Twelve years. It doesn’t seem like that long a time, yet it seems a lifetime.
Twelve years ago, we lived in Nixa, Missouri. Amanda still lived at home with us and our two Yorkies and two cats. Cindy and I both worked at Mercy and Amanda attended Nixa High School. Most weeks, we juggled our schedules to allow Amanda to spend time riding her horse at a nearby stable, sometimes one of us taking her and the other picking her up later. It was a good experience for her and she enjoyed it a lot. Things were fine until the day we discovered her horse had to be put out to pasture due to an injury to his leg. So, the decision was made to take him to the family farm in Viola, Arkansas the next weekend to spend the rest of his days just hanging out with the cows that were on the place.
We got up that Sunday morning ready for the trip home after breakfast at the local café in town. Like many small-town cafes, the food was good and the folks friendly. We enjoyed a fine fare of pancakes, biscuits, gravy, eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns – you know, your typical good old country style breakfast food. Having caught up on all the local gossip, our bellies full, and fixed with caffeine, we got up from the table to begin the journey home. Amanda and Cindy headed out the door to the parking lot while I headed to the cash register to pay our bill.
Once the transaction was completed, I stepped out onto the concrete porch of the café where the cook sat smoking a cigarette and chuckling as she looked across the parking lot. From our vantage point, I could soon see what she found so interesting. There in the middle of the mostly empty gravel lot were my wife and my stepdaughter kneeling down on either side of what I can only describe as a pair of ears and a tongue. Instantly, I knew in the back of my mind we were probably going home with a new dog.
“She’s been roaming around here for a couple of weeks going from door to door” the lady said as she took another drag of her smoke. “I guess either somebody dropped her or lost her.” She was a stray. Nobody claimed her. Nobody wanted her. She had survived the past couple of weeks on scraps of food she could scrounge from the trash or from some soft heart who might pitch leftovers to her after a meal at the café. She was thin and rough looking, but she was relishing the attention from the two girls hovering over her as if it had been ages since anyone had done so.
Now, I admit that I really did not want another pet. Two Yorkies and two cats were more than enough for one household in my opinion. But deep down there was something about this one. Maybe it was those long Basset Hound ears. Maybe it was those big brown eyes. Maybe it was the way she wagged her tail and panted while getting all that loving. But I swear to you somehow she looked straight at me and said, “Please take me home with you.” So, with very little pleading from Cindy and Amanda, we loaded the pup into the livestock trailer I had rented to bring the horse and headed for Nixa.
Let the adventure begin.
No sooner had the wheels of the trailer made a full rotation when we heard a deep hound voice coming from the back. The acoustics of the metal chamber resonated in such a way that surely the folks who were within a half mile of our path must have thought some sort of emergency vehicle was making its way through the community. And for the next 100 miles, this continued pausing no more than five seconds at a time. I surmise this pause was only to swallow and wet her vocal cords in an effort to prepare for the next round of barking. “BARK… BARK… BARK… BARK!” And it never ceased until we got home and got her out. She must have drunk a gallon of water.
The conversation on the trip home covered two subjects. First, of course, was how a dog could continuously bark so much, so loud, and so long. Second was what to name our new family member. The two Yorkies were named AJ and Zig, so we figured it best to name this one using the middle of the alphabet – “M.” So, we bounced a few names around like Myrtle, Mona, Mitzi, and the like. I finally settled on a name I thought befitting such a Basset Hound – Mollie. It just seemed right. But, in true democratic fashion, I was outvoted two to one in favor of the name that in all retrospect fit the hound perfectly – Maggie.
Being a stray, we knew we needed to take her to the vet and have her checked out as soon as possible. So, I made the appointment and took her our preferred vet clinic to see Dr. Linn. The first order of business was to get her weight. At 35 pounds, she was surely in need of some nutrition. And this was after having been fed well for a day at our house. But a thorough exam revealed no other real concerns health wise. Dr. Linn estimated she was about a year old and was convinced she was full blood Basset Hound which was another confusing factor as to why someone would have given her up and left her as a stray. She had no chip for identification, which was quickly remedied, and seemed to be a fine specimen. So, with a clean bill of health, I loaded Maggie back up in my truck and we headed home. Her new forever home.
Did I mention that she barked the whole way there and back?
It took no time for Maggie to get accustomed to life in Nixa and the Beeson home. She quickly found where the dog food was and her spot on the couch and in our bed. She would jump up in the bed, make her way to Cindy’s side, groan as she lay horizontally across the foot of the mattress, and groan even more when Momma would get her to move enough to let her get her feet in the bed. One Basset “sigh” later, Maggie would be asleep and dreaming of chasing rabbits. Her long body seemed to stretch across the entire width of the king size mattress at the foot which was a continuing complaint from her momma except on cold nights when Maggie’s pre-heating was an asset rather than a bother. And strangely enough, it was even better in that Maggie considered 9:00 PM to be her bedtime. Promptly at that hour, like clockwork, she would make her way to the bedroom, climb in the bed, and take her position at the foot on Momma’s side.
At times Maggie would decide the temperature of the room was a bit low and would make her way to the head of the bed between Momma and Daddy, nudge the covers, crawl under them until nothing but the tip of her tail was visible. It was interesting to us to lie in wait for a few minutes as we knew she was not able to breath well under there and would be getting too hot. Sure enough, in the matter of minutes, the comforter and sheets would begin to rise, the sound of panting would begin, and out would come Maggie her tongue hanging lower than her ears and frantically catching her breath. Finally, she would replenish her oxygen and shake her head, those ears and jaws flapping so hard it sounded like a helicopter about to take off. Then she would resume her position and off to sleep again.
Life was pretty normal for a three dog, two cat home for the next few weeks. Maggie was fitting in with the crew and getting into the routine. Morning treat, go outside, short nap, another treat, another nap, go outside, another nap, wake up and greet everyone, go outside, another nap, another treat, go to bed.
And every once in a while, get in the truck, go riding, and bark the whole time.
Without fail, the wee hours of the morning found one of us awakened by one of the dogs needing to go outside. If one went, we all went. Me first followed by my opening the back door and waiting as they “did their business” and returned to the back door to be let in and back to sleep. Maggie was always the last one to come in. As a matter of fact, she took this opportunity to make a full patrol of the yard covering the entire perimeter just shy of the electronic pet fence we had to keep them from roaming the neighborhood. And, of course, any scent she picked up of squirrel, rabbit, mouse, or I began to think even just the Yorkies, she would begin to bellow out a cry and bark as if trailing and on the hunt. I would call her, chase her, and do what I could to try and get her to come back in. But it would finally take either getting her on a leash and dragging her in or waiting her out to come back on her own which might take hours. I was beginning to regret my decision to allow this animal in our house.
Then one night I was awakened by Maggie who seemed overly anxious to get outside and literally ran to the back door and down the steps, the Yorkies behind her at a much slower pace. She took off around the house and I made my way to the bathroom, still groggy and wishing I was curled up in the bed asleep. When I came out of the bathroom, I suddenly realized the barking I heard from our newest family member was a bit strange. It was not the typical “patrol” bark. It wasn’t a happy bark. It wasn’t a bark of distress. It was just a strange bark, and it was coming from the front of the house, which was unusual itself.
I made my way to the front door and out to the driveway where my truck sat parked. Maggie and the Yorkies were at the back end of the pickup. Maggie was barking vigorously at something. I envisioned some sort of varmint such as a possum, raccoon, armadillo, or such. I walked out to get her knowing this hard-headed dog would have to be dragged in from her prey. I looked under the truck and could see no animals or pests. I got almost to her and asked, “Maggie! What in the world are you barking at!?”
Just as I reached out to grab her collar, I looked up and saw a figure standing beside the passenger door of my vehicle. Quickly thinking, I said, “I don’t see anything, Maggie. Come on>” and started back in the house leaving the hound still barking and the Yorkies came in with me. I dialed 9-1-1 and grabbed my handgun. The dispatcher stayed on the phone, telling the responding officers that I had a weapon in my pocket, would be on the street, and I would have my hands visible. I came back out and Maggie and her victim were gone. I could still hear her, but now she was in the back yard. One police cruiser pulled up, and I held my hands out as he pulled up. We talked a bit and the two searched the area but found nobody.
As for me, I had found a new hero – Maggie.
It was also then that Maggie go her new nickname from me. I had begun calling AJ and Zig my “Little Girl” and “Little Boy” for some time. Now, because of her heroic act, Maggie was “DADDY’S BIG GIRL!”
Now anyone who knows anything about dogs would know that Basset Hounds and Yorkies don’t really mix well. This was true at our house. AJ and Zig were quiet, cute, cuddly and mature dogs who had no interest in any physical activity other than running to the dinner bowl or jumping on the couch to take a nap. Maggie on the other hand was loud, boisterous, and bigger than life with an outgoing personality. She loved everyone and relished being petted and admired. She liked being outside and watching the traffic go by or kids playing. She savored the chance to bark at a dog being walked or the UPS truck driving by.
It was this difference that prompted Cindy to look for another Basset Hound to bring in as a companion for Maggie much as AJ and Zig were for each other. She found this in the form of an AKA registered Basset in Buffalo, MO who was sterile and the breeders did not want her because of this, so they were willing to give her up for a small fee to cover some vet bills. We travelled to Buffalo to meet and fall in love almost immediately with “Petunia” who had the sweetest look on her face. This time, I got my choice for the name of the Basset Hound. I had my “Mollie.”
But, if ever two dogs of the same breed were opposite, Maggie and Mollie were the poster children. Mollie was quiet and perfectly content just to be next to you and look up with those big Basset eyes and say, “Love me… Just love me.” The plans for Maggie to have a playmate fell through. The two of them tolerated each other, but never were the pair of buddies we had hoped they would become. Instead, they avoided each other. I have a picture of them lying on the couch at opposite ends, their heads on the arms in a pose that reminds one of a couple that has been in a heated argument. They never were a true pair of hounds.
That is except for one thing. Each and every day; two, three, four or more times a day, for no reason we could ever figure out, spontaneously usually started by Mollie, the two would gradually start from a quiet little bark or grumble gradually growing and growing until it filled the air with an all out howling in true hound fashion that would last for 30 to 60 seconds and rival the best aria of Enrico Caruso and Luciano Pavarotti. I’m sure it could be heard by most of our neighbors. While it was probably annoying to them and it was embarrassing a few times while on important phone calls, it was always music to our ears. The two Basset Hounds were beautiful. Their music made them even more beautiful to us.
All four of them were beautiful though, and handy at times, too. Case in point – when you accidentally drop food on the floor, most folks have to take the time to stop what they are doing and clean it up, wasting precious time and resources. But not at our house. In fact, food rarely ever reached the floor. There were usually four waiting canines staring up at their humans, waiting, drooling, and anxious for even the slightest smidgen of organic matter to come their way. They were masters at catching treats mid air. Nothing escaped their reach. Their momma had taught them to share, so there was never a fight. The only contest was an unofficial challenge between Mollie and Maggie to see who could drool the longest string of drool down both sides of their mouths while waiting for any leftovers from our plate. Maggie seemed to always be the clear winner with a whopping eight or so inches of drool that extended almost below her ears. And, of course, to make up for the lack of clean up needed otherwise, the two would inevitably shake their heads sending a shower of Basset drool flying in all directions landing on the floor, on furniture, and in our laps. Now came the clean up, but it was worth it for the good laugh we got out of it.
Moving to Springfield a couple of years later brought a few changes to our household. But we still had the four dogs who managed to fit in quite well. They had a much bigger back yard that was fenced in. Maggie could lay out on the back patio (and later the deck) and watch for the many squirrels that lived in the area, chasing after them if she chose. She could sit by the front door which we kept open with the glass storm door where she could see out front if she wished while we were home. We even installed a bubble window in the privacy fence so she could look from the back yard at any passing dogs being walked. And while she didn’t like swimming, she did enjoy the occasional drink from the pool and always loved being eye-to-eye with you at poolside. She and the rest of the crew seemed to really like the new home. And we did too.
One day not long after moving in, one of us opened the front door and Maggie seized the opportunity to bolt out the door to freedom. Fearing she might wind up on a busier street and become a victim of a vehicle since she was not used to being out like this, we called and chased her. But she was free! She roamed the neighborhood with us following her in our vehicle. We would catch up to her, she would stop, we would get out to try and get her, and she would start running away again. This went on for about an hour when she finally gave in and returned home. Angry, but relieved, we knew this was something we would have to deal with again for sure. And we did on numerous occasions. I think she did it to taunt us.
This became evident when one day I decided to leave her to her freedom. I had followed her, called her, tempted her with treats, and done everything to get her to come home, but she ignored me. She was last seen across the street in our neighbors’ yard lying under an oak tree, staring up at the squirrels playing among the branches. I decided she was safe and probably not going to go away, so I came back in to join a conference call for work. As I sat in my recliner listening to the speaker about the subject of the call, I heard the front door open and the familiar sound of paws and panting. I looks around and from the entryway Maggie entered the living room, jumped up on the couch and made a couple of moans before covering her eyes for an afternoon nap. After my call was finished, I went to the front door anxious to see if by some means Maggie had discovered a method of opening it. Maybe she had grown opposable thumbs. Or… I noticed the neighbor’s two young boys playing football in the front yard. I asked them if they had brought Maggie in. Sure enough, she had come right to them and they brought her without resistance to the front door. And, of course, numerous times thereafter, I could call, chase, yell, entice, or use whatever means I could think of without success only to hear the front door open and close later and Maggie come waling in with a “Hey… I’m back” look on her face. She could be so frustrating.
This was not her first attempt to escape. We had taken her and the Yorkies to the family farm in Viola one weekend and left them in the yard to go run a quick errand. They were outside and it seemed likely they would hang around there until we returned. But when we got back, they were gone. We searched frantically for hours driving around the area, calling, looking, and hoping. Finally, we had to make the drive home and hope that they would show up at the farm and not fall prey to coyotes. Sure enough, a couple from Mountain Home had been returning from a trip and spotted the trio on the side of the highway. They stopped, picked them up, and took them home, and contacted us. We made the drive to Mountain Home and got our escapees back. Angry, but relieved, we learned our lesson. We never left them alone outside again.
Maggie was a “house dog” for the most part. But she did love to be outside. She especially loved riding in a vehicle and seemed to enjoy riding in my truck most of all. You could see the excitement mounting whenever you would get a leash as this was a sign to her that she was going on a road trip. She would begin to bark and jump around. When I put the leash on her she would drag me to the truck, jump in, find her way to the passenger seat, and take her spot ready for the ride. But, as she had always done from the first time we got her, she would bark the whole time the truck was moving. I’ve never figured out why. But she loved it. She liked having the window down if we were not moving. She would stick her head out when stopped at a traffic light. Sometimes people would look over and see her and let out an “Awwww!” I think she loved the attention. But then everybody loved Maggie.
Soon after moving in the house, we needed some work done and Cindy had found a reliable handyman capable of doing most of the things we might need. Steve knew basic electrical, plumbing, construction, and other maintenance work. He worked hard and was reliable. And after the first job or two, we knew if Steve did it, it was going to be done right.
We also discovered quickly that Maggie had a new friend. If I was home and someone came to the door, the dogs would immediately jump up and begin to bark. If it was Steve, Maggie’s bark immediately changed to one of excitement. It was almost comical that we knew by her bark that Maggie’s buddy Steve was here. No matter what he was doing, no matter where he was working, Maggie was right there with him “helping” with his handy work. More than a few times I would go to check on his progress and find him talking to her. He would be turning a wrench or hammering a nail while she sat or lay beside him. He would be talking to her like he was asking her opinion on his work. She never left his side. He was a dog person. He had several dogs of his own. But Maggie was his buddy. His pal. And Maggie had a special attachment to Steve. She loved Steve and Steve loved Maggie about as much as we did.
But everyone who came into contact with her loved Maggie. My mother was not a dog person at all. Not that she hated them, she just did not have any affection for them. But a trip to my hometown with Maggie and the Yorkies seemed to change her feelings about the canine species. She laughed and smiled at some of Maggie’s antics and even allowed her to come inside the house, a privilege not afforded many animals. And she commented on how pretty she was. And she kept talking about her ears.
Those ears.
Truly a Basset Hound, Maggie had the longest ears of any hound I believe I’ve ever seen. They draped well below her jaw almost dragging the ground even when she held her head high due to her short, Basset legs. Anytime she encountered a new person, you could expect to hear an “awwww” followed by a comment like “Look at those ears!” And Maggie seemed to know her greatest asset was an attention getter and she knew how to use them. She would hold her head up and those ears would fall back against her shoulders. Then she would stand with her mouth closed and chin up to reveal the look of a seventy’s model. Yes, Maggie was beautiful.
But probably the most interesting thing about her ears was her uncanny ability to use them to cover her eyes when sleeping to keep the light out. We discovered this early on when she was napping one day. The light was in her eyes and suddenly she moved her head around and nuzzled her nose and pawed at her ear until it was in the right position and fell asleep. It was the funniest thing we had ever seen. But that was Maggie. She had the strangest ways to make us laugh so much and so often.
We tried to take advantage of that a few times. Once on Halloween, we put her in a pink tutu and stuck devil horns over her ears. She tolerated this with a sagging face long enough for one picture before shaking her head, sending the horns flying across the room and the tutu came off as she left the living room escaping to the refuge of Amanda’s bedroom. The three of us had a good laugh at her expense and she pouted for a while. But she soon came out to enjoy barking and wagging her tail at every doorbell ring and “trick or treat!” She seemed to enjoy the company of little ghosts and goblins. And most of them would comment about Maggie.
Another time, we decided our annual Christmas cards would be pictures of the dogs dressed in Christmas costumes. It was a struggle, but we finally got Maggie, Mollie, AJ, and Zig dressed as Santa and his elves for individual shots. There was no way of getting a group shot. It was tough enough getting one at a time. But it was the best Christmas card we ever sent out. Even though the humans had a good laugh, none of the canines enjoyed the photo session. But Santa was extra good to them that Christmas. The trade off of extra special treats and leftover Christmas prime rib bones made up for the embarrassing photos.
For the better part of eight years, my work took me away from home weekly to various parts of the country as a software contractor. I would fly out on Sunday night or Monday morning and fly home Thursday night or Friday. Sometimes I would stay gone over the weekend. While gone, Maggie would take up residence in my half of the bed at night which gave Cindy the opportunity to sleep a bit more comfortably without a Basset Hound blocking her from stretching out her legs. And I felt good about having the dogs there with my wife as watch dogs. I knew that they would let her know if anyone came to the door and I was confident that at least Zig and Maggie were sure to be very protective if something were to, heaven forbid, escalate. Thankfully, that never was tested.
Being gone for work had its ups and downs. But one of the best parts was the welcome home. No, it wasn’t my wife waiting at the door to greet me with a big hug and kiss. She couldn’t get to me because there were four dogs rooting her aside to get to me. All of them barking, jumping, and licking me. Of course, Maggie would be barking the loudest of all. .It took me several minutes to get from the front door to my recliner to unwind a bit before going to bed. Cindy and I would chat a bit and she would tell me about Zig, who was usually in my lap by this time. As she put it, when I left for the airport, he would go stare out the front door and would keep looking out there until I got home. He was my “little boy” for sure. But all four of them would still be wagging their tails and vying for my affection. There was plenty to go around. I loved them all.
The last few years have seen a lot of changes in our house. Due to some health issues, I began working mostly from home which has turned into all remote work since the pandemic. I had set up an office space upstairs in a spare bedroom that is now used for all my work. Maggie and Mollie became my office mates following me upstairs every morning just to hang out and nap as I worked and attended conference calls and Zoom meetings. They would come down with me when I took a lunch break and I would share a part of my sandwich with them. Then we would make the trip back upstairs for the rest of the day. We enjoyed each other’s company a lot. Even though they didn’t like each other, they wanted to be with their daddy.
At night the pair would join us along with the two smaller ones in the bed to watch a bit of TV before Maggie would cover her eyes, moan, and fall asleep. Mollie would sigh, lay her head on my leg and do the same. Zig would growl and take up his spot right by my head. And AJ would be right there with her momma surveying all her royal kingdom from the perch of the Beauty Rest pillow. Off we all would go for a night’s rest. Life in the Beeson home.
Life changes. Life goes on.
Two years ago, our little Zig growing old went blind and one night went outside to potty and apparently fell in the pool and could not get out and drowned. Cindy discovered him the next morning and I had the task of recovering his remains from the water. It was a heart breaking experience that to this day haunts us. It’s still difficult to even enjoy our pool and wonder if there was something we could have done to prevent it from happening.
I cried for my little boy.
Not long afterwards, we adopted Preston, a puppy of mixed breed who was born of a dog our grandkids had. They had given the rest of the litter away but had this one left. We decided to take him in and he has become my little buddy.
Then last year I woke up early one morning to find Mollie lying on the bedroom floor unable to move or respond. Her eyes were open and moving, but she would not lift her head when I called her name. I struggled to lift her up, but my body couldn’t do it. Cindy and I got her to the living room, but it was still too much for the two of us. She decided to get our neighbor to come and help, so I stayed there with Mollie trying to comfort her as we scrambled to get her to the emergency vet. But it was too late. My “Sweet Puppy” died in my arms before Cindy returned.
I couldn’t help it. I cried again.
While Zig was my shadow, AJ was very much her momma’s little princess. Cindy made no secret of her being special, delicate, and her baby. I referred to her as my little girl, but AJ only gave me bits of attention. She had more than plenty from her momma and she was fine with that. But since the death of her brother, and being 17 years old, AJ gradually declined in health. At one time she could jump on the bed from the floor without any problem. Now, she struggled to climb up the steps we had for them to use. She slept a lot, had lost her hearing, and her eyesight was failing. Finally, after a heart-wrenching process, Cindy made the decision and asked if I would take her. I agreed. While it was going to be painful for me, I knew that it would tear the heart out of the woman I so dearly love to watch this little princess’s life end. So, I took our delicate little girl in to the vet’s office, held her, stroked her, and told her how much her momma and I loved her as she slipped away.
For a third time now, I cried.
The loss of Mollie had left the house so silent for a while until we got Murphy, our new Basset Hound pup. Maggie had not howled since Mollie died, but with a bit of coaxing from me, the sound I had so dearly loved was once again filling the air. Even Preston, our mixed breed dog was trying to join in. Maggie had singing partners again. And we added “Miss Daisy” a Yorkie from a breeder who could no longer have puppies. She joined in singing soprano for the quartet. The house was alive with beautiful hound dog howling music again. I was smiling again. I loved hearing my big girl sing.
But then another change for the worse. In February, the day after Valentine’s Day, a snow storm hit the Midwest including much of the Ozarks of Missouri and Arkansas. I was fortunate in that my commute to work was ten steps from my living room. Cindy was less fortunate but made it to work at the hospital without incident. As my work day progressed the weather caused several of my conference calls to be cancelled, but I had plenty of other work to do. I was engulfed in programming data when my cell phone rang and I saw the caller was my sister’s number. I wondered why she or my mother, who lived with her, was calling in the middle of the week but suspected nothing major. I assumed it was my mother calling to ask about the snow and if Cindy made it to work OK. She always worried about such things.
When my sister’s voice came over the phone line, it was apparent she was bearing bad news. I prepared myself for what I had dreaded but did not expect for a much longer time. So much had happened I hoped I was wrong, but I could tell from the sound of her voice the moment she started to speak that I wasn’t. The news was bad. Our mother had passed away peacefully that morning from an apparent heart attack. And because of the snow and COVID, I couldn’t come down.
I cried again.
After dealing with some of the affairs of Mother’s estate and some job changes, I managed to get back into the swing of things somewhat. And the crew of Maggie, Preston, Murphy, and Daisy was a fine form of entertainment with the two boys playing while Maggie “spanked” them with loud barks and Daisy stared at all of this from her bed as if wondering why they were all making so much noise.
But I began to notice the changes that had taken over my big girl, Maggie. Her once kidney red face had grown white. Her big brown sad eyes had begun to lose a bit of their sparkle and she suffered from some infections in them. She slept a lot more than ever. Her latest attempts at escape had been infrequent and lasted mere minutes before returning to the comfort of the air conditioned house. Of late she started struggling to climb stairs or jump on the couch. She still loved to ride in the truck and the excitement was still there when the leash came out, but I had to lift her back legs to help her in. She was on several medications, much like her daddy. Some for arthritis, some for her kidneys, and some for stomach issues. Like all of us, Maggie wasn’t getting any younger.
Then, a while back, we noticed a lump on her back. It was concerning, but we kept an eye on it for a while. Finally, I took her in, and Dr. Linn examined it and said it should be removed. So, we scheduled her for surgery fearing at age 13 (which by Dr. Linn’s chart was the equivalent of an 82-year-old woman) she might not make it through. But she did and she came home that night with a good report of removal of “good margins” and it did not look cancerous. This was our miracle girl who had fooled us a couple of times before. Once, she spent the weekend in doggie ICU with a kidney infection that we feared was the end when she was still quite young. But she survived. And she survived several other ailments. She had one more miracle for us.
But she had been coughing and gagging for a while and it seemed worse now. She had lost weight being down from a high of around 70 pounds at one time (remember her being 35 pounds when we found her) to 56 pounds before surgery. She was eating and drinking. She was alert and fairly active for her age. But something just was not right. So, I called the vet’s office to see if I could get her in. She needed her stitches taken out from surgery anyway. They said to bring her in and leave her. They would have to work her in between appointments when they could and would call when they saw her. So, I loaded her in the truck, she got in her seat, and we headed for Ozark and the vet’s office. She barked part of the way but could not keep it up for long.
When we checked in, we took her to the scales. She was now down to 51 pounds. My heart fell.
It was Thursday before Labor Day weekend. We planned a weekend camping trip, and I was going to start getting things loaded in the camper so we could take off Friday after work for the campground. I waited for the call so I could go pick up Maggie, anxious to hear from them that she needed antibiotics or maybe another surgery. But deep down I felt a hole forming in my heart.
Cindy got off work at 3:30 and had an appointment for a haircut. I finished work and was working on loading the camper. We texted back and forth and were anxious because the vet office closed at 5:00 and there was no word on Maggie. At 5:30, Cindy texted me and I still had not heard and we figured Maggie would be spending the night there and we would know something Friday morning. About that same time, my cell phone rang, and I looked down and saw it was the vet clinic calling.
Dr. Ketchum was the other vet at the clinic. She had examined Maggie and was concerned with the cough, so she took some X-rays. The news wasn’t good. She had a growth on her lungs that was pressing on her heart. It was causing the cough and making it hard for her to breathe. There were options, but I could tell by the sound of her voice they were limited. I called Cindy and asked her to go to the clinic and look at the x-rays herself and get Maggie. As a nurse, I knew she could read the x-ray much better than I and make a better choice as to what to do. But deep down I already knew. I was just trying to fight it.
When Cindy pulled into the driveway, there Maggie sat in the passenger seat peering out the window. I stopped my work on the camper to greet them and find out the results. Oblivious to her situation, Maggie exited the car wagging her tail and greeted me as she always did and then took a potty break before heading to the front door. Cindy repeated much of what Dr. Ketchum had said and discussed the x-ray in more detail. The choices were very cut and dry. We could either keep her alive but mostly sedated watching her deteriorate until the end which could be two weeks or two months. Or we could let her go now.
I put everything away, locked the camper, went in the house, got online, and cancelled our campsite reservations. While we could take her in on Friday, I insisted on waiting until after the weekend. I wanted one long weekend to say goodbye. I wanted to spoil her even more than she was already. I wanted to love on her, give her belly rubs, pull her ears, hear her howl, watch her sleep. I wanted to soak up as much Maggie as I could in the next five days.
So, Friday, she made the climb to my office. With one knee replacement and one in need of replacement, I struggle going up stairs. Maggie’s age and health had made the task harder for her as well. We took our time, especially today. I took extra peanut butter and crackers and shared them with her. I watched her nap, shared my sandwich at lunch, slowly made the climb back up the stairs for the afternoon, petted her a lot, and ended the Friday with a special treat – one whole pouch of Moist and Meaty just for her all to herself.
Over the weekend I watched as she got a burst of energy and played a bit with Murphy and Preston. She howled a couple of times after my coaxing her and Murphy even though it was short, it was still music to our ears. We petted her, cuddled with her, gave her belly rubs, gave her special food, even fixed her a cheeseburger that she ate all by herself. She seemed very attached to me. Everywhere I went, I would hear the familiar sound of her claws on the floor coming into the room. When I would sit down, Maggie was never far away usually under my feet.
The only time she ignored me was when her “best buddy” Steve came by for a visit. I was in another room, and Maggie did head for the front door as all the dogs do when someone rings the doorbell. Cindy said that Maggie perked up when she saw it was Steve. When I entered the living room, Steve was crouched down stroking Maggie and discussing her situation with Cindy. The two friends spent a good amount of time together saying goodbye. Maggie’s tail was wagging the entire time he was there. His final hug and kiss on the head was out of character for him and very touching. It was truly a tender moment to watch these old friends saying farewell.
I wanted the weekend to last. I wished it could have lasted another twelve years. It didn’t. It seems like it only lasted twelve minutes.
I had said nothing to Cindy, but when I woke up Tuesday morning, I had hoped to find Maggie had died in her sleep at the foot of the bed. I looked down and saw her rib cage rising and falling rather rapidly as it had been doing of late. What I had hoped for did not happen. Later Cindy confided that she had also wished the same. This was going to be very tough for us to go through. Our hearts were breaking into.
But she was still with us, so the morning routine began. Cindy went to the kitchen, opened the garage do0or, handed out treats to everyone, made her morning cup of coffee, and came to the living room to enjoy it. I followed, doing the same. The second round of treats included Maggie’s favorite part. She had been put on several medications in the past couple of years due to her advanced age. In order to coax her (and others that at times needed meds) into taking the pills, I would take a spoonful of creamy peanut butter and spread it on a slice of bread. Then I would put the pills in the peanut butter, fold it over, pinch off the part with the pills, and give it to Maggie. The rest I would divvy up among the rest of the herd. Maggie loved her peanut butter.
Cindy left for work and I got around and readied myself for the day. My coffee mug and breakfast sandwich in hand, Maggie and I began our journey upstairs. I kept telling her she didn’t have to come, but as always, she would look at me, take a couple of steps, and then have to stop and rest for a bit. I knew this was hard on her and I told her to take her time. I waited on her. I didn’t want to rush her. The climb seemed so much harder on me this morning. My knees hurt. But my heart hurt much more.
I wanted her to be with me not for myself, but because it was what she wanted. Two more steps. A few more tears. A little bit of rest. Finally we made it to the top and Maggie took up her post at the back of my chair and I began my work day. I don’t mind telling you, I was not very productive that day.
I asked Cindy to text me when she got off work. Although we both dreaded going through the process, we knew it best to get it over with. So, if the patient schedule allowed, she would try to get off work early and we could go in earlier to the vet. I dreaded the text. I didn’t want to receive it. Cindy didn’t want to send it. When it came, my heart ached. I finished up my work and Maggie and I made the final decent down the stairs. She would take a couple of steps and have to rest. Then a couple more. It took a while and that was OK. I hoped it took forever.
I sat in my recliner and Maggie came over to sit at my feet. I stroked her and talked to her telling her how much we loved her, telling her how I wished I could take this all away and make it better. It had been a painful decision to make, but it was the right one. There was no cure. There was no getting better. I had not realized until that weekend just how bad she was suffering. Even asleep, she was laboring to breathe. All her energy was going to that task. While she did have some life left in her, it would not be much of one. She had lost ten pounds in less than a month. She was terminally ill and we could not stand the thought of making her suffer any longer. We loved her enough to let her go.
From my chair I could see the reflection of the driveway in the back sliding door and would know when Cindy arrived. When she pulled in, I got up and got the leash. Maggie’s tail began to wag. My tears began to flow. Cindy changed clothes and we all got in the car to head to Ozark. Maggie was in the back seat and peered out the window as she normally did. I rolled down the window when we were stopped at traffic lights or in slow traffic. She always liked that. But this trip, she never barked. Not even once.
While the process is not easy, it is not as bad as one might think. I had been through it before and it had been only a year since witnessing it with AJ. While the sense of dread was still there, and there was no excitement about it, I knew it was best for Maggie. The worst part is waiting. The vet office was busy as usual. We were checked in and they took us to the room specially set up for this procedure. Inside is a couch where we sat trying to get Maggie to sit between us, but she wanted to just sit on the floor at our feet. We spent our final moments talking to her, petting her, and loving on her before Dr. Ketchum finally came in with her assistant. I asked to see the x-rays, not because I didn’t believe them, but just to have a visualization of how bad this was and to give me peace of mind for our decision. I’m not an expert, but it was very clear to me that we were doing the right thing. The huge mass was causing such issues I couldn’t believe she was doing as well as she was.
Now it was time. The tech and Dr. Ketchum lifted Maggie up on the table and began to shave her front leg for the IV injection. I had promised Maggie that I would give her one last belly rub, something she truly enjoyed. I only wish it could have been under better circumstances and that I could have heard that familiar moan she would let out followed by a big sneeze that Cindy said that she read was a sign that dogs were happy. Cindy was holding her head, petting her and telling her how much she loved her. I was rubbing her belly and stroking her back as the needle went in her leg. I had been watching Maggie for the past five days breathing so hard. She constantly appeared to be panting even in her sleep. I watched her in the room before the vet came in. I watched it when we got her on the table.
I watched the needle going in her leg. I saw the blood come out indicating it was in her vein. I saw the solution being injected. My tears flowing uncontrollably, my heart breaking, my voice trembling to say “Momma and Daddy love you Maggie! Steve loves you too!” I suddenly felt the life leaving her. But I also felt something else. I felt her peace. She wasn’t struggling to breathe anymore. She wasn’t in pain anymore. I continued to stroke her back and Cindy was stroking her face, something else Maggie always enjoyed. Then Cindy reached out and took one of those long, beautiful ears and covered her eyes so the light wouldn’t bother her while she slept.
Dr. Ketchum was monitoring her heartbeat and soon looked up and indicated it was done. I looked at my big girl lying there on the table finally resting. She had come a long way from roaming the streets of Viola, Arkansas. She had avoided the likelihood of being shot or hit by a car or reaching some other demise there had it not been for that fateful breakfast that day twelve years earlier.
They say that rescued pets know they’ve been rescued and appreciate it and love you for it. I don’t know if that’s true. All I know is how much Maggie loved us and how much we loved Maggie. How much joy she brough to our lives. It’s hard to imagine what our lives would have been like without her. It’s hard to imagine what lies ahead without her now. But we’ll soon find out. And I’m sure she’s passed on some pointers to Preston, Murphy, and Daisy.
The debate on whether or not animals have a soul and go to Heaven is one that I certainly don’t have an answer to. As one of my former pastors put it, God shouts about some things and whispers about others. In this case, it’s a whisper. But I tend to look at the pets I’ve had over my 63 years and think how could God create such creatures, give them to us to enjoy, gift them with such personality, and they not have a soul? If they do, it’s one more reason I want to go to Heaven. I want to see all my dogs again. I want to see my big girl again.
And those ears.
When I began writing this tribute Maggie, was lying peacefully on the floor just behind my office chair taking her morning nap. For the past three years, I have worked from home affording me the opportunity to spend more time with the dogs and especially Maggie who was content with just being here with me and not trying to get into things like some of the others. Lately, she struggled to make the climb up the ten steps taking a couple at a time then having to rest for a moment before continuing the journey. But in true Maggie bull-headed fashion, each day she would make the trip and find a spot to hang out and nap.
This morning, as I try to put the final touches on this piece, there is a strange sensation in the air. I didn’t make a peanut butter sandwich this morning. The peanut butter was on the counter waiting, but nobody needed any medications. So, it remained there. I couldn’t put it away. And I couldn’t make a treat from it for the other dogs either. That’s Maggie’s peanut butter. Then the ascension upstairs was quite lonely, and the office feels quite empty. I keep expecting to turn my chair around and see her lying on the floor there. But my office companion is not here. Even though I never heard a peep out of her other than the occasional moan or rustling when she would change position, I guess I could feel her presence. But not today. Today I feel so alone here.
Twelve years. Suddenly, I feel so old.
Twelve years. It seems like only yesterday.
Twelve years. It seems like a lifetime. And it was a lifetime. It was Maggie’s lifetime.
THE LESSONS OF JOB 