Neanderpundit

Max the beagledog came to us on an Easter when the Oglet was a preteen. We picked him up at the breeder, a licky, feisty ball of fur that seemed to be all ears and tail. I was working from home that summer and we housetrained him effortlessly, and he became one of the family, and attempted to become one with the furniture- he ate the skirt off the couch, and the arms off two chairs.

Max was an escape artist, he could get out of or into things that would amaze you. Until I actually redesigned the child gate, for instance, he regularly broke into the kitchen and grazed at will among the cabinets. Beagles, you see, only eat things they can reach.

For reasons we’ll probably never understand he never touched the Christmas tree. The picture above was from last Christmas, he’s helping rip open his Christmas present, a stocking of rawhide bones. He’s still pretty healthy there, though portly, of course.

A month or so later we discovered he had cancer. I can’t remember what the type was, just that treatment was painful and undignified and wouldn’t prolong his life much, and the prolongation would probably be painful and make him angry and difficult.

I didn’t talk about it because I didn’t want to think about it. We tried to make him as happy and as comfortable as we could, give him extra walks and car rides and lots of ice cubes because those were his favorite treats.

Last night he had issues eating his dinner. THe tumors on his neck had become so large they caused him pain in eating, and a lot of extra effort breathing. He could only breathe with his head lifted up and he snored loudly. This morning he woke us up barking at nothing, tail down and hackles up as if he’d seen something from the other side coming for him. I brought him in the bedroom and petted him for as long as he wanted me to.

When he got up and walked away I went to the kitchen and made him an egg the way he liked it, and put it down for him. The wife took him outside for a walk and crap and we took him to the vet.

They had to sedate him because he was understandably anxious, but in the end, my arm wrapped around him on the tall table, his head on my other arm, they gave him the shot and his head grew heavier and heavier until his eyes closed. He had no pain nor anxiety in those last moments.

Right then, right there, I wanted to die too, to go wherever he went, so we could be together forever. That feeling lasted a long time and it resurfaces now as I type this, and it burns like a dwarf star in my chest but I have to get it out or I will never heal.

Nil nisi bonum ad mortum. Max had his moments but in all he was the best dog I ever had. But then, every dog is the best dog I ever had. Dog people will understand that sentence, to a man and woman.

That grief will sink you, and as I felt myself sinking, I reached out- to friends, via email, to you readers, via yesterday’s post. I did not find you wanting. Each person who knows that grief reached back to me and felt a little of my grief, lightened my load with their compassion. And so for today, I did not sink. And that is enough, because tomorrow I will realize how fortunate I was to love and be loved by Max, a privilege reserved for but a very few, and how further privileged I am to have friends who will, on seeing me sink, buoy me up.

Only a huge love leaves such a big hole. Only the big hearts of good friends can mend it.

The Power of the Dog

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie–
Perfect passsion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find–it’s your own affair–
But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone–wherever it goes–for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long–
So why in–Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Rudyard Kipling

If you pray, please pray for me today.

Because I like my job, and the people I work with.

Time changes everything, of course, but the fact is, not all change is good, and not all bad change can be recovered from. I have seen some changes to the industry in the last several years that, frankly, do not bode well for anyone.

The Japanese have fallen prey to their own hubris, at least all but a few companies. The Italians and germans have always been their own worst enemies and are using their skills at clusterfuckery to remake the world in their own image. The people here are too nutless to do anything about it.

Haas is doing pretty well, which pleases me. So are the Koreans, they are making some damned fine stuff at some good prices. US mfg being what it is, we are just on the downhill side of the bell curve and will be also rans in ten years. I hope I can ride the business into the ground- but I mostly hope I get to watch the people that did this to us lose their tiny minds as they supervise their own downfall.