Ann Bloom: I never knew a better dog

Published 9:57 am Monday, June 3, 2024

Ten years ago today, I lost one of my best friends. Her name was Maya.

When I met Maya, I didn’t think she liked me at first. When I went to pick her up, while her brothers (she was the only girl in her litter of six) all tumbled and scrambled for attention at my feet, Maya sat off by herself about 40 feet away, watching. The look on her face said it all: “Boys.”

Once I disentangled myself from her siblings and made my way to her, still she didn’t move; she waited until I came to her. She would be like this her entire life — always waiting, always taking everything in, always watching.

When I got to her and knelt down, I allowed her to smell my hand. She sniffed and then sniffed up my arm to my shoulder. Then she sniffed and licked my cheek. It was then that I knew she was mine and I was hers. I picked her up and let her snuggle into my arms, all six pounds of her, black and tan furry English shepherd self.

She was everything I wanted in a dog: beauty, grace, intelligence, humor, and personality.

Unfortunately, Maya brought a friend home with her. She had a urinary tract infection which made it impossible to get her potty-trained. For the first few days, we were up every few hours going outside. And then rocking in the rocking chair, while she chewed up my terry cloth bathrobe. Oh, yeah, teething was happening then, too.

When I had my physical, and had some bloodwork done, my primary care person was concerned my cortisol level was elevated. Cortisol is a stress hormone. I informed her I had a puppy that was keeping me up all night and causing me a loss of sleep. Once Maya’s UTI was diagnosed everyone was able to sleep, and Maya was housebroken in a matter of days.

Although Maya had her positive qualities, she had some less-than-positive traits. For one thing, she was stubborn and didn’t like to be told what to do. We had a real struggle over who was going to be the alpha female. I told her she couldn’t be the alpha because that job was already taken (by me). She grudgingly acknowledged that if anyone had to be the alpha female, if she couldn’t be it, then at least I was an acceptable second choice.

In Maya’s world things were supposed to be fun, although not everyone always agreed. For example, the time when she pulled out some of the tail feathers from the neighbor’s chicken. To her it was really funny; to me and the neighbor … not so much. She was incredibly smart, so when I told her to leave the chickens alone, she did.

The same thing happened when we encountered what we thought was just a brown stick in the road and it turned out to be a baby rattlesnake. And on the same walk? What she thought was a black-and-white kitty turned out to be a skunk. Never a dull moment.

Then the unbelievable happened. One day, Maya came to me and leaned into my knee. I thought she just wanted some loving. I was washing dishes and leaned down to pet her and found a lump on her neck. I immediately called her vet, Dr. Karl Zwanziger, who had been our family’s vet for four years. He didn’t sound concerned but wanted to see her. When we arrived at the office, he checked her over and prescribed some antibiotics and said he wanted to see her in a week.

The lump was gone in a week but came back shortly after that. Zwanziger suggested we go to the Washington State University Veterinary Teaching Hospital. I’m an alum of the school, as is Zwanziger, so I felt confident in the referral. I made an appointment. When we got there, the veterinarian oncologist ran some tests, bloodwork, X-rays, and so forth. The results were not good. She said Maya had lymphoma. She said it was the “good cancer” (Wait? What??!! There’s a good kind?!). She said it was treatable. Whew. Because I told her, with tears running down my cheeks, that I could not lose this dog. Maya was my canine soul mate.

After that there was six weeks of chemo. We made more trips to WSU before Maya’s oncologist told Zwanziger that she could send him the medications and he could give it to Maya at his clinic. Every week, we went in, and Maya had poison pumped into her veins to try to kill something that only a microscope could detect. At the end, though, it only bought us time. Her cancer went into remission for six months. When it came back, a second round of chemo bought us another six months but I could tell it was having an effect on her physically.

At the end of the year, we were losing ground. There was only one more type of chemo we could try. The oncologist was compassionate, but forthright. If this one didn’t work, it was going to be time to say goodbye. We took the chance. It bought us six more months, a total of 18 months.

On a sunny Saturday in June, I decided to take Maya to the lake for a walk. Then we could go to the R & R for soft vanilla ice cream, one of her favorites. Her appetite was not good by then and I thought she would enjoy it. We got to the lake, and we walked. When it was time to go home, she lay down in the grass and couldn’t get up. I picked her up all 60 pounds of her and took her to the car. On the way home, I heard a sharp yelp from the back seat. I turned around and Maya was lying limp on the seat. She had died of a heart attack. I was grateful that Zwanziger did not have to put her down.

She was not even 6 years old. I knew then what it felt like to have a broken heart.

We had her cremated. I buried some of her ashes at our house, on a hill overlooking the valley that she loved, where she used to watch over everything. I planted a small lavender plant on top.

Right now, as I write this, memories are running down my cheeks.

I asked Zwanziger why people went out and got another pet, after one died, knowing the outcome, and knowing what was to come. He said that compared to the short time we grieve for a pet, the years of happiness and joy they give us are worth the short amount of sadness we experience when they die.

The point is — and there is a point — dogs give us unconditional love and all they ask in return is to spend their lives loving us. Had a bad day at the office? So what: Your dog still loves you. Had a good day at the office? Yay, you. Your dog doesn’t love you any more or less.

The singer Chris Stapleton has a song about his dog, “Maggie’s Song.” The last couple of lines speak to the heart of anyone who has ever known the love of a dog or loved a dog. Stapleton sings that when his dog, Maggie, died, he had a revelation: that a dog has a soul.

Then, he sings “I guess I’ve never known a better dog and I guess I never will.”

See you at the Rainbow Bridge, Maya.