Puppy Love

This morning our puppy Max died. He wandered into our first little house just a few months after we were married. We had him for 11 years on February 16. We never knew what kind of dog he was, only that he was cute, liked to cuddle, asked for very little in return for his affection and was loyal to the end. I have heard about DNA testing for dogs where you do a swab and send it out to find out what got tossed in the hopper when God was making them. Garth and I would talk about doing that from time to time, but always figured Max was some kind of special, just the way he was, whether he was a fancy breed or not...and really, life holds so few mysteries anymore; we decided to let Max be one of them.

Max has been with us through three houses. He was preceded by his buddy Toby. I like to think that if there is a special place for dogs that Max is with Toby now and they are having the best time, catching up on their ear licking. Max has been the first to greet our children, as one by one we have brought them home.

Max was always Garth's dog and at two o'clock this morning when I heard him bark a strange bark, I told Garth to go check on him. Max was seemingly paralyzed about half-way down his back. Garth carried him outside to go to the bathroom and then carried him back in. Garth grabbed his pillow and a sleeping bag and spent the rest of the night on the tile, holding Max's paw. Sometime after Garth nodded off, Max ran away for the last time.

Really, we are so incredibly blessed that he didn't suffer at all. He had begun to lose a little weight the last month or so, but he was 15 and that happens. Yesterday he was running in the yard, digging and barking at passerby's. After all the times he ran away (miles and miles sometimes), he died in his sleep by his boy.

What a way to go.