was 56 years old, in dog years.I want to cry but I can't. Not because it's embarassing or that it seems like a stupid thing to cry over (it's not); I just literally can't. My eyes are physically incapable of shedding tears. I'm not exactly sure why.
Because this definitely is an event sad enough to make me cry. Maximus has been part of our family since the start of the new millenium. He's been there through four heartbreaks, two separate year-long runs of unemployment, countless walks around the neighborhood and trips out of town, and several other random events over the last eight years. Whenever I felt bummed out, all I had to do was look for him and his paunchier brother, Remus, watch him do his funny crawl-dance routine, and everything felt a little lighter than it was supposed to.
I remember one particular time when I was unemployed, and feeling lost and hopeless. I went out to our backyard and saw the two brothers sleeping peacefully under the summer afternoon sun. Remus was leaning his head on a wall, while Maximus was leaning on his brother's round belly. I stared at this image for at least 15 minutes, just completely captivated by how two dogs can make a world so complicated and disenchanting seem so simple and innocent all over again just by taking a nap.
I began writing this story about a 30-something female veterenarian, a pubescent male, and his tiny poodle. Suddenly, the overwhelmingly large amount of free time I had on my hands was finally being put to good use. I was trying to write this screenplay that touched on youth and promise; and age and disillusionment; themes that were seizing my consciousness at the time. I struggled with it for months, eventually found employment, then struggled with it for years until I finally turned it into a short story that, to this day, I still consider "unfinished".
Through the three to four years of writing the story, I witnessed Maximus develop a skin rash that gradually shed his glorious mane. My parents took him to the vet for regular treatment that lasted a few months until the bills grew to astronomical heights. They're both retirees and couldn't afford the treatment any longer. I - perhaps still unstable at the time, or just plain too self-absorbed - didn't even volunteer to shoulder the expenses.
We watched helplessly as Maximus' fur and overall health deteriorated. A week ago, I remember giving the two brothers food. Remus was the only one who came to eat. When my Mom took Maximus' dead body yesterday, Remus followed her. I know dogs and animals in general supposedly have no lasting consciousness and are incapable of profound emotion, but I still can't help but imagine what Remus must be feeling. He's been with him his whole life, then one day his body has to be lifted out because it's not moving anymore.
We've lost a lot of dogs before and I'm not exactly sure why this particular death seems to carry so much weight. And yet I can't cry, despite the guilt, despite the knowledge that I'll miss him, despite the knowledge that Remus could be following him soon. It's actually not that alarming. I've been having a hard time crying over the last few years, despite the failures and the heartbreaks that characterized them.
I'm not sure if we'll have another dog once Remus is gone. My mom seems to be leaning to the contrary. I've spent all of my 30 years in our house and at least 90 percent of them were spent with dogs running around. I've never been afraid of dogs because they remind me of my childhood, the memories of which are getting increasingly thinner and unsubstantial as the years pile up. Ideas like youth and promise start to deteriorate into things you're no longer sure existed while you deal with age and disillusionment.
But you get used to it. Soon enough, you won't feel like crying anymore.
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