TheRamblingsPage

The world doesn't feel the need to be fair. We learned to accept that early on -- when the kid next door got a new bike and we didn't, when everybody was over at Jimmy's playing football but somehow we were grounded anyway, when we were denied ice cream even though we really really really wanted it. "It's not fair!" we would whine as we stomped away. "The world's not fair, kid," our mothers would say just as we slammed the bedroom door. "It doesn't have to be." Yeah, but... but...

I want to tell you about Maggie. I've been trying to remember whether my mother-in-law actually named her golden retriever Maggie May, referencing the Rod Stewart song, or if i just dreamed that up. Her name may have just been Maggie. Regardless, i often called her Maggie May, not really because of a fondness for Rod Stewart, but because those two names just seem to go together. And she somehow had a Maggie May look about her.

I don't really remember the first time i met her -- what? ten years ago? -- so i can't say whether she was outgoing and affectionate from the very start. But as far back as i can remember, she was a bounding, joyous ball of "pet me!" When you went to see my in-laws, you'd be greeted by three dogs: Max the Rottweiler, Maggie the golden, and Sam the chocolate Lab. All three friendly and playful and desirous of attention. I had a special fondness for Max, maybe because he was a big, tough Rottweiler, but at the same time just a big ol' pussycat. But you couldn't deny Maggie. How could you? Just look at that face!

You'd sit down to pet Max on the head, and it didn't matter who you were, he'd be glad for you to do that, thanks a lot. And, immediately, there would be Maggie as well at your other hand. After a moment, no matter how much attention you gave them both, Maggie would need more. That's when she would make the difficult decision to break contact with you long enough to walk around you and push Max out of the way. This is where i point out the Max was easily half again Maggie's size, surely twice her weight. But Maggie was a determined girl. She could come alongside Max and sidle and lean, sidle and lean, until before you knew it you were petting a different dog. Uncanny.

You'd sit down on the couch, maybe to watch some of the game. She would be in front of you, pushing your knees apart to get her face right in your lap. And then she'd be beside you on the couch, and, soon enough, against you on the couch. Like when you were in the backseat of the car going around a big curve, and the centrifugal force pushed your brother all the way across that vinyl bench seat until he was pressed against you and you were pressed against the door and you hollered, "Mom! Get him off me!" As a kid i used to imagine my bachelor adulthood, sitting on the couch beside a dog, just the right size so i could put my arm around her shoulders while the two of us watched TV. That was me n' Maggie, watchin' the game.

She was a lot like my own Cookie, the beautiful cocker spaniel, who i loved more than anything. Cookie died a little over a year ago, and i still haven't been able to write about her. She and Maggie both had that guileless innocence, that open-faced joy, that boundless love. They were both scaredy-cats, too, but where Maggie was afraid of bad weather, Cookie was afraid of people. Maggie loved freakin' everybody the instant she met them. Cookie had to really get to know you by studying you for a long time from behind her lady-person's legs or from her guy-person's lap. She needed to be sure you weren't going to make any sudden movements or loud noises, or have a broom. She needed to know you could be trusted. But once she trusted you, once you were in...

I can't imagine having to deal with cancer in a loved one. But here's the thing -- you and i can talk about it. If i had cancer, i could talk to my doctors, get at least some sense of what was happening in my body and what we might be able to do about it. I could commiserate with my wife, make a bucket list, take that one last trip before i go. I could at least have some idea what the hell was going on. Even if it was your child (and i'm led to believe that some people love them almost as much as their dogs), you could at least try to explain. Even at age five or so, you can help a kid understand what's happening with their body, that it's not their fault, that you do still love them, that you and the doctors really are trying to make it better. But here's what your dog understands:

"Dang, i still feel like crap. I'll eat some food. Ooowww it hurts to get up. And it hurts to eat. It's okay, my people are good people and i love them and they love me. My people will know how to fix it. Here comes my guy now! Ooowww it hurts to get up. And it hurts to wag, but i have to. He's a good person, he's my person, and i love him and he loves me. Hey! Guy! I'm glad to see you! I really like the way you're rubbing my head, but i feel like crap. I know that you can tell, because you took me to the nice doctor-people, but they didn't fix it. I like licking your face. You can lick my face too. No? Okay. Hey, where ya goin'? I... i still feel like crap..."

So this is where the world and i stop being pals, i guess. Because it's not nice to inflict unfixable pain on a sweet, innocent puppygirl. To torture those that can't understand. I guess what i'm saying is... I know that the world isn't fair. I learned that lesson and remember. The world doesn't have to keep reminding me.