My first dog, the first one I got all by myself as a grown up, was the love of my life for 14 years. She was a gorgeous husky-chow that I got as a puppy, a small pom-pom of golden fur that sat in my lap and ate American cheese slices on our first ride home together. I named her Roxanne because I had just gone to a Sting concert that summer. I could write volumes about how beautiful she was, what kind of girl she was, all the things we went through together during that tumultuous time of my life, but I’m getting a little hysterical as I write this now – and she’s been gone for almost 8 years.

We were on our way back from New Jersey and got caught in a snow storm that stranded us for a couple extra days from being able to pick her up from the wonderful kennel where we were boarding her. She died peacefully in the snow before we got home. You might think that I would be upset that I wasn’t there in her final hours, but this was perhaps the kindest, most loving final gift she could give me. I think she knew that I was home at last in my own skin. She had been my guardian in some very dark days, but now I was in a good place, a new home, a good marriage and the impending arrival of the best boy in my life, my son. She was free to go in peace, and I thank God that she didn’t suffer a prolonged illness or break down. I hate long good byes.

I resisted getting another dog for a good while. I was enjoying the freedom of living pet-free, and I just couldn’t see giving my heart away like that again, but you know what happens next, right? A casual visit to the SPCA with the kids and…

I feel pretty sure Max picked us. I was looking at daintier, short haired models, but this dopey mutt wouldn’t be ignored. The French bull terrier I had my eye on was very…well, French. We were clearly not good enough her as she wouldn’t give us the time of day. Max, however was friendly and affectionate and slipped into our family like a hand in a glove.

We don’t know exactly how old he is. The estimate when we adopted him was 6 or 7 years. He was surrendered to the SPCA by the same family that adopted him from the SPCA as a puppy. Their reason: he kept running away. Don’t get me started on how I feel about this except to say that clearly he was meant to be with us, not them. I’m just sorry it took him 6 or 7 years to find his way home.

He has been a world-class family dog, but he’s getting old. We’ve had for 5 years now which would put him at 11 or 12 as best we can tell. He’s been slowing down, but he can still rally if there’s an unguarded sandwich. Over the Thanksgiving weekend, he took a dramatic turn – looking weak, stumbling, and no longer wanting to go outside to take care of business – which is to say I’ve done a lot of carpet cleaning lately.

I figured out that he was losing his sight. He was bumping into things and didn’t like going outside because of the steps. I had to become his seeing-eye person. He and I are both adjusting. He’s perked up considerably now that he knows we’re not going to let him fall down the steps. He’s re-learning his way around the house, although he doesn’t go too far from his food and water or the front door. Me, I’m finding a new love in caring for my special needs dog, but I am praying fervently for his comfort and health. That if his time is near, that it will come quickly. No long good byes. I don’t think my heart could take it.