Max feel good
Our wondrous pooch, family member, and loving friend came into our lives when we were living in Panama.
Image: courtesy of the author.
A neighbor boy, a kid from the US suggested we call our beagle puppy Max. His name fit and from the first instant, seemed destined.
Max took cuddly, warm, smoochable, honey-sweet, soul wrenchingly precious to whole new levels. His tiny size fit into both my palms, perfectly, a warm blob, snoring quickly, one silken ear as a pillow, the other as a cover over his eye.
The day my wife and son unexpectedly brought him home, now about ten years ago; (‘oh no not another dog’), we went to Gamboa next to the Panama Canal on the Pacific side, for a picnic alongside a small creek that wound through the tropical jungle. I remember as though it was yesterday thinking and concerned that an alligator, (which are everywhere in Panama), might come out of a bush or shallow swamp and grab Max. Max spent the outing for the most part on my lap. I didn’t want another dog… but how do you reject perfection? Webster’s could‘ve photographed Max, curled up, asleep, and used the image to define: self-effacing or ‘perfect’.
We used to babysit a massive great Dane named Monty, as in the military general, Monty was a kind and brilliant soul and I would add every bit the general they named him after. Monty and Max took to one another. One of the most heart-warming encounters between dogs I have ever experienced. Max clumsily ventured forth, big ears flopping here and there, from his little cloth nest on the porch and take a bite of Monty’s huge haunch or his long tail as he slept. Max's’ natural defense told him ‘attack this big guy from behind, no not at the face…’ the big dogs head raised, ears alert, much like the classic cartoon figure, and gave chase after Max.
They chased about the yard, mad dashes here and there, lawn chairs and tables tossed about, Monty avoiding catching up to the little morsel. Max discovered that he could race to his cloth nest and stand in it. Incredibly Monty respected the nest as a free zone of sorts. He would not reach in and grab Max around the neck which he could have. Gleefully and triumphantly Max reached the security of his refuge, his tiny wagging tail now signaling peace and time out. Monty’s ears perked up, perhaps a slight look of confusion and the gentle giant settled down on crossed forepaws in front of Max. Not crossing the invisible line, Max watched his big friend so that he wouldn’t break the border agreement.
After a year Max developed a skin condition, a painful itching across his soft pelt, his legs, head, side of his face, some eighty percent of his little mass. His effort for getting relief was a frustrating leg scratching and using his teeth to areas he could reach. After a while, his efforts broke through the skin and the bleeding would start. For the three years, we had Max in Panama we must have consulted with ten different veterinarians, every one failing at finding any successful treatment. One vet trained in Cuba was perhaps the most dismal. She blamed Max for his condition! Her solution was to bathe Max in mertiolato, a purple disinfectant that stung and did nothing for the little guy.
Because of various needs, one of those being economics, we moved to Guatemala. The cool weather in the Guatemalan highlands seemed to work in Maxs’ favor; we hoped that the geographical change might leave behind the ‘bugs’ that so tortured Max. We soon discovered that this was not to be. He went on scratching and itching. Several years after arriving in Guatemala Max had to wear a cone. His nickname was Don Cono, or perhaps in English, we might say: Mr. Cone Head. Humor in an otherwise humorless situation. But Max maintains his joy, if not like before, an obvious zest for life, one in constant irritation, he remains happy and loving. Imagine if you can.
Over the years, and as time rolled by, we discovered Maxs’ uncanny ability to communicate and to express himself. One evening, sitting on his haunches, he started pointing nose to the ceiling, ears falling aside like resting wings, the short concert started, he started singing and our jaws dropped, we were overjoyed. We googled the subject and found that beagles and howling is rather common. Max sings an elaborate howl. We read that it could be explained as an expression of joy and an expression of sadness.
We got so we discovered that most of his howling and singing was clearly happily related. We just knew. Like a French horn, his voice both rose then dropped low, undulating, a deep-throated expression. Wagging his tail informed us he was in a positive place; Maxs’ quality of life always a concern for us. When he sensed that he was about to be taken on a walk, the singing broke out. The singing started as my wife served up chicken she’d heated up; his absolute favorite. Often for no reason, he’d start howling. At first, this caused us some concern. If he heard a car arriving, say our son Johnny, this was also causing for celebration, he’d sing his little heart out.
One night Max was having ear issues related to the itch. It was too late to find a pharmacy for medicine or the vet so I slept on the floor next to him. He sensed without a doubt my desire to comfort him as when I’d stop stroking him behind the ears he’d return the favor by licking my fingers. The following morning our vet JP assured us it wasn’t pain that kept Max up all night, rather it was a tickle, which can be almost as bad though isn’t. Pain is pain, and it was wonderful knowing that rather than pain in his ear it was an impossible to get at tickle, caused by the itch. Drops now control that.
Over the years I have been up with him late into the night many times. If he’s not bleeding too much from the scratching, we allow him on the bed with us. One of the funny things about Max however is that once he jumps on the bed and cuddles for a little while it’s as though he reaches a point where enough is enough and jumps off. Enough of that cuddle stuff…
Another is he finds it to his disliking for me to pick him up, hold him in my arms, starts a strenuous wriggle to be let down. It makes me think that perhaps as a puppy someone had dropped him.
We discovered early on that when he’s lying down, may or may not be sleeping if you attempt to move him for whatever reason he can show a surprising impatience, a toothy growl, sometimes an almost snap-like bark, followed by a hyper rapid wagging of his tail as though assuring one that he’s really not angry or that something got the better of him. But! But try again to move him and he repeats the show of impatience. Reminds me of many humans, perhaps of me too.
When one of us returns home after being away several hours he voices his joy with high pitched barks, these are his ‘happy to see you guys bark’, then without exception, he does what over the years I’ve called his ‘love stretch’ stretches his body forward, his downward dog!! Never fails, it’s only when he greets us, either we’ve been away for hours or separate for ten minutes!
His most relaxed position however is lying on his ample belly, which reminds me of the huge great white shark belly! Front paws sticking out forward, his back paws sticking out backward, his head settled on a front leg. Someone who saw him do that in Antigua explained this showed our Beagles purity. Who knows.
Amongst his many and most endearing ‘things’ of which he has countless is his deep sleep pose. Flat on his back, four legs sticking up into the air, cashmere-soft ears like wings laying out to either side. Exposed it seems for all the world to see, snoring as loud as a human.
Another endearing discovery, more recent, is his understanding of visual signs or signals. One day I signaled to him a ‘come here’ type of motion, a rather straight forward movement. He watched, curious, long ears perked, head slightly tilted, then after several minutes got up and came to me. Now every morning, very early while everybody is still asleep when I head down the stairs, he knows breakfast will appear, he waits at the top of the stairs as I go ahead. Once I’m at the bottom, I look up to him and begin my signal. This avoids calling out and waking everybody up. After a few moments, he comes down. I’d swear he treats it as a game, he knows full well the process, and that at some point, soon, breakfast will appear and yet he likes the signal.
He speaks to us using a wide variety of sounds, from a soft whining to a quick bark, a long moan and groan, as he does this he never breaks eye contact and will often raise a paw to place on your leg.
Vets in Guatemala told us the skin condition is a virus, others told us hongos, or bacteria growth, the most recent declared thyroid problems and prescribed the indicated medicines. The problem never goes away. The vets all seem to agree that in fact, the problem will remain ongoing. They were all familiar with the condition. My brother-in-law Jack suggested a new American drug called Apoquel, and for the first time, Max enjoyed at least some relief. Yet it continues to come and go.
I googled that a bit of aspirin is ok so I’ll give him the quarter piece of a pill. The vet agreed to give Max a tiny dose of valium or similar, this gets him through the night. But as this is habit-forming will only give it to him when he is miserable. This is a temporary fix. Interestingly enough, the vet assured me the other day that dogs cannot become addicted… Not so sure about that.
Max is ten human years old. Beagles live for ten to fifteen years, so the little guy is pushing it, sorta.
These furry beings who over the eons worked their way into human hearts, into our dwellings, share our love and food, offer us protection, most times will attack on our behalf, without fear, tearing headlong into a toothy situation possibly deadly, on behalf of his or her ‘pack’.
When I was a child, Thor, our huge, fawn-colored Dane, a caramel brown shade, velvety, dark jowls, lived with us in Nicaragua. I was about seven when I was standing at our front gate of our country home close to the nearby, busy highway leading to the coast. I don’t know why at that moment I was standing there. In fact, I was always on the move, rarely standing still for long. Near the gate was a massive Ceibon tree upon which lived many huge iguanas. Occasionally I’d try to drop an iguana with my single shot pellet gun. The creatures weren’t in too much danger as the ancient air rifle could just barely throw a lead pellet up the tree’s upper reaches. Though on one occasion I got ‘lucky’ and after repeatedly hitting one of the big, harmless creatures he tumbled towards the ground, still alive but soon died. I recall feeling sick and ashamed I’d taken this life. This experience and other similar over time changed my life forever.
A commotion caught my attention to my right. There was Thor running towards the gate from the highway. His usual powerful gallop was lopsided and slow progress. Blood was everywhere. It might have been a bus that removed most of his chest, I remember being in disbelief that he could still stand, run, running home, running home to his pack. The rest is a blank. He dropped at the gate, just before I ran to look for help, after that no recollection.
There are no words for this and I don’t want to make it too graphic. I just want to draw your attention to the fact that Thor was on the last run home, reporting, he had to know, had to know.
And so it is with these furry friends and family members of ours, Max our little son and brother. We must find a way, an opening to see that as humans we do not have the right to mistreat or rule over these wonderful beings. I refer here to all beings. Have you ever watched carefully the faces, the eyes of cattle stuffed inhumanely into the back of cargo trucks on their way to slaughter? Well damn,
it do it sometime! Their sides covered in fluid, green shit, piss rolling out the back end of the truck bed. Doing what they can with the sharp turns to stay on their feet. Often lose their footing and soon trampled under by sharp hooves and weight mass.
The cattle have to remain standing, often for over twenty-four hours, no rest in the truck as they do in the grazing fields where they often curl up in the tall grass. If an animal falls in the truck bed the driver and his assistant have to prod and poke the fallen animal to get him back on his feet otherwise get trampled to death. A dead animal does not get accepted by the buyer. You have to be in Central America to see this daily occurrence because in the US we have learned how to hide this from the public eye on the highways. Better truck walls, no running slop, I don’t know. If you ever witness this, you just might feel the needed inner ‘shift’.
We will stand by our Max until the end.
