started off with hamsters. There were four different hamsters we had at two different points. First was Baby and Spot, then later Peachy and Nosey. We didn’t get any more hamsters after them; they didn’t last that long as pets. After the hamsters we got our first cat, Harry. Harry was a beautiful Maine Coon, but he wasn’t the friendliest thing in the
world. My friend Libby was scared of him, so I would lock her in the closet with him, giggling on the other side of the door. At the time I thought it was funny, though now I appreciate why Libby didn’t think so. We gave Harry away at some point, because we eventually grew tired of emptying out the Bactine and Band-Aid aisle at CVS. There were a few more cats after that, all of whom came and went fairly quickly. My Dad had bad allergies, and Mom said it was either him or the cats who had to go. Since my Dad was the one who brought home a steady paycheck, the cats hit the road.
Then when I was 7 we got our first dog. A puppy really, Jessie was a sweet looking golden retriever. I say sweet looking, because she was actually the spawn of Satan. There is an amusing picture which managed to perfectly capture the hell-dog’s true nature. My Dad snapped a photo of me, my brother and my Mom holding Jessie, at the precise moment when Jessie decides to try and take a huge bite out of my Mother’s cheek. Needless to say, Jessie did not stick. But despite the fact that my brother and I were scared to death of Jessie chewing our feet off, we were sad to see her go.
So Mom and Dad decided to get another dog. This time instead of a puppy, we adopted a fully grown Greyhound named Tootie, who had to travel by airplane to get to us. Tootie was much sweeter than Jessie, and we liked her a lot better. But Tootie was also a very skinny and very skittish dog. And in case you didn’t know, Greyhounds are fast. So after being home with us for a week or so, she slipped out of her collar, took off down the street and that was that. To this day I’m still not entirely
clear about what happened to her. I think eventually someone found her, but she had been hit by a car and was killed. It was upsetting, but not devastatingly so, because we hadn’t the time to get too attached to her. Despite our rotten luck with Jessie and Tootie, we figured that third time’s a charm, and we adopted Maxie.
Maxie was a grown Corgi-mix from a local shelter. Because she wasn’t purebred, she was bigger than most Corgis. But she had the signature pointy ears and nose and her fur was a beautiful honey color. We actually went to the shelter to check out some chocolate lab puppies, but I saw Maxie and Mom told me they were going to put her to sleep if she wasn’t adopted soon. So we took Maxie home instead. Maxie was a great dog; she was friendly and sweet, but she was also a protector. When people came to the door, they thought we had a huge Doberman lurking inside,
instead of a medium sized Corgi darting back and forth. Maxie loved to play
with me and my brother, and we invented what we called "The Maxie Game."
"The Maxie Game" involved my brother and I guarding these two side tables we had that Maxie liked to lie under. I can’t remember exactly how the game worked, but when Maxie managed to get past me or my brother and lie down under one of the tables, she won. Along with the Maxie game, there was also "The Maxie Dance." If you scratched Maxie down near her tail, her front paws would march in place, and she’d wag her butt from side to side. It looked sort of like she was doing the twist, and me and my brother would sing, "Doing the Maxie, doing the Maxie, doing the Maxie daaaa-aaaa-aaance!" I guess you had to be there.
Maxie always slept in my room. I don’t remember if it was because I insisted, or simply because no one else liked sharing their bed with a canine. But either way, Maxie always slept with me. First, I would climb into bed, and get cozy under the covers. Most of the time Maxie would wait for me to get settled before she leapt onto the bed, but sometimes she’d be too impatient, and she’d jump on too soon. I didn’t mind though. She’d stand at the foot of the bed, circle around my feet a few times, then plop down. Sometimes next to my feet, sometimes between my feet, sometimes on my feet. But there was always something so comfortable and safe in feeling that big lump at the foot of my bed, keeping my toes warm. In the morning, when Maxie figured I’d slept enough, she’d crawl forward on the bed until she was stretched out alongside me. She wouldn’t purposely wake me up, but I usually did at that point. We wouldn’t get up right away, because it was very cozy just lying there, and I’d pet her for a few minutes before finally getting up.
We adopted Maxie when I was 8 years old, and we had her for 3 wonderful years. It was the longest we’d ever had a pet before. But of course, pets just weren’t meant to live forever. At the time, I had only experienced pets being given away. I never really stopped to consider the fact that pets die too.
When I was 11, my family decided to take a vacation to Disney World. Mom worked it out with the neighbors so they would stop by our house to feed and walk Maxie, and that way we wouldn‘t have to put her in a kennel. When we left, Maxie was fine. When we came back, Maxie seemed a whole other dog. She was suddenly moving slower, and sleeping a lot more. She didn’t have the energy that she used to have. I think we found out that the people at the local shelter lied to us about her age, and she was older than we originally thought. But it wasn’t just her age, we also found out that Maxie had cancer. At the time I felt like it was my fault. I thought that she got sick because we left her to go to Disney World.
I know now that wasn’t true, but her health just deteriorated after that trip. It wasn’t long before Mom had to break the news to me and my brother that Maxie would have to be put to sleep. It’s a horrible feeling, to have to knowingly kill your pet, and it makes you feel awfully conflicted. On one hand, your pet is suffering, and doing this is helping
them not feel any more pain. And on the other hand, it feels like betrayal and murder. But Maxie never forced us to betray her like that. She took care of things herself.
We were going to put her to sleep on a Monday. I don’t know why I remember that small detail after all these years...but I just do. I had a hard time falling asleep the night before, knowing it was the last time I’d feel her comfortable lump at the foot of my bed. I guess I eventually fell asleep, because I was awakened in the middle of the night by a
loud yelp. Disoriented, I sat up in bed, unsure of what the sound had been. For a moment I thought I had dreamt it, but then I heard a low whimper. I turned on the lamp next to my bed, but I wasn’t ready to deal with the sight in front of me. Maxie had either jumped down, or fallen off my bed, and was lying on the floor in a puddle of vomit and urine. I screamed for my parents, who heard me even though they were upstairs and asleep. I leapt out of bed and collapsed on the floor next to Maxie. I was afraid to touch her for a moment, but only a moment. She was still breathing faintly, so I carefully lifted her limp body into my lap and gently pet her head one last time, crying as I did so. Then she died.
When my parents rushed into my room what seemed like hours later, they found me sitting on the floor like that, still cradling Maxie in my lap, petting her and crying. My Mom tried to comfort me as my Dad took her lifeless body out to the garage. He had to put her body in a cardboard box until the morning. I think the idea of her lying alone in that cardboard box upset me more than anything. I became hysterical, wailing over and over again, "It wasn’t supposed to be this way!" But I think it was supposed to be that way. Because the day Maxie died was the day we were scheduled to put her to sleep. I didn’t sleep in my room for almost a week afterwards. I wouldn’t even go in my room, except when I had to get dressed. Every time I stepped inside, all I could see was death, and the spot on the floor where we sat together for the last time. That spot became like a black hole. It would try to suck me in, but I always managed to avoid it. For weeks I would consciously step over that particular spot. Even years later, when I was a high school and then college student, I would still remember the exact spot where Maxie died.
Holding Maxie as she died was my first real experience with death. The four hamsters died, but it wasn’t the same. The hamsters were small and didn’t really have personalities. They were soft and cute, but that was it. You never really know a hamster. And I never saw the hamsters die. My mom would break it to me gently, and I would cry, but I always got over it fairly quickly. But with Maxie, I watched her life slip out of my hands, literally. I never really experienced loss like that before, and it opened my eyes to the darker side of life. But it also taught me that things happen for a reason. It may sound silly because she was just a dog, but I really do believe that somehow, Maxie knew what we were going to do for her the day she died. And although she appreciated the gesture, she didn’t want us to feel responsible for her.
I still feel a small sense of comfort in that.