Some, if not most, parents probably love it when, after a hard day at work, they see their kids' greeting them at the door.
For me, I'd rather have a little dog like Max, or Mickey, the new brown-and-white Yorkie puppy I got back in June, waiting for me to walk through the front door after a lousy day at work.
The new Yorkie I got has the body of a little pig with a little tail and a face that reminds me of the gopher from the comedy, “Caddyshack” (1980). Not an hour goes by that I don't yell at him for his antics.
Since June, Mickey has chased down roaches, ripped apart family pictures, chewed up wooden bed posts and squeezed his fat little pig body out from the locked backyard gate. He is going to need a microchip installed so an APB can be put out on him if he ever gets lost.
Sitting in the lobby at the vet's office last October waiting for the vet to see Max, I saw an owner looking at some literature on "Pugs," which would make sense since he had a Pug by his side.
"This says Pugs are supposed to be 14 to 18 pounds," I heard him say to his dog. "Why are you five pounds overweight," he asked.
The Pug didn't answer. It just sat there staring at me the way that dog on NBC's “Frazier” used to stare at Kelsey Grammer's Dr. Crane.
Talk about the lengths one goes to keep an ailing pet healthy.
When Max started incessantly coughing up some liquid white phlegm that October night, I knew exactly what the disease was. I had two other dogs who lived to be 12 years old, and both exhibited the same symptoms.
Like any child, or adult for that matter, who hates going to doctors, Max acted the same way. He sat there in the back seat quietly, not once coughing uncontrollably. It was obviously his way of telling me, "I'm all better now, see?"
As Max and I sat there at the emergency animal clinic at 1 a.m. alone waiting for someone to check him out, I started to wonder if maybe I could have gotten quicker service taking him to the emergency room at Parkland.
Vet hospitals act like they do in at a normal hospital. You sit there waiting to be seen by a doctor while the nurse prepares the paperwork, checking to see if you have doggie insurance. I don't. Then they asked me to sign the papers, giving the doctor authorization to check him out and I shell out $300 for x-rays and medication.
The results were exactly what I figured. Max had heart disease and suffered an enlarged heart that was blocking his airways, causing fluid to get backed up into his lungs, causing breathing difficulties.
From late October to mid-April, I had to give him heart medication every 12 hours in hopes the symptoms would go away. In December, I decided to have his teeth cleaned, as the vet suggested that his rotting teeth were contributing to his heart disease. Max had seven bad teeth pulled that day. I spent close to $1,000, if not more, on pet medications.
I barely had the key in the door in the early morning hours of April 16 when I heard Max at the door again, coughing uncontrollably. I tried giving him his heart pills but to no avail. He just spit them right out.
Like a human in the final stages of disease who has decided it's time to give up the fight, this was Max's way of telling me, "Look. It's time to cut our losses. You've been giving me crappy medication four months and I'm not getting better. It's time to go."
For a dog who for 12 years always put up a fight every time I picked him up, because he knew when that happened, it meant he was either getting a bath or going to the vet, Max did not put up a fight that last day when I took him to the vet, where the doctor said nothing more could be done. It was now up to me to put him down.
He was euthanized that morning. I didn't stick around for the final shot. I only stayed with him as the first sleep shot was given. Max was asleep within five minutes. He looked at me one final time and then went off on the table to make himself comfortable.
Minutes later, when one of the nurses came in to take Max away for the final injection, she told me he would soon be at a place called "Rainbow Bridge."
I never heard of that place.
A few days after Max passed away, I got a memorial card from the vet's office explaining such a place with a picture on the front not of just dogs and cats, but squirrels, foxes, rabbits and virtually anything furry.
Inside was a poem called "Rainbow Bridge" by an anonymous author.
It said, "There is a bridge connecting Heaven and Earth. It is called the Rainbow Bridge because of its many colors. Just this side of the Rainbow Bridge, there is a land of meadows, hills and valleys with lush green grass. When a beloved pet dies, the pet goes to this place. There is always food and water, and warm Spring weather. Those old and frail animals are young again. Those who have been maimed are made whole again. They play all day with each other."
"But there is one thing missing. They are not with their special person who loved them on earth. So, each day they run and play until the day comes when one suddenly stops playing and looks up. The nose twitches, the ears are up, the eyes are staring, and this one suddenly runs from the group. You have been seen, and when you and your special friend meet, you take him or her in your arms and embrace. Your face is kissed again and again, and you once more look in the eyes of your trusting pet. Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together, never again to be separated."
I don't know if when I leave this mortal coil if the Almighty will let me through the Pearly Gates, considering the life I've led, but if I do, I guess I can take comfort that in addition to seeing loved ones who've gone before me, I'll be greeted by a number of furry little ones I owned throughout my lifetime.
Who says, "All dogs don't go to Heaven?"
©9/15/09
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