The Language of Love

"Sometimes God shouts, sometimes he whispers, 
and sometimes he sends a woof."* 

Edward Grinnan

Still smiling. This is a good thing.

I honestly never thought I’d still be writing this blog. No one expected Maizey to live this long. Dr. Katie calls her a miracle dog.  Jon Katz (bedlam farm.com) says he thinks of “animals more as spirits that come and go. They enter our lives at a particular time and they leave at a particular time.” As in all things only God knows when that time will be. 

It is clear that Maizey is losing ground physically. She is lame in her right leg. The tumor, which I thought would be soft and squishy, is rock hard. It’s has progressed from tennis ball size to grapefruit. It appears to be growing down her leg instead of up into her shoulder. 

We were told at the very beginning of this journey that if we opted to amputate her leg, she would maneuver well on the three she had left. She has proven this to be true. She can get anywhere she wants, even my bed which is three feet of the ground and supposedly off limits. No one has seen her do it, just that she is so perfectly comfortable in the big bed all by herself it's hard to scold her.  Like me, she enjoys a good nap.

Our house now resembles a dog spa, sans the wire cages. Every room has its own orthopedic bed, overstuffed pillows and dog blankets. Actually they are people blankets that have been appropriated for dog use. Prickly Nylar bones line the rug in the den and the living room coffee table. Pieces of cardboard boxes litter the floor. Try stepping on half-chewed milk bones embedded in the carpet. They could be used in war-zones instead of land mines.  We use 4-6 food bowls on a daily basis. Inside, and outside water bowls are constantly being refilled.

Our pool is not bone-shaped like at Pet Paradise. The dogs, however, use it more than the humans. Once or twice a day Maizey hobbles out to the steps, swims one quick circle before returning to the middle step where she proceeds to bark her fool head off. John thinks he can tell her “I’m hungry” bark from her “throw me a ball” bark. They all sound alike to me. Loud, with a pitch that sets my ears to ringing. While Maizey rests in the cool water, Buddy works up a sweat, running, jumping, fetching, and swimming. Sometimes I wonder if Maizey isn’t barking her encouragement to her more active brother. 

Various colored Kong balls, some squeak, some don’t, lie in the grass like Easter Eggs. Each dog has his/her favorite. They know which one it is. I don’t. Buddy waits in Crouching Tiger pose until his ball is thrown across the yard. Maizey barks, “nope, wrong one, try again” as I toss balls in her direction one at a time.

Where'd everybody go?

John has the grill set up poolside, near where Maizey sits under the umbrella. Every afternoon he’ll stoke up the coals and cook a few pieces of chicken. Like Pavlov’s dogs, the whole neighborhood begins to salivate when the smell of BBQ’d chicken wafts through the air. While Maizey still eats every day, she’s no longer on a schedule. She eats when she feels like it. I think she feels like it when her pain meds have worn off and she begins to hurt more. Cheese or chicken wrapped pills take the edge off. 

Sharing some quiet time.

Ashley and Ella paid us a visit this summer. Buddy thinks Ella is a dog that runs on two legs. When she is here, it’s not-stop play time. Ashley, on the other hand, is Maizey’s girl. Like a mother hen, Maizey follows Ashley upstairs (not liking that she’d have to be carried back down because who can hop downstairs on 3 legs without turning a speeding bullet), sits in the window when Ashley leaves then waits with her chin resting on the back of the couch, until her return, and sleeps under her chair when Ashley eats dinner. Like all of us, Maizey grieves a little bit every time the girls pull out of the driveway and head for home. Someone told me dogs don’t have a sense of the past or the future. They live in the moment. Perhaps once Ashley’s scent has dissipated Maizey no longer thinks of her sweet blonde friend. I swear, however, that she doesn’t forget the love. 

It's never easy to say goodbye.

I have become Maizey’s surrogate Grammy. She likes to be where I am. If I’m sewing she naps on the floor in the sewing room. If I’m cooking, she lies in the corner behind the table. I’m in the bathroom she waits outside the door. Even if she’s sound asleep on the couch when I go to bed, Maizey hops down the dark hallway and plops down next to my bed. Some nights I lie down next to her and shush her back to sleep. When afternoon thunderstorms begin to rumble, I settle myself next to her pillows whispering her fear away. John says he doesn’t let Maizey see how upset he feels as her health declines. I have a hard time keeping a stiff upper lip.

Oh Maizey I say. As I rub the velvet spot between her eyebrows or try to reiki away her shoulder pain, tears fill my eyes. 

If John’s love languages with Maizey are quality time and physical touch ("How about a moo-sage, Girl?) and Buddy’s is acts of service ("Here let me chew that bone for you" or "I’ll just get this bed nice and cozy for you.”) mine must be acts of service. (“You’ve got to eat,” I say holding a big ball of freshly grated cheddar cheese under her nose like it’s a roast beef bone.) Maizey’s love language is unabashedly and unequivocally “woofs of affirmation.”

Nothing says I love you like an ear-shattering woof. 

"The whole glorious history of animals with people is about joy and connection.

 It's about loving this creature and letting this creature love you."

Jon Katz

*Always By My Side, Life Lessons from Millie and all the Dogs I’ve Loved

by Edward Grinnan

Howard Books,,An imprint of Simon and Schuster, Inc. Ny Ny2017, pg 63