John was when you married him. You knew he was a warrior. And, you can’t say you didn’t know about the other thing. You have got to tell him or you’re not going to be worth a damn to either one of them.”
“You’re right sis, I know you’re right, and I will tell him; I’ll write him that letter. Thanks for being there.”
“Anytime you need me Reg, anytime at all.”
Regina hung up the phone and buried her face in her hands. “What did I get myself into,” she asked the sofa. It didn’t answer. She glanced at the desk, the personalized stationary her father had given her on her last birthday hid in the middle drawer.
Before heading to the desk, Regina made a detour to the kitchen and poured herself a half-glass of Pinot Grigio, hoping its lubricating effects might loosen her thoughts and help transcribe them to paper. She looked at the sink, two plates sat in soapy water, reminders of her dinner with Thompson only an hour or so earlier. Two. Two is what Regina had signed up for, not Iraq, not loneliness, not the heartbreak of one.
As she gathered her resolve and started for the desk, she caught the feint sounds of Thomson’s snores coming from the bedroom. It was the music of damp breezes played on ripe potatoes. It was the music of companionship in the key of love major. The snuffling ear candy drew her towards the bedroom, but she resisted, knowing if she did not take pen in hand now, the stress of deception would crush her.
After placing the wine glass on the desk, Regina withdrew her stationary from the drawer, grasped the comfort-grip gel pen in hand and began.

Dear John,
I miss you so much, and I been so lonely, so please don’t be upset with me because…I bought a dog. I know you don’t like dogs, but I hope you love me enough to like Thompson….

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Max

A short while ago, while driving home from the veterinarian’s office I began to cry. Minutes before, I held the old beagle that lived with me as he took his last breath, finishing his string of days with the help of a lethal injection. I killed him, and no matter how well intentioned that act may have been, I have to accept the karma of playing God.

Max came to live with me when he was one year old. He was an abandoned toy, purchased by well-meaning parents as a Christmas gift for their children. Like many children, they lost interest in Max once he outgrew his puppy cuteness, and he was spending his days locked in a garage without companionship and stimulation. My mother, who lived next door, spoke to the people about Max’s situation, and they said they would be happy to give the dog to someone. Of course, mom called me. My wife and I already had four dogs living with us, but once we met Max, we knew we’d find room for one more.

Max brought joy to our lives. He was curious, crazy, funny, loving, laid back, and demanding when it came to matters of a culinary nature. Before he became crippled with arthritis, he would leap into our bed every night and lie next to me waiting for his evening tummy message. He was the only dog that has lived with us who found my ear canals to be fascinating; he would tongue-scrub them nightly with great attention to detail. I never had to use Q-Tips for the longest time. Max got along well with other animals; he was never aggressive, mean, or afraid. The world was a curiosity to him. He would approach horses and cats with equal magnanimity; neither children nor adults caused him any uneasiness.

If Max had a fault, I guess it might be his anal retentiveness. His bark (which was actually a howl) would echo throughout the house whenever there was a slight change in his routine. A certain bark would mean, “Hey, you left the toilet lid closed, and I’m thirsty.” One of his favorite spots on hot and humid summer days was the floor in the step-down shower. If anyone left a bottle of shampoo or a washcloth on the shower floor, he would howl until I came in and picked it up. He used to love to lie on the bed in our bedroom and take a nap under the ceiling fan. If he awoke and found himself to be alone in the room, he would issue a command for company or to be taken off the bed so he could rejoin the pack. In the evenings when I was reading or watching television, Max would jump up on my lap, roll over on his back and nudge my hand until I would softly stroke his stomach. This would go on for hours or until my muscles cramped up. There was never a day that I didn’t feel grateful Max had come into my life.

Last December, Max turned 14, and with his advanced age came advanced health problems. Arthritis stealthily robbed him of most of his ambulatory functions. Liver problems arose. Recently, he became incontinent; his quality of life plummeted. I didn’t want him to suffer, and I didn’t want him to die, but I tried to make the decision about killing my dog not about what I wanted, but about what was best for him. I asked him if he was ready to go several times, but received no firm answer. Ultimately, I had to answer for him, and I will have to answer for his death.

Max died in my arms with my lips on his tri-colored head. Of course, a little bit of me died with him. I will pick up his cremated remains in about a week, and he will take his place alongside Emmutt and Roxie.

As I drove home with tears in my eyes, the sky opened up and cried.

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