Post by Aly on May 29, 2012 19:34:02 GMT -8
These boards are looking a little bare so I figured I'd try to help get some activity in them.
Last year I took a creative writing class and had an assignment to write a personal essay about a tragedy in my life. Lately my dog, Max, has been on my mind, and so I figured I'd share the written version of my story. Also, I'm kind of proud of how much I invested into the story. I tend to shy away from non-fiction work, but I was able to let go for this one and write something I'm actually proud of. So, without further ado--my personal essay!
Last year I took a creative writing class and had an assignment to write a personal essay about a tragedy in my life. Lately my dog, Max, has been on my mind, and so I figured I'd share the written version of my story. Also, I'm kind of proud of how much I invested into the story. I tend to shy away from non-fiction work, but I was able to let go for this one and write something I'm actually proud of. So, without further ado--my personal essay!
Max-a-Million
Max was charming. I knew him since he first joined my family when I was almost one year old. It was May 9th of 1994, and he was incredibly massive for what was supposed to be a puppy. I don't remember it, but my mom would always describe how clumsy he was with giant paws that seemed so unproportional to his body. Black Labrador Retrievers were known for being sweet and friendly, and Max was no exception.
Max, Maxy, Max-a-million, Maxipad, Bubbas—whatever you wanted to call him, he knew when he was called. You could call him "Rover" and he'd still respond; it was the tone of loving, guilty affection he recognized. It shames me to admit that we nearly neglected him for the first ten years of his life. I remember every once in a while playing hide and seek and laying on him in the hot summer sun, but I know it wasn't often except in the summer. He was the "outside" dog, and we're a family of introverts.
I regret neglecting him because it wasn't until he started getting sick—very frequently—that I gave any personal time to him. I began to walk and train him (he was already trained, but Max had a bit of a behavioral problem when it came to human food and jumping) and I stayed with him through the thousands of dollars we spent on him for the next four years on fixing deadly eye diseases, cutting off leg tumors and helping him heal through a failing liver, which we caused, thinking Tylenol would help his arthritis. Well, it did help his arthritis, but not his liver. He spent several long summer weeks lying on puppy pads, unable to ever get up or go to the bathroom. I was by his side six hours a day, every day, making sure he ate and drank plenty of water. He was thirteen, and that's when I realized with an icy grip to my chest our time was limited.
I didn't know the life expectancy for a black Lab Retriever was back then. I think if I knew he had surpassed it by one to three years already, I might have watched him more carefully. Labs are supposed to live until they're ten or eleven. Max, for whatever reason he felt necessary, held on for fourteen years. I'd heard that in cases of unconditional love, dogs would live several years past their life expectancy to be with their owners. I don't know why Max did. My family didn't entirely deserve it; we were unremarkable to him for so long. I won't question the blessing he gave my family, though. I'm just eternally grateful.
As the year 2007 crawled by, my family suffered through grieving the sudden death of my grandmother. Max comforted us and grieved (he loved her most out of all the extended family) as a fluid—I don't know what; I was never told—filled his body without our knowledge.
November of 2007 we checked him into the vet, noticing him gain a lot of weight really quickly.
"If it comes back, things aren't looking good," the doctor told us as he removed the fluid from Max's body. He looked normal again, and so I brushed it off and continued to walk him every day, like I had started to do after he'd healed from his leg tumors the year before.
Bella joined our family December 31st. My mother and I were returning from visiting my aunt in Woodside, and we saw a little brown blob on the side of the road. We pulled over, and the Border Collie puppy jumped in my lap (and ruined my favorite shirt). She smelled like oil and death, considering I'd caught her munching on a dead bird. We tried to take her to Animal Control four minutes before they were supposed to close, only to find all the gates locked up. "Closed for the holidays," a cheap paper sign read. We took her home, and kept her there after the vet recommended we keep her away from Animal Control.
The incredibly harsh winter storms continued for what seemed like ages. We kept Max inside, and Bella insisted on testing his age. It wasn't until we saw how energetic she was that we noticed how old he'd gotten. He grew a white beard when he was about ten years old, which we would often joke about to friends. His arthritis followed, and the health problems after that. But still, when we looked at him we saw the over-energetic dog we'd had since we'd moved to Hollister in 1994. I think my family must have thought he was immortal, despite the thousands of dollars of medical bills that would state otherwise. I remember realizing out loud how tired he looked when Bella would jump around and over him, as if asking him to play. He merely laid there and watched her like a grandpa in a rocking chair.
"He's getting old," my mom agreed with me.
"Still…" I slid off the couch and approached Max on my knees to scratch his ears. "Maxy, you can't die until I go to college. I don't think I can live without you in this house." It was February, and I was thirteen. My family agreed with me. I hadn't known life without him; he was a true brother.
March of that year, I applied for an early college program, stating that I would go to college and high school at the same time. I was informed that I was accepted after a quick and breezy interview and testing process. In very early May I attended orientation. I never felt prouder of myself.
May 9th came along very slowly. I remember it being about 6:30 in the morning, and I was doing my hair for an average Friday at school. My dad was going to work late; something extremely unusual for him. He should have been at the office in San Jose by six, but he decided to sleep in. Everything happened in a speedy blur.
My mom told me she found Max lying on the grass; she said something wasn't right. Max never laid on the grass at night; it was always too cold. I immediately set everything down and, with half-wet hair, I ran outside and found my dad examining him. Max was watching passively, seemingly twice as fat as I'd last seen him the day before.
"He must have fallen from that hole," my dad said to me as I knelt beside Max, gesturing to a hole that Bella dug earlier that week. He looked like he was just resting, like nothing was wrong, but I knew in the bottom of my stomach he was in agonizing pain. He shivered; the grass was still wet from the sprinklers, the sun wasn't up. My mom immediately went to get an electric blanket and called my sister's fiancé, Mike, to help us get him to the vet.
I tried to share my body heat with him, but seeing as I'm a particularly small person, I know I didn't do much. Width-wise, he must have been four times my size. He was as tall as me when he stood on his hind legs. Still, I laid there with him on the cold grass and rubbed the electric blanket on him while Mike and my dad created a gurney out of spare things he found in the garage. My mom called the vet to explain the emergency, and we were told that the doctor couldn't be there until 8:30. Still, we loaded him up on the gurney and put him in the van.
My neighbor, Al, always took a walk at about seven in the morning. He passed by our garage and smiled sadly.
"Ah, I see it's his time, too," Al said softly. He didn't even let my family respond as he walked away. I was later informed that his old German Shepherd, Misty, passed away not too long ago, but I disregarded it, thinking that maybe he just needed some basic meds to get better. My brother insisted on going to school, claiming he had a test. I knew he was just scared, and I know to this day when he thinks of Max it's his biggest regret, not being there for him. My sister climbed in the van with my parents and Mike and me, and off to the vet we went, even though the doctor couldn't be there for another half hour.
I remember sitting in the van, nearly panicking. My sister tried to convince me to be calm: "He needs you to be strong, now," she told me. I wasn't crying, but I kept checking the clock every minute, and kept angrily demanding where the doctor was. He showed up fifteen minutes late, and my dad and Mike hoisted up 110 pounds of Max plus a gurney made up of extra pieces of crown molding and paint tarp onto the doctor's surgical table.
I was there the entire time, but nothing processed. The doctor told us that it was the same fluid that caused us trouble before. I watched Max breathe slowly and calmly on the table. Everyone's voices faded in the background as I watched him blink and breathe as if it took all his strength in the world. When I saw the surgical needle, I looked to Max and said,
"It's okay, boy. We're gunna get you better." I noticed my mother tense next to me, and I immediately saw tears at the brim of my eyes. "No, Mom. We can't do that." I only glanced to her for a second; I was looking back at Max, who stared me right in the eye. He was waiting for me to make the decision of whether or not to end his agony.
"He's in pain, Aly," my mom said. "You have to let him go. You have to let him carry on." I felt my knees buckle, but I remained standing and watched my dog, my Max-a-million, silently asking him what he wanted me to do. I was only semi-aware of the doctor with his needle waiting patiently, as if he needed my permission.
"No," I said quietly, shaking my head. It was harder to watch him beg me silently to end his life than to say, "I'm sorry, Maxy. I love you. You can go, now. It's okay." Somehow, through the sobs, Max understood me. He looked only at me until the light faded and he closed his sweet chocolate eyes for the last time.
I don't remember making my way to the van, how it got parked in a different spot, or why I was looking at my watch and realizing it was nine in the morning. I don't remember blinking and ending up in my bed, in my room, stabbing three giant holes in a plastic notebook with scissors, crying until it was three in the afternoon. I somehow ended up in the living room, sitting with my family. My mom and brother just got back from the vet to pick up Max's ashes.
"God, even in death he weighs a hundred pounds," my mom said as she set a wooden and black glass box on our grand piano, the piano my grandmother gave us before she died.
"We're lucky it's not a windy day," my sister said suddenly. I felt the entire room stop and everyone look to Sarah. Everyone—except me—burst into laughter when she motioned fluttering pieces of ash in the wind. I still don't find it funny, but everyone else does.
Nothing really set into place until a couple days after Max died, when I saw Bella lying in front of the screen door, like how she would when she wanted to play with Max. It was one of the few times my family was in the living room together, and we all saw her just lay there and stare.
"Do you think she misses Max?" someone said. When Bella sighed heavily at the door, it touched a tender wound in all our hearts. In that same day, my brother researched the life expectancy of a lab retriever, and we realized how long he held on for us. Three years longer than expected for a healthy dog; Max was hardly healthy. It hit me hardest when the irony set in; I had just been accepted to the early college program just a couple weeks before. Max really had waited until I got to go to college. But most of all, I think he waited until Bella could protect us. Max's heart was made of gold, which was why we called him Max-a-Million; his love was worth more than millions.
