A week or two ago, my niece dropped by and put one of our ponies on a lunge line for a workout. Having proved it helps the disposition of this particular creature to get a good workout from time to time, I’ve been working him myself every few days.
But a horse has two sides to its brain, and they don’t cross-talk. So in order to work the pony in both directions, you have to train it twice: once for the
clockwise circle, once for the counter-clockwise direction.
That raised a question in my mind: why are all our races run anti-clockwise?
Is it an agreed-upon standard or is there some physiological reason to do it
that way? Is it habit? Tradition? How did it get started?
It turns out there are more theories than proof of why we run our races that way, but it cuts across all racing disciplines: auto races, horse races, track and field events and on and on.
Back in 1780 or so, a fellow named William Whitley ran the first recognized horse races in America, up in Lincoln County, Kentucky. Whitley was very pro-Revolution, and in light of the British custom of running their races in a clockwise direction, he purposefully set his track up to run the other way. That became the American standard…except at the vaunted Belmont, where races were run clockwise until 1921.
The auto racing folks say that since the driver’s wheel is on the left side of the car in America, running counter-clockwise gives the driver a better view
of the track, that it offers more shielding from a potential collision with the wall, and that it’s conducive to the effects of centrifugal force.
But what of other venues? Dog racing, cycling, roller derby and the like?
One theory says that it’s natural, since we read from left to right – which, if you think about it, makes it really tough on the Chinese athletes, because their printed material reads right to left from top to bottom. This theory also claims that it just seems “right” for the finish of a race to approach from the left, and that it gives spectators a better view of the last moments of a race.
Another claim is that it has to do with the slight leftward tilt of the human heart, and that running clockwise aids circulation and puts less strain on the organ as it cranks along during an adrenaline-charged event. This doesn’t seem to take dog hearts, horse hearts or any other organs into account.
And then there’s them as claim it harkens back to an old pagan belief that running counter-clockwise – going “widdershins” – banishes evil spells.
Whichever hypothesis you accept, it’s worth noting that AUSCAR – the Australian version of NASCAR – is run clockwise, that some European horse tracks are set up for clockwise races, and that Formula One racing is always done in a clockwise direction.
There just doesn’t seem to be a single, solid reason for us to run our events
counter-clockwise…but we do it, and it’s become the standard for most race events world-wide.
So I still don’t know why the majority of races everywhere are run counter-clockwise. What I do know is that ten minutes with a trotting pony at the end of a thirty-foot lunge line make me dizzy as hell…and it doesn’t matter which direction he’s going.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
TALKING AT GRANDPA
Conceeded: I have not had children in my life. I know very little about them beyond what I learned as a pre-teen, attending the needs of a younger brother and sister. Maybe that’s why I’ve never felt an imperative to have a brood of the little beastards clattering about the house.
Their primary job, it seems, is to spread crumbs around and to leave sticky globs of unspeakable chewed-and-discarded purple or lime green things on the arm of the chair where my evening drink customarily sits. There’s ample evidence in most child-burdened homes of their perpetually-grimy little paws and the litter of sharp, unseen remains of unbreakable plastic toys which are a menace to those who dare walk barefoot across the carpet.
I write this in a few moments of quiet after an hour-long visit this afternoon from my great-niece, a force of nature not yet five years old. It is not unlike the sudden calm after a great storm, a severe artillery shelling or the deafened ears of one who stood too close to an exploding propane tank.
Admitted coward that I am, I was able to sulk in my little lair, pretending to be occupied on the computer for most of the visit, while both Mother and Grandmother rode herd on a moppet with the energy of a hurricane. Still, there came a moment of distraction for the elders and my privacy was invaded. I found myself facing a hazel-eyed chatterbox whose thirty inches of height apparently contain all the lore, legends and knowledge of mankind, all of which she attempted to convey to me in a remarkably short time.
I feigned interest with the raising of an eyebrow or widening of the eyes and an occasional “Oh?” slipped in between her pauses for breath – which, with her pure and unsullied lungs, were brief and infrequent. I puffed my cigarette and blew second-hand smoke her direction. Undeterred, she rattled on. And on. And on.
In less than five minutes, I was apprised of the fact that no one wanted to see her underwear beneath the little cotton sundress she wore, that she sometimes gave herself a “wedgie” – with appropriate gestures – that I had to feel her face where a droplet of perspiration leaked down her temple, that she could turn a somersault – and did, twice, as proof – that no one was supposed to see her boobies either, although she said, “I only have little bitty ones.” I learned that her brother was visiting his birth father in Iowa, that the newest pony in our string tried to drag her through the dirt when she grabbed its halter, and she didn’t know what that dark smudge was on her white sandals but it was “Probably horse poop,” which led to her assertion that food makes people poop, but it was lemonade and soda that make you pee. A bottle of water, she says, does not. Water makes dogs pee., and she has a sore on her back where a bug bit her, but I shouldn’t rub it for her because she herself had “…itched it a lot.”
She told me a story of being hoist into a tree, “…a really big tree,” by her older brother when she was six (which, if factual, had to have occurred in a prior incarnation) and that her mother couldn’t find her until the boy confessed to having hidden the baby. I protested, “How could that have happened? You’re only four…you haven’t been six yet.” A split second passed. “No, I was…two.” “Two?” “No, one! Just one!” Game. Set. Match.
She prattled away and I was aloof, borne along by the certain knowledge that even the youngest of the feminine sex can manage seemingly cogent conversation without the active participation of a listener.
I found myself mesmerized by the purity of her skin with its faint underblush of rose, the health of pink lips and gums and perfectly-formed miniature teeth, the intrinsic knowledge of the female of the effect of widening those amazing hazel eyes, the fine arch of brows and the slightly sweaty perfection of her sandy brown curls and beautifully-formed ears, the fineness of her arms and legs and her expressive little finger gestures.
Ten years from now or twelve, she will begin to make informed decisions about her existence. I can only hope to be around to see her then, and to hear her chatter on about her comings and goings, her friends and that “icky new boy” at school on whom she will have – and won’t admit – a huge crush.
For better or worse, she’s going to be a knockout, physically. And she’s already showing precocious intelligence that promises to become a handful for her parents.
I hope she will always be that little typhoon of gab, the font of information, however flawed, the open-minded and free-speaking individual she promises to become.
I can only pray that no one – no one – has the temerity to crush her lively interest in the world as it reveals itself to her, to dull or to blunt her curiosity, or to decry even the mistakes she will inevitably commit or to shame her into becoming a mere cipher in an already-too-bland world.
And yes, I am ashamed of myself for blowing my cigarette smoke at her. It was more childish than her chattering, and a greater sin than she can yet imagine. The urge took me by surprise, and I have no excuse.
I understand on reflection that it sprung from an envy of what it is to be a child and to be perfect in every way.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
GROWING OLDER
c.2009VirgilT
Last night I learned of the passing of Walter Cronkite. If you don’t know who Walter Cronkite is – was – stop reading this immediately and send me an email. I’m taking you off my list of Dose recipients.
The title to Hemingway’s novel, “For Whom the
I can’t think of another individual whose presence on this earth helped place me more fully in my time and place than Cronkite. He was an anchor in more ways than one, and held fast the mooring lines for three generations.
It was he who grieved with me over the assassination of President Kennedy and our nation’s transition from adolescence into full and knowing maturity
It was Uncle Walter who walked me through mankind’s spectacular arrival, first steps on and successful return from the Moon.
It was he to whom I and millions of others turned each evening to learn the true state of our nation and that of the other nations of the world. If Cronkite said
Under his firm hand, the CBS Evening News coalesced and matured into top-notch must-see television programming. The same could be said of his series, “You Are There,” which always fascinated me with its reenactments of historic events and Cronkite’s narrative making it clear just how and why things transpired as they did.
His tenure bespoke an era; that of the post-WWII generation with the dawn of the technological age: space programs, computers, cell phones,
There has not been, and is not likely to be, another who had – and deserved – the complete trust of a nation as did this singular individual.
I am unmoved by the death of bizarre pop star Michael Jackson, and I will be glad when the tabloid media move on to other matters, just as I was when that busty blonde chippie who married the elderly millionaire died. I can’t even
They are the chaff of life’s threshing, and deserve to be borne away on the
Saying goodbye to Walter Cronkite is a different matter altogether.
His passing tells me that the bell is slowly, inexorably banging out its single dolorous note for me, and that my time, too, is finite, and his demise does so as no other event could have done.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
A ROUGH HISTORY
It's a safe bet prehistoric man ate a lot of things we wouldn't eat today. Bark. Moss. Scaly little bugs. Prehistoric man was always hungry. There's not a museum anywhere that doesn't have a diorama of a cave family hunkered down around a gnawed-on slab of something raw. And in some of those exhibits you can see one caveman sitting by himself off in a corner, trying to invent fire.
Because cave people were always hungry, they'd try to eat almost anything. Just imagine how hungry the guy was who first picked up an oyster, looked at it and thought, "Yum-yum!"
If you ask me, the primary function of an oyster is to convey that yummy sauce to your mouth. It's only good manners that keep us from sucking up the sauce and spitting the oyster into the nearest potted palm.
Early man died of many things while discovering the world: spear points, animal bites, all manner of septic infections from bad scratches, not to mention falling things. Like rocks. Big trees. Mastodons. If you were standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, a falling mastodon could be fatal.
I doubt colon cancer was high on the list of causes of death. I can't find evidence anywhere of any prehistoric coroner who ever pulled out a Mount Blanc fountain pen and wrote "colon cancer" as the proximal cause of death.
If prehistoric diets had anything going for them, they had fiber. We call it "roughage" today. And it was. Lots of prehistoric remains have been unearthed that show teeth worn down to stubs, but as far as I know not a single archaeologist has ever discovered the remains of a prehistoric man with a bad colon.
Roughage is still with us. I find it interesting that while Mother Nature has spent aeons putting roughage into our food, we're determined to get rid of it before we'll eat what's left. We peel our cucumbers and carrots and apples; we want our orange juice strained; most of us won't eat a potato peel unless it's deep-fried and coated with melted cheese, sour cream and chives. I'm not sure what "bacon bits" are actually made of, but I'm pretty sure they don't count as fiber. They're sort of today's equivalent of bark or beetle carcasses.
We'll gladly gorge ourselves on gourmet chocolates, but no matter how expensive those little morsels are, we all try to avoid the ones with fiber in them. You know...the ones with coconut centers.
Everyone hates those little strings you find in celery, but besides being good natural fiber, they're handy for flossing the peanut butter or cream cheese out of your teeth. No one eats naked celery.
Here's the truth: we all ought to eat a lot more fiber than we do. If we did that, we'd put a lot of gastroenterologists and surgeons out of business. Stock shares in Metamucil and CorrectAll Natural Grain would fall like a Minnesota thermometer in January. And if we ate more fiber, we wouldn't have to use our garbage disposals more than once or twice a week.
Let me prove my point: have you ever met a chicken with a bad colon? Of course not, because chickens get all the peelings and fiber and roughage even a farmer won't eat. And a hard-working farmer will eat almost anything that falls on his plate. I know. I have some cousins who are farmers in Oklahoma, and I've tried to keep up with them at meal time. It can't be done - but that's another story and I'm out of space here.
Face it: we should all eat more fiber, even if we don't like it very much. It's good for us. And we can always think of it as a taste of prehistoric history.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
THE BURDEN OF CHOICE
Take the world's population and subtract the American population figure; stack the numbers side-by-side and you'll see the probability against being born an American. Yet each of us has beaten those long odds.
We may thank God, Fortune or Fate for being born citizens of a country where we have the liberty and freedom to make choices. But it is this very freedom -- the freedom of choice -- which can also undermine our Nation and cause its eventual demise.
In the most undeniably wealthy nation in the world, we take for granted the daily ebb and flow of choice; it rarely impacts us on a significant level. Witness our homes, filled with the trappings of capitalism: the telephones, televisions and appliances; the driveways where rest two or three or five automobiles; the array of garments in our closets and on our shelves, the larders and refrigerators burdened with edible stock. The solidly-built walls which shield us from the elements, the comfortable carpets underfoot, the custom draperies and wall trappings all of which attest to choices made in a land where we are free to toss it all every few years, move to another place and begin making more choices.
Consider that in most countries indoor plumbing and fresh water are considered items of luxury. Transportation may be "modern" only in the sense that a vehicle is powered by an internal combustion engine; picture a farmer using a powered tiller to pull a wagon to market, burdened not only with crops to sell but his family as well. Consider in how many nations a bicycle is used as a commercial vehicle. Picture a meal of fishcakes or something similar prepared over a slab of rock surmounting an open fire.
Look at the materials most of the world uses for its dwellings: adobe, wattle, scraps of wood, canvas and flapping cloth. See people in their native attire; colorful, quaint, and the only clothing they possess. Ask a citizen of the world when they last saw a dentist, opted for cosmetic surgery to rid themselves of excess fat or asked their doctor to write a prescription for stress relief.
Looking at the trappings of American daily life, I wonder whether we are making good choices. Our homes are filled with more consumer goods than we need, even with America's preference for convenience and comfort. Look at the useless trinkets and fads being hyped on television and lapped up by consumer with disposable income. Walk into virtually any garage in America and try not to trip over the items being stored there until they're wanted again or placed at the curb to be buried in landfills where many of the world’s citizens would find a treasure trove of utilitarianism.
Consider the acres of woodlands and native creatures being displaced at a phenomenal rate by estate homes, golf courses and luxury villages. Think how a world citizen might take possession of a small abandoned ramshackle inner city structure, gladly expending weeks and months of labor to make it habitable, luxuriating in gas heat, electric lights, running water and indoor toilets.
"Well," you might say, "we've worked for all that. We've earned it." I disagree. We have simply defended our good fortune as a predator defends its kill. That we have done so honorably, nobly and sometimes at huge sacrifice of life and fortune I don't deny, but it is still a defensive posture. We snarl and snap at any hungry creature daring to salivate at the fringe of our largesse.
We have become so accustomed to choice that our decision-making process is often flawed and trivialized. I don't advocate a return to Calvinism and most of us wouldn't be comfortable in the spare surrounds of a monastic existence. But I do think we must be more aware of our choices and to the implications of each choice we make.
We choose to stuff ourselves with convenience store confections that culminate in health problems. We choose the drive-through rather than the inconvenience of making our own sandwich from our well-stocked refrigerators. We choose to drive our car two blocks to the library rather than make it the short, brisk cardiopulmonary workout most of us need.
We choose to fill our homes with plastic gewgaws and collectible trading cards rather than with books; we rarely take the time to write Thank You notes or to correspond with friends except through the speedy superficiality of the Internet.
We choose the mindless and hypnotic sway of the television over intellectually challenging pursuits, and we have chosen the escapist masturbation of video games over the interaction of personalities in a heated game of Bridge, Chess or Monopoly.
We have become so mired in our consumerism that the very economic and political structure on which our capitalistic lifestyle rests has ceased to have any appeal. Instead of "MacNeil-Lehr," we choose the superficiality of "Survivor" or the titillation of "Jerry Springer."
We've chosen to let governmental agencies and functionaries make choices for us rather than burden ourselves with intellectual involvement, to express our concerns at civic meetings or to inconvenience ourselves with going to our polling places to cast our votes. Sadly, we show more concern when making a choice between scented and non-scented toilet tissues.
Freedom of choice. That's America.
But choice is a responsibility, and it's a burden we should bear gladly.
History will tell us one day whether our freedom to choose will continue, and that story will hinge on the choices we make today.
Take the world's population and subtract the American population figure; stack the numbers side-by-side and you'll see the probability against being born an American. Yet each of us has beaten those long odds.
We may thank God, Fortune or Fate for being born citizens of a country where we have the liberty and freedom to make choices. But it is this very freedom -- the freedom of choice -- which can also undermine our Nation and cause its eventual demise.
In the most undeniably wealthy nation in the world, we take for granted the daily ebb and flow of choice; it rarely impacts us on a significant level. Witness our homes, filled with the trappings of capitalism: the telephones, televisions and appliances; the driveways where rest two or three or five automobiles; the array of garments in our closets and on our shelves, the larders and refrigerators burdened with edible stock. The solidly-built walls which shield us from the elements, the comfortable carpets underfoot, the custom draperies and wall trappings all of which attest to choices made in a land where we are free to toss it all every few years, move to another place and begin making more choices.
Consider that in most countries indoor plumbing and fresh water are considered items of luxury. Transportation may be "modern" only in the sense that a vehicle is powered by an internal combustion engine; picture a farmer using a powered tiller to pull a wagon to market, burdened not only with crops to sell but his family as well. Consider in how many nations a bicycle is used as a commercial vehicle. Picture a meal of fishcakes or something similar prepared over a slab of rock surmounting an open fire.
Look at the materials most of the world uses for its dwellings: adobe, wattle, scraps of wood, canvas and flapping cloth. See people in their native attire; colorful, quaint, and the only clothing they possess. Ask a citizen of the world when they last saw a dentist, opted for cosmetic surgery to rid themselves of excess fat or asked their doctor to write a prescription for stress relief.
Looking at the trappings of American daily life, I wonder whether we are making good choices. Our homes are filled with more consumer goods than we need, even with America's preference for convenience and comfort. Look at the useless trinkets and fads being hyped on television and lapped up by consumer with disposable income. Walk into virtually any garage in America and try not to trip over the items being stored there until they're wanted again or placed at the curb to be buried in landfills where many of the world’s citizens would find a treasure trove of utilitarianism.
Consider the acres of woodlands and native creatures being displaced at a phenomenal rate by estate homes, golf courses and luxury villages. Think how a world citizen might take possession of a small abandoned ramshackle inner city structure, gladly expending weeks and months of labor to make it habitable, luxuriating in gas heat, electric lights, running water and indoor toilets.
"Well," you might say, "we've worked for all that. We've earned it." I disagree. We have simply defended our good fortune as a predator defends its kill. That we have done so honorably, nobly and sometimes at huge sacrifice of life and fortune I don't deny, but it is still a defensive posture. We snarl and snap at any hungry creature daring to salivate at the fringe of our largesse.
We have become so accustomed to choice that our decision-making process is often flawed and trivialized. I don't advocate a return to Calvinism and most of us wouldn't be comfortable in the spare surrounds of a monastic existence. But I do think we must be more aware of our choices and to the implications of each choice we make.
We choose to stuff ourselves with convenience store confections that culminate in health problems. We choose the drive-through rather than the inconvenience of making our own sandwich from our well-stocked refrigerators. We choose to drive our car two blocks to the library rather than make it the short, brisk cardiopulmonary workout most of us need.
We choose to fill our homes with plastic gewgaws and collectible trading cards rather than with books; we rarely take the time to write Thank You notes or to correspond with friends except through the speedy superficiality of the Internet.
We choose the mindless and hypnotic sway of the television over intellectually challenging pursuits, and we have chosen the escapist masturbation of video games over the interaction of personalities in a heated game of Bridge, Chess or Monopoly.
We have become so mired in our consumerism that the very economic and political structure on which our capitalistic lifestyle rests has ceased to have any appeal. Instead of "MacNeil-Lehr," we choose the superficiality of "Survivor" or the titillation of "Jerry Springer."
We've chosen to let governmental agencies and functionaries make choices for us rather than burden ourselves with intellectual involvement, to express our concerns at civic meetings or to inconvenience ourselves with going to our polling places to cast our votes. Sadly, we show more concern when making a choice between scented and non-scented toilet tissues.
Freedom of choice. That's America.
But choice is a responsibility, and it's a burden we should bear gladly.
History will tell us one day whether our freedom to choose will continue, and that story will hinge on the choices we make today.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
I WANNA GO LIKE MAX
c.2008VirgilTeague
If you ask me whether an animal has a soul, I'd be hard-pressed to say no. No doubt I have some animistic leanings; I once apologized to a tree for felling it to make room for a cabin. But there is something, call it what you will, that animates even the most insignificant creature.
Maybe it's just a projection of our own insecurities: there is a hope in each of us that someone will be there to care for us kindly and lovingly when we can no longer function effectively and painlessly.
Max proved this to me. Maxmillion Dollar Apple was his kennel name. He was supposed to be a miniature dachshund, but it seemed as if he were cobbled together from spare parts: the body of a standard-sized dachshund, miniature legs, a small and pointy head, and more tail than absolutely necessary. Nonetheless, he was my mother's best buddy for eleven years.
After her demise, life changed for Max. I didn't have the time or inclination to cater to his every whim as my mother had. No longer would he be tucked into a human bed each night with his head on his very own pillow; there would be no treats passed to him from the plate of a human being at dinner time; his inventory of chew toys was reduced to a mere half-dozen. In short, Max found that he was not, as he'd always assumed, the center of the universe.
Still, he got regular checkups from the vet, his nails clipped, an occasional bath, good quality dog food and the run of the house and the two acres surrounding it. In fact, in some ways life improved for Max: he didn't have to take his walks at the end of a leash, he could hide his chew toys wherever he liked (I'm a bachelor and rarely go poking around in dusty corners or under the bed), he could chase squirrels and bark at every bird that dared poach a worm from the yard. He could doze for hours in the warmth of the sun from the vantage point of the deck attached to the back of my house, and - his favorite thing - he could go for car rides standing up in the passenger seat with his pointy nose out the window where all manner of exotic scents tickled his fancy and fueled his doggy dreams.
Max always preferred the company of women. Let a female visitor show up at my house and Max would do his best to monopolize her attention, jumping up on the couch to lie with his head in her lap, soulful brown eyes begging for a caress from a perfumed hand, tagging along wherever she walked, sitting outside the bathroom door until she reappeared. He had no sense of propriety whatever.
I'd been reluctant to take Max in. I had my own pal, a female Golden Retriever named Ginger. But where else would he go? After all, he'd been a good companion to my mother for eleven years. And I'll admit after a while he became a fixture at my house, too.
He still thought he was in charge in many ways. He insisted on being the first through a door, for example, and thanks to her affable personality, Ginger allowed it. His dish had to be filled first or he'd register his displeasure by plowing into Ginger's dish, scattering kibbles and grumbling around a mouthful. He got used to sleeping on the floor, but only on his own blanket - and it had to be over a floor register for the warmth he found there.
But time passes, and in his sixteenth year, Max was running down. The birds and squirrels were safe since his arthritis had grown so bad he had to be carried into the yard several times a day to do his business. Jumping up onto the couch became impossible, so he'd whimper and plead to be lifted up to lie quietly while I read or watched TV. Filmy cataracts showed up on his eyes and he began to bark at shadows. He was almost deaf, lost interest in his toys and slept most of the time.
One day his rear legs just wouldn't support him. He'd tried to get to his food dish by dragging himself slowly along the floor and seemed confused by this development. I knew his time was short, poor fellow. He couldn't even turn his head to gnaw at an itchy place and it had been some time since he was able to lift a leg to scratch.
I called the clinic. After some discussion, I said I'd bring him in one last time. To their credit, they understood my angst.
Max lay quietly in the passenger seat of the car on his blanket as I picked up a chicken snack at a drive-through. Chicken had always been his favorite food, and I hand-fed him as much of it as he wanted. When we got to the clinic I left him in the car while I went in to fill out the necessary paperwork and explain that I didn't want Max subjected to the smells and sounds of the place.
After a few minutes, a young veterinarian and his assistant came out to the car. She opened the passenger side door, turned and sat in the floor of the car in her nice white uniform. She took Max's head in her hands, stroking him and speaking softly. He sighed. He always did like women.
I got into the driver's seat and patted his back while the vet inserted a needle into Max's foreleg. There was no resistance: Max had a stomach full of chicken, was warm and comfortable lying on his favorite blanket with his head cradled by a gentle young female.
The vet attached a tube and a syringe to the needle, then looked up and asked me if I was ready. I could only nod; my eyes were full of tears and my throat wouldn't work. He slowly depressed the plunger as his assistant continued to stroke Max's head.
Max looked up at her, closed his eyes with a big contented sigh, and just drifted away.
As difficult as it had been to make the decision, euthanasia was the kindest thing I could offer this creature who had been a part of our family for sixteen years. And despite my grumblings about his many odd habits and preferences, I'd come to love this odd little dachshund in spite of myself.
I have some hope that when I am old and tired and used up, there will be someone with the courage and generosity of spirit to help me make the transition to wherever or whatever lies beyond, to make it possible for me to drift away in comfortable surroundings with my head in the lap of a pretty lady who keeps telling me what a handsome fellow I am, despite my short legs and ungainly body.
If you ask me whether an animal has a soul, I'd be hard-pressed to say no. No doubt I have some animistic leanings; I once apologized to a tree for felling it to make room for a cabin. But there is something, call it what you will, that animates even the most insignificant creature.
Maybe it's just a projection of our own insecurities: there is a hope in each of us that someone will be there to care for us kindly and lovingly when we can no longer function effectively and painlessly.
Max proved this to me. Maxmillion Dollar Apple was his kennel name. He was supposed to be a miniature dachshund, but it seemed as if he were cobbled together from spare parts: the body of a standard-sized dachshund, miniature legs, a small and pointy head, and more tail than absolutely necessary. Nonetheless, he was my mother's best buddy for eleven years.
After her demise, life changed for Max. I didn't have the time or inclination to cater to his every whim as my mother had. No longer would he be tucked into a human bed each night with his head on his very own pillow; there would be no treats passed to him from the plate of a human being at dinner time; his inventory of chew toys was reduced to a mere half-dozen. In short, Max found that he was not, as he'd always assumed, the center of the universe.
Still, he got regular checkups from the vet, his nails clipped, an occasional bath, good quality dog food and the run of the house and the two acres surrounding it. In fact, in some ways life improved for Max: he didn't have to take his walks at the end of a leash, he could hide his chew toys wherever he liked (I'm a bachelor and rarely go poking around in dusty corners or under the bed), he could chase squirrels and bark at every bird that dared poach a worm from the yard. He could doze for hours in the warmth of the sun from the vantage point of the deck attached to the back of my house, and - his favorite thing - he could go for car rides standing up in the passenger seat with his pointy nose out the window where all manner of exotic scents tickled his fancy and fueled his doggy dreams.
Max always preferred the company of women. Let a female visitor show up at my house and Max would do his best to monopolize her attention, jumping up on the couch to lie with his head in her lap, soulful brown eyes begging for a caress from a perfumed hand, tagging along wherever she walked, sitting outside the bathroom door until she reappeared. He had no sense of propriety whatever.
I'd been reluctant to take Max in. I had my own pal, a female Golden Retriever named Ginger. But where else would he go? After all, he'd been a good companion to my mother for eleven years. And I'll admit after a while he became a fixture at my house, too.
He still thought he was in charge in many ways. He insisted on being the first through a door, for example, and thanks to her affable personality, Ginger allowed it. His dish had to be filled first or he'd register his displeasure by plowing into Ginger's dish, scattering kibbles and grumbling around a mouthful. He got used to sleeping on the floor, but only on his own blanket - and it had to be over a floor register for the warmth he found there.
But time passes, and in his sixteenth year, Max was running down. The birds and squirrels were safe since his arthritis had grown so bad he had to be carried into the yard several times a day to do his business. Jumping up onto the couch became impossible, so he'd whimper and plead to be lifted up to lie quietly while I read or watched TV. Filmy cataracts showed up on his eyes and he began to bark at shadows. He was almost deaf, lost interest in his toys and slept most of the time.
One day his rear legs just wouldn't support him. He'd tried to get to his food dish by dragging himself slowly along the floor and seemed confused by this development. I knew his time was short, poor fellow. He couldn't even turn his head to gnaw at an itchy place and it had been some time since he was able to lift a leg to scratch.
I called the clinic. After some discussion, I said I'd bring him in one last time. To their credit, they understood my angst.
Max lay quietly in the passenger seat of the car on his blanket as I picked up a chicken snack at a drive-through. Chicken had always been his favorite food, and I hand-fed him as much of it as he wanted. When we got to the clinic I left him in the car while I went in to fill out the necessary paperwork and explain that I didn't want Max subjected to the smells and sounds of the place.
After a few minutes, a young veterinarian and his assistant came out to the car. She opened the passenger side door, turned and sat in the floor of the car in her nice white uniform. She took Max's head in her hands, stroking him and speaking softly. He sighed. He always did like women.
I got into the driver's seat and patted his back while the vet inserted a needle into Max's foreleg. There was no resistance: Max had a stomach full of chicken, was warm and comfortable lying on his favorite blanket with his head cradled by a gentle young female.
The vet attached a tube and a syringe to the needle, then looked up and asked me if I was ready. I could only nod; my eyes were full of tears and my throat wouldn't work. He slowly depressed the plunger as his assistant continued to stroke Max's head.
Max looked up at her, closed his eyes with a big contented sigh, and just drifted away.
As difficult as it had been to make the decision, euthanasia was the kindest thing I could offer this creature who had been a part of our family for sixteen years. And despite my grumblings about his many odd habits and preferences, I'd come to love this odd little dachshund in spite of myself.
I have some hope that when I am old and tired and used up, there will be someone with the courage and generosity of spirit to help me make the transition to wherever or whatever lies beyond, to make it possible for me to drift away in comfortable surroundings with my head in the lap of a pretty lady who keeps telling me what a handsome fellow I am, despite my short legs and ungainly body.
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