I put our dog down today. It’s always difficult to say goodbye to a loved one, and this time was no different. Whimsically named after a character in a song from the 70s, she was an extraordinary dog.
Arguably, it was because of this little pup that I now have two beautiful children.
It seems like it was a long time ago. Mel and I had been together for several years when, inevitably, the subject of children came up. Of course, I’d laugh and tell her I didn’t blame her for wanting my offspring. Being a dad to my son Corrie was the greatest job I’d ever had. Fatherhood had defined me to a large extent, in other ways it had rescued me.
It was Miko, our roommate and shared friend, who first cornered me on my views about having more children. Either I had had a few beers, or she was making lemon meringue pie for us in the kitchen, but I was suitably open-minded when she asked how I truly felt about it. It was I who expounded with machismo about being a father, how grateful I was for the chance at being part of my son’s life. That if it was all I was able to do in this lifetime, it would have been worthwhile. I suspect, just as the pie was ready, or while handing me another beer, she asked, as only women can, sweetly, innocently, if I would consider doing it all over again. I’m sure then, with some bluster, I insisted I would. Probably, I invoked my father’s wisdom, he with nine children, about how every little baby is a miracle; indeed, he says that somehow we find a way to move over a little bit and make room for each tiny gift Mother Nature bestows upon us; for each life we are privileged to share; for the opportunity to influence and love another human being in a way we deem ideal. It’s our chance at renewal, to live on in others. I thought I had become good at it. That’s when she told me Mel had been off birth control for a few months.
So I told my darling gal that with her birthday approaching, I’d get her a dog. If she did well with the dog, I’d consider letting her have my child. She smiled at this. In the cold of February, during a snowstorm where no one should have been driving, the three of us went in my van deep into the country to a home where our little Havanese was for sale. The place was a mess and she was a runt. But Mel’s instincts chose her; they chose each other, this tiny little black dog of perhaps two pounds. After a while, I paid the breeder half the money she was asking. Mel snuggled the little pup in her jacket all the way home. She let me name her Maggie May.
Within a few weeks she was at her full weight, nine pounds. And the Cesar Milan show, “Dog Whisperer” played incessantly on our television. Mel had every episode taped, if you came over back then, it would be on in the background. She taught this dog everything. The very first time I tossed a toy across the room, she brought it back to my feet. It was as if she knew her purpose. You could pretend to shoot her with a cocked finger and she would roll on her side and play dead. Maggie would do anything for food and she learned fast. Mel and I delighted in taking her for long walks around the hugely wooded neighbourhood we lived in. I built a dog door into the old milk door of our house, with steps up and down so Maggie could come and go into the big backyard as she pleased. Mel began to walk other dogs in the area, dog sitting some too.
She did so well with the little pup that I was hamstrung. Her mothering was superb. She spoke of all the things she remembered her own mother doing to keep her and her siblings entertained as youngsters. I could tell she was going to be a fantastic mother herself. I was caught in an age-old predisposition for which there was little rational escape, emotionally: none whatsoever. We now have two children: a darling girl of two and a half she named Charlotte; a boy ten days old named after my father, Howard. I asked Mel to marry me in front of much of my clan this summer. She said yes; in time, when both kids are of an age where they can bear rings and flowers in the ceremony, we’ll be married.
Unfortunately, little Maggie May didn’t fare so well. I’m not sure why, but she became quite sickly during our time in Toronto. We lived not far from the main 401 highway through town, albeit separated by a huge sound barrier from our Silver Springs neighbourhood. In summer, approaching with the sun in the distance, and at just the right angle, you could see a brown haze for several hundred yards on either side of the highway. What wasn’t blown away by the wind, or absorbed by the abundant trees, would settle close to the ground – where Maggie predominantly lived, her nose only a few inches high.
She began to have neurological problems, seizures, vomiting, digestive issues, etc. We spent thousands on vet bills without satisfactory answers. When we moved to Cobourg, she was better but still sick intermittently; the damage had already been done. We never got a confirmed diagnosis, suspecting it was the pollution in Toronto that affected her. In the end, she wouldn’t walk. I’d have to drag her to go even 50 yards from the house. Her appetite was still strong but she was living no life.
A man ought to be able to do this for his loved ones: to bear the burden of ending the days of a pet who has brought so much life to those around her; to spare them the extra chagrin of witnessing the demise of one of their own. She was a member of this family and influenced its formation as much as anyone. She was very smart, and, in her day, fast and entertaining. She was great company for us all, but especially for Mel who considered her on some level her first child. She was really good with our little girl and all other children. She was never an annoyingly mad-barker like some small dogs are; moreover, she seemed to peacefully ebb and flow with those around her. She was part of us.
I’ll always be grateful to that little black dog.
Goodbye forever now: rest in peace little Maggie
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