In The End, The Dog Always Dies

Spoiler Alert!  The Dog Dies.

I refuse to watch dog movies and read dog books.  Because the dog always dies.  The formula is always the same with a few variations:   Variation 1: A)  Devoted dog.    B) Mistreated by evil owners.  C) Dog finds true love.   D) Dog dies.  OR  Variation 2:  A)  Stray Dog is a neurotic freak who slobbers on everyone, destroys house, eats the baby.  B) Family falls madly in love with the dog because he has such a great personality. C) Dog dies.   Variation 3:    A) Dog is a devoted, mind-reading pet who knows Jimmy is in the well.  B) Jimmy is saved.  C) Dog dies.

My story has several elements of all great dog stories.  Max was a filthy, white hair ball when I rescued him from being run over by a truck as he stood in the middle of the road.  At the time I took it that the poor creature was too scared to move.   Now I know he was actually in a staring match with the truck and was convinced he would win with his Voldemort-like powers.



After the rescue we took Max into our home.  The first few days were lovely. Except for the flea infestation.  And the fact that because he had been sucked on by so many tiny vampire fleas he was anemic and didn't have enough energy to eat through the front door as he did as soon as his iron levels were up.

Despite being neutered and only about 12 inches off the floor, he also had a powerful need to be the Alpha dog.  In order to assert his powers on our Whippet, who was twice as tall as fluff ball devil dog, Max decided to assert his Alpha powers by humping Lazer to death.  This would have been comical if you didn't have an ounce of empathy in your body.  Max would attach himself to any part of Lazer's body he could get hold of--kind of like a fluffy leech and go at it.  Lazer would stand, sit, or lay there looking like the picture the Private Investigator  takes of a husband caught in bed with another woman, all wide-eyed and guilty looking.   Part of the problem was that every time we would reprimand Max (re: yell STOP IT!) Lazer thought we were yelling at him. So while Max humped merrily away, Lazer obediently allowed Max to have his way with him.  Finally, I figured out that I was an hump-dog enabler.  I put both dogs together in the basement and stood at the top of the steps.  Sure enough, in a few minutes, without my interference, Lazer gave Max a good dog-thrashing. Which solved the problem with Lazer, but not with every other dog Max ever met.

In fact, one time, he got so Alpha-doggish that he actually created an erection that I thought might qualify him for that commercial about the 4 hour woodie.  So I did what the commercial suggested and called my Doctor.    Who, after she finished laughing at me--I mean, seriously  couldn't he have strangulated that thing?   Told me to put an ice pack on it.  So there I am, nice fall afternoon,  sitting on my front porch holding an ice back to the Fluff Balls private parts.  (Just in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation, it works)

Max truly was the most determined, contrary, stubborn dog I've ever owned.  Although I'm sure he thought he owned me.  He destroyed carpet when digging at it to get out of the house, he actually gnawed through a wire dog pen to escape. More than once got his teeth caught in the dog carrier door, trying to chew his way out.  Putting him any place he didn't want to be would guarantee barking that could last for hours. And it wasn't a melodious bark--it was that high-pitched, Alfred-Hitchcock, knife-stabbing bark.

But I used to be a sucker for making commitments to damaged goods.  So for 10 years and three husbands,  I have lived with the Little Shit Dog, as he affectionately became know in our family.  In fact, I would occasionally lay in bed, listening to his shower-scene bark and even more affectionately think--I wonder when that little shit is going to die?  Because, I mean, that is how the movie always ends, right?

I did not envision the dramatic way Max would engineer his own death.  We are having a renovation done on that back deck--all the decking was removed to make way for the new floor.  I opened the door to talk to the Flannel Shirt Guy who is doing our work and I felt Max brush by my leg-I threw my foot out to try and stop him, but...too late--I watched as he fell 10 feet to the ground.  I want you to know that to my credit, I did not think--well good, he died.  Because 1) I'm a really nice person  and 2) He didn't die.  No, Max would do this his way--as always, he refused to do what a normal dog would do and die sweetly in my arms at home.  Oh No...I had to take him to the Doggie ER--where I had to sign a DNR on my dog and then refuse to have the neurologist come look at him (There are people living down the street from me who probably can't get a neurologist to come look at them because they don't have health insurance--but I can get it for my dog!)

I refused all heroic measures.  Max's time had come--albeit in not the most natural way.  And in the end, I held the fluffy, stubborn little shit as they administered "the shot" and he died.  Just like that, the dog died.  And I cried.

Gift With Purchase

I'm thinking about make-up today.   My addiction to make-up began with Agnes Bottoms, who was our Avon Lady and my first dealer.

Now you must know that Agnes Bottoms fully lived up to her name.  She was a lovely lady--but when you answered the door to "Ding-dong Avon calling..."  there was short, plump, Agnes, with her tight perm, house dress, white Keds,  and, as far as I could tell, not an ounce of make-up on.  She and my mother would visit for a while, then Agnes would slowly reach down into her bag and pull out what I had so eagerly been waiting for, a small turquoise plastic box containing my make-up crack-- teeny tiny little lipsticks about the size of a bullet.  Removing the top revealed a perfect cylinder of color, one  never to be found in nature, that tapered to a thin precise edge.  Lust.   I lusted after those samples, I wanted Pink Tinge, Copper Rosa, and Candy Pink to be for my lips only

Then came high school and the era of Electric Company Blues and Frosty pinks.  Agnes couldn't compete with Cybil Shepard on the cover of Seventeen.    I had to wait and go "to town" which meant a visit to Wee Discount to acquire  the objects of my desire.   One could spend hours agonizing over two different shades of Cover Girl foundation.  Once you bought it, you had to live with it, no returns allowed.  So I might spend half the year looking like an Ompa Loompa in my orange foundation and the other half looking like I'd just been to the mortician for a make-over.

But then, the magic happened again--I met my own updated version of Agnes--Ms Estee Lauder--the Queen of Gift with Purchase.  I was going to get my fix again!  Only this time this Purveyor of Pretty was sheathed in black, prancing about on 3 inch heels,  a sample of every product on her perfectly made up face.  GWP dealers were not nearly as homey and friendly as Agnes--I usually had to endure a disdainful once-over, a "consultation" which involved striping my face like a tiger to find just the right shade that would transform my imperfections into flawlessness. But at the end, there was the transaction--the sliding of a credit card across the glass counter, a rustle of tissue paper... and then....my very own tiny samples--a lipstick in a shade I would never wear, miniature eye shadows in the latest shade of blue, enough moisturizer to dampen a dimple--but it was all mine, to covet, collect and play with--until I needed my next GWP fix.















\