Ok, remember yesterday’s post? Where I said, and I quote, “Max seems to have been spared…so far” – remember that? Yeah.
Tonight we were all having dinner with my grandparents. Today is their 62nd wedding anniversary, and my parents, the boys, and I all went to celebrate it with them. With Chinese food, because how better to celebrate…anything, really?
We were gathered around the table, listening to stories of Grandma and Grandpa’s wedding day, when I glanced over at Max. His plate of sesame chicken sat in front of him, untouched. Max LOVES sesame chicken. I motioned at him with my chopsticks, urging him to eat, already. He shook his head and disappeared under the table. In a moment, I felt his hand on my knee. Because my sons seem to be turning out like children who are raised by wolves, this was his method of approaching me to tell me, “Mama, my stomach hurts.”
Oh dear. Oh no oh no oh please please no.
“Really, honey? Where?”
He patted pretty much the whole of his abdomen, indicating a wide-ranging ache.
Oh no oh no…but then I already thought that.
Ok, fine. Max went back to his seat, where he proceeded to not eat dinner. Nor drink sparkling cider. When I saw him ignore his slice of cake, I sighed and mentally steeled myself for a long night.
After dinner I took the boys home and hustled them into bed. Max’s progress was somewhat hampered by the fact that his stomach hurt, and OH, DID I MENTION? THAT HIS STOMACH HURT?
There’s nothing you can do, really, at that point. I mean, he’s gonna throw up or he won’t. It’s a waiting game. So I got him in bed, gave him a basin to throw up in, and went back downstairs with a decidedly heavy heart.
Mere minutes later Tre yelled down the stairs, “MAMA! I heard Max throwing up.”
Ok, fine. I started the sprint up the stairs, to hear Max calling out the very. last. words. I wanted to hear.
“Mama? I’m sorry, I couldn’t aim.”
As in aim for the basin.
Not only did he hit his bed, he also leaned over to get the area between his bed and night table. So the bed, the table, the wall, the carpet, the book under his bed, and oh yes, this was my favorite, inside the heating vent; all of it was…anointed.
The poor little guy was miserable. I cleaned him up and tucked him into my bed. Then I went back to clean up his room. Raphael (who shares Max’s room) watched this with great interest.
“Whatcha doin’, Mama? Did Mats frow up? Ah sink ah will frow up! OH NO, GIMME WATER!”
“Honey, you’re not going to throw up. Go to sleep.”
“Ok.” (short pause) “Can I go play wif Tre?”
“No, Raphi. Go to sleep.” I went back to scrubbing the carpet.
“Ok. Ah sink ah will FROW UP!”
Eventually the room was clean, Raphael went to sleep, Max even went to sleep, and I convinced Tre that the fact that his stomach DID NOT hurt was a pretty good indicator that he was not, in fact, about to throw up. Tre has an absolute HORROR of throwing up. Tonight will be spent tending to Max, who (if he follows in Raphael's footsteps) should throw up roughly seven million times tonight. Then in a few days he'll be well...and I'll start throwing up. Then...I dunno...the cat?
You know, some people in this life get stretch limos. Others get stretch illnesses. GUESS WHICH ONE I GET?
Ok, remember yesterday’s post? Where I said, and I quote, “Max seems to have been spared…so far” – remember that? Yeah.
On Friday, after a morning of general business, I handed the boys zip-lock bags of lunch and herded them into the car. We were OFF to the museum. I had food, I had beverages, and I was READY FOR FUN.
Fun, in this case, being interaction with another grown up human being type. Oh yay, oh yay! We headed down the road, full of discussions about what we would see at the museum, and who got to use the camera first. Traffic was moving smoothly on Parker, which simply never happens. The sun…well, there were clouds, but STILL. A good day.
Not five minutes from the house I glanced at Raphael in the rear-view mirror, just in time to see a veritable geyser of vomit explode from his mouth. He paused, gasped for breath, and threw up again.
Tre and Max were aghast. I was somewhat taken aback myself. Raphael seems to have the same placid puking abilities of Max, because he calmly spit, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and said, “What I do? I sink I frew up.”
“Yeah, baby. You threw up.”
I turned the car around, called my friend to tell her we weren’t coming, and went home. I gingerly pulled Raphael out of his car seat and stripped off his dripping clothes. Good heavens, how can one three year old stomach hold so much? As soon as he was naked, Raphi announced that he felt much better, and could he go watch TV? I hauled him upstairs for a bath first, and then parked him on my bed in front of a video. I set to work cleaning his car seat, his shoes, the entire inside of the car, and generally most of south Aurora. It was brutal. By the time everything was wiped down, sprayed off, or stuck in the washing machine, Raphael was throwing up again.
On my bed. Oh yeah.
Cue round two of Operation Defeat Puke.
Aaaand that pretty much gives you a picture of my weekend. In due time Tre got sick, although not nearly AS sick. Max seems to have been spared…so far. But mostly Raphi suffered. He would claim to be fine, but lie down and fall asleep. Then wake up in the midst of throwing up. I was bummed, because I was really looking forward to spending some TIME WITH A GROWN UP. I was a little skeeved all weekend, because although I kept changing my clothes and washing my hands, I felt like I was traveling in a cloud of eu-de-puke. I worried about my baby, who laid still, glazed eyes barely focusing on the TV.
But mostly? I felt sorry for his dad.
Tre and Max have some knowledge of their dad. They were six and three when he left and they carry an outline, a shadowy image of a man they knew as Daddy. I try to give them little bits of memory, to cushion the edges of that void. “Oh, your dad LOVES football,” I’ll tell them. Or, “You have big feet, like your dad.” My hope is to make the subject less looming, less ominous. I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing or not, because any mention of him still causes them to freeze and look away.
On the other hand, sometimes I worry about my ex finding this blog. Once a Google search for “tre, max, and raphael” brought someone here, and I quietly panicked that it was him. It must be him.
But then, after some reflection, and a good night’s sleep, I realized that would be ok. Even if he is reading this (hi, honey), it’s ok. He is their father, biologically at least, and it’s not a bad thing for him to have a glimpse into his boys’ life. I can spare him that.
But when the kids are sick like this, this is ground I can’t share. Today I can’t give Raphael the sensation of his dad’s big hand, supporting him as he leans over to throw up. I can’t make my voice be his, murmuring words of comfort. I can’t give Raphael the comforting knowledge that when he cries out in a feverish dream, his dad will appear at his bedside and lift him out of the darkness.
And for my ex. I can’t give him the sweetness of his child, sleeping in his arms. I can’t transfer the print of a sweaty forehead under my lips. I can’t give him the bone-deep peace that comes from bringing your sick child the comfort he needs, seeing his anxiety drain away in your hands.
I’m tired today. No one sleeps well during times like this, and I’ve done more loads of laundry than I can count. But although I’m ready – so VERY READY – for everyone to be well, I’m also content to be here. To be the one my sons can count on when they feel so bad.
I would share what knowledge I could of the boys’ life. But some things can’t be shared. Some things have to be earned.
I simply MUST answer two accusations that have been LEVELLED at me in my very own comments section. FIRST of all, AGK, no, yesterday’s post was NOT a re-run. I am a derivative hack, but I write NEW takes on the same subject over and over. It’s a subtle difference from re-runs, mainly in the sense that one has no real EXCUSE for not saying anything new when you write about something you’ve written about before. I mean, cut-n-paste, you expect what you end up with to be the same as what you’ve started with, right? But I - *I* have the talent to exhaustively harp on the same subjects over and over and over and over again with very little difference in delivery. Really, my only topics here are a) weird things my boys do, b) divorce sucks, and c) how much I hate making breakfast. It is BOUND to seem like re-runs if you’ve been reading long enough. And bless your heart, AGK, you have been. I believe the post you’re recalling is this one. So to sum up: Not a re-run, simply an appalling lack of originality. Glad to straighten that one out.
Secondly, NO, Heather, I DO NOT read bodice-rippers. I mean. I’m simply not that kind of girl. Ok, I do own three romance novels. BUT! I have an excuse. One of them was written by a distant family member (I will NOT say who, out of a sincere desire to protect the…shall we call her “innocent?” Yes. Let’s say “innocent.”), and the other two were written by a dear friend of mine. Well, a friend anyhow. I mean, we’re on the same email list…so I’ve read lots of emails from her. Not that they were written to ME, exactly, but to the list…but I’ve read them…so it’s LIKE we’re good friends. Really. Not, you know, that she’d know me if I BIT HER, but I wouldn’t do that. Seeing as how we’re friends.
SO. Here we have three actual romance novels, in my actual house. And two of them are VERY GOOD, and one of them is VERY BAD – but I’m not telling you who wrote the bad one *wink*. ‘Cause I’m too KIND for that.
But there they are. I keep them up high on a shelf with the books about serial killers I used to read with my ex husband. Yeah. We used to love the serial killer stories. I hope he remembers that…and worries just a little.
I keep these books on the very high shelf because I don’t want my boys reading them. I just don’t want these books to have any INFLUENCE on their developing personalities. It would be bad, sure, if any of them grew up to kill and eat people. But can you IMAGINE how awkward the conversation would be if they grew up to take after the heroes in the romance novels? I mean!
“Honey, I have to tell you, it’s simply not NORMAL to get so excited every time a girl walks in the room. Everyone’s noticed how your manhood is always straining at its denim prison, and I’m starting to worry. Perhaps you should see a doctor about your hormones or endocrine balance or something.”
See what I mean? Not a conversation one wants to have with her darling son…or anyone, really. So although I OWN three romance novels, they have NOT come within my sons’ awareness. So there. I asked Tre about the “bodice” thing, and it turns out it was a CODE word for “bottom.”
They seemed pretty disappointed that it turned out to be an actual word.
There is a set of words that my kids aren’t allowed to say. They aren’t actual swear words, because they still don’t seem to have heard most of them. Um…except for “dammit.” Heh, heh. Whoops. But they don’t say that. Ok, Raphael’s been known to mutter it when he’s really irritated. Wonder where he picked that up? Heh. Heh.
The words they’re not allowed to say are things like “stupid.” I know that’s not a bad word. It’s just that Raphael likes to spit that word at anyone who crosses him, and I had to make off limits. Entirely, because the child KNOWS NO SHADES OF GREY.
Unfortunately, this leaves me in a position wherein I get corrected by my children, the word police, whenever I say the word “STUPID.” Like today, when I was opening a letter and sliced my finger on the envelope. I jumped and peered at my finger, muttering, “Stupid paper cut.” From their various activities around the house, three little boys stilled and turned to stare at me. Max spoke up first. “OOOOHHH! You SAID!”
This is the usual response when a “bad” word is spoken. If they dare, they whisper the offending word, “OOOHH! You SAID stupid!” Shocked looks are exchanged by the innocent parties, and they move on.
The other day Tre and Max were playing outside. I was at the computer and I could hear snatches of their conversation. They were trying out all the bad words they knew. One of them would whisper something and the other would answer with the usual. So to me the exchange sounded like this:
Max: *mutter mutter*
Tre: OOOHHH! You SAID sucks!*
And so on. They worked their way through their arsenal while I listened quietly. They let fly with shockers like “butt hole” and “poop” (I don’t know, I really don’t. They’ve never been told not to say poop, but they PERSIST in believing it’s a bad word). After a while Tre whispered something, and Max shouted out, “OOOHH! YOU SAID BODICE!”
You know, I just…don’t know what to say to that.
* I know “sucks” is not a bad word. It’s perfectly serviceable, and I’ve been known to use it myself. Particularly in traffic. But the first time I heard it come out of Tre’s mouth, he was three, and it just seemed…wrong. So I made it off-limits, and I’ve never been able to reverse myself on that one. I still say it, but I choose the hypocritical path on this one.
Ok, so, on Saturday Max had his birthday party. It was at the Butterfly Pavilion, because Max loooooves him some bugs. Since he was just two years old he’s carried little black ants around, naming them and losing them in MY VAN.
Anyhow, we met his passel of friends at the Butterfly Pavilion, and we all went in to enjoy the gleeful bugginess of it all. Max and Tre held the tarantula, Rosie. Not to be outdone, I did too. Did too. Yuh-HUH! I even got a sticker to prove it. We looked at the many ginormous cockroaches, we admired the freaky walking sticks, and we saw more butterflies than you can shake a stick at. Actually, they prefer you don’t shake anything at the butterflies. They’re very fond of them, you understand.
Anyhow, after a few hours of wandering and admiring to Max’s etymologist’s heart’s delight, we headed outside to the picnic tables for cupcakes and gifts. Max tore into the presents while I wrote down names, hopefully matching them with the right gifts. When that was done, I passed out cupcakes. Each had a plastic bug adorning it, and the kids got to choose their favorite bug. As the kids were eating their cupcakes, one of them showed me the ladybug she’d gotten on hers, and a conversation I’ve had about seventeen jillion times recently with Raphael came to mind.
Raphael: Ah don’ like wadybugs.
Me: Really? Why not?
Raphael: Dey go away.
Raphael: Two queen bees stung me on mah back.
Me: That didn’t happen, sweetheart.
Raphael: *doleful glare*
As this conversation replayed itself in my head, I glanced around for Raphael.
He wasn’t there.
Ice cold knife through my heart.
He hadn’t been there since we came outside.
Through gifts, cupcakes…he’d never come outside with us.
I started running around, babbling.
“WHERE’S RAPHAEL?” I kept repeating that, even though I KNEW he was still in the building. Alone in the building. I pounded on the exit we’d just come through. It was locked, and I was frantic for that to be NOT TRUE.
“I have to get in – he’s in there! I saw him, right behind me when we came out. He must have stayed in the gift shop.” I pounded and babbled. Mom and one of the dads jumped up and went in the ENTRANCE, like normal people. Seconds later Mom came out…with Raphael. He’d been at the front desk.
Raphi’s arms were full of toys, and his brow was knit. I rushed over to him and stopped myself at the last second from grabbing him ferociously. He didn’t seem scared, and I didn’t want to frighten him.
“Hi, HONEY,” I said, “I’m so GLAD TO SEE YOU.” I was blinking hard, because I knew if I started crying I wouldn’t stop for a while. He fixed me with a sober look.
“Some girls said day would hewp me find my mother,” he said. I ushered him over to the table, where I gave him a cupcake and obsessively patted his back. I smelled his hair and muttered, “thank you God. Thank you thank you thank you.”
“Ah was lost.”
“I know. How did that feel?” He looked back at me, wordless.
“Was it scary?” He shook his head. “Was it sad?” Another no.
“It was just felt…lost.”
So…remember the CAVITIES, and how REASONABLE I was about that?
This? Sooooo eclipses the cavities.
And on another note ENTIRELY, Sheryl has kindly allowed me to guest blog for her over at PaperNapkin. Come on over and check it out!
Ok, ok, I know. I said “check back tomorrow” and then I disappeared. Sorry. This weekend I finally finished up the boy birthday season. Um…with a bang, of sorts. That’s a story for tomorrow. But suffice to say; between birthday requirements and other family stuff, I haven’t had much time recently. Plus, I couldn’t get into TypePad Thursday night. I don’t know why.
I promised a birthday blog, but I’ve already told you Max’s birth story. And I’ve told you about being pregnant with him.
So what is there to say about my Maxter, my middle man, my monkey, my joy?
Well, he’s different, Max is. Tre is so very much like his dad. I look at him and I can read him. I see the anxiety he tries to push aside, I see the lightening-quick checks for approval. I know when he needs help and when he needs space. For the most part, Tre makes sense to me. Raphael is a little mini-me. He’s crazy, full tilt at the world. I’ve been fairly civilized in the years since I was his age, so I spend much of my days redirecting him, training him well enough to HOPEFULLY avoid prison some day. But inside, I chuckle.
I pay pretty close attention to my boys. I try to give them their room, but I observe closely. And yet I have no idea what Max might do most of the time. If he’s silent in the next room he might be quietly playing with something, or he might be taping individual cat hairs to every wall in the house. Sometimes I despair of teaching him the very basics of human relationships, like, “Look a people. Just LOOK AT THEM when they are talking to you.” And then at other times he makes observations about people’s feelings that astound me. He feels like my most fragile child, and I fight the desire to wrap him up and hide him away from a world that will surely hurt him. Yet at times his strength amazes me. Today he and Dad were harvesting honey from his new beehive, and he got stung on the knee. He cried, but didn’t drop the comb he was holding. After I took him inside and tended to his knee for a moment, he marched back out to the hive, announcing to Dad, “I’m back!” Fearless, yet I had to go inside because I didn’t have the heart to watch him stand in that cloud of bees. I have less confidence with Max than I do with Tre or Raphael. He’s taught me to stand back and watch him for cues, to ask what he needs instead of assuming. Often he needs to be held, to be safe on my lap while he reaches around my neck and contentedly combs his fingers through my hair. I don’t know if I am, or ever could be, mother enough for Max. But he’s taught me to wrap my heart around an enigma, and it feels like a rare gift indeed.
Just a quick note because it's Max's birthday and I don't have any time aaaaaaagggh - check in tomorrow for birthday post, but this is it for today.
Recently I was shopping for a birthday gift for a friend. The boys and I went into Bath and Bodyworks, and a chirpy young chirpster came up to me, asking if she could help. "I'm looking for a GIFT." I said, "And I don't know yet just what I want." She cocked her head in that chirpy young way, and pointed me to the wall o' gifts. After some searching, punctuated by me saying things like, "No, Raphael, DON'T EAT THAT. I know it smells like sugar, just put it down. Max, stop spinning, you are knocking things down. Tre, I don't care if this place IS too girly, stop making puking noises. NO, RAPHI, DON'T EAT THAT EITHER," I found JUST the thing, and took it to the register. Chirpy young chirpster was there, happy to ring up my purchase. Sad that I was NOT taking advantage of their "AWESOME" hand soap sale, but still happy to ring up my purchase. She peered at the package. "Relaxation kit, huh? Does your friend need to relax?"
"Oh yes," I replied. "She had major surgery this summer. And now she's looking for a JOB. AND she's recently divorced!" Another chirpy young chirpster overheard me say "divorced," and she put on her frowny sad face. "Oh," she looked at the boys, "I'm so sorry." I waved her concern airily away. "No, not ME! My friend!" She looked relieved, but then I followed with, "I've been divorced for YEARS." Cue frowny sad face.
Anyhow, I was sorry I made the chirpsters sad, and...um...sorry about telling strangers my friend’s life’s story, but I realized that was kind of a cool moment for me. I was not the suffering divorcee. That happened YEARS AGO. Of course, the suffering springs up at odd times, but for that day it was solidly behind me.
These are ACTUAL things I jotted down in my notebook whilst sitting at a blue plastic table in the McDonald’s Playland, picking fries out of my hair. Don’t ask. Raphi had a…moment. Anyhow, these are what I was wondering about, so if the creepy smiling guy from McDonald’s is reading this, you didn’t have to try to sneak a peek at it on your way to the shoe bins. Really.
Every single time we come to McD’s, Max gets a cheeseburger, catsup only. And every single time, he pries it open, and pulls out the patty. He dangles it between two fingers and asks, “Can I not eat the bun?” And every single time, I say, “Sure. Go ahead.” Every. Single. Time. So what’s with the anxious, hopeful look and questioning? Go ahead, Atkins Boy!
Why don’t the parents of Evil Shrieking Ear Splitting Child drag her out of the play area and slink away in shame? Do they not see the rest of us, clutching our heads, reeling from the pain? I’m pretty sure I’m about to have a seizure, and it’s all because of your darling child and her titanium voice. MAKE IT STOP.
With an entire structure, RIGHT OVER THERE, dedicated to the climbing and sliding antics of children, why does Tre prefer to stand up, each foot on a different swiveling chair, and twist? See the play structure? Go, Son! Play! Get off the chairs before I become one of those mothers who look a little crazed. I don’t want to compete with Evil Shrieking Ear Splitting Child.
Speaking of climbing structures, here’s something that bothers me. There used to be an ASSUMPTION – that you would buy your children their fatty meal, and as soon as they wolfed it down, they would disappear into the bowels of the brightly colored plastic. The running and climbing and getting away from middle school aged bullies kept all that fat from coagulating directly around their hearts. Or at least you could TELL yourself that. NOW McDonald’s has these evil VIDEO games, so that children stuffed to the gills on grease-laden grease balls can stand and stare and drool. I mean, their thumbs are getting quite the workout, but what about their hearts? The coagulating? And NOW? McDonald’s has DVD rentals! Right there! In the actual McDonald’s restaurant! So your children can eat poorly, sit and stare, then go home and sit some more! This brings up an excellent question. Why is McDonald’s trying so hard to kill its customer base?
And that brings me to the final, and most enduring ponderment of the day (I don’t care that it’s not a word. Shut up. It’s my blog). What the heck am I doing, bringing my children here?
Ok, I simply DO NOT have the heart for this whole dog search. We went to two animal shelters today, and it was wrenching. The first one was the small local animal shelter. They had a few rows of cages, with dogs looking out piteously. The boys would stick their hands in through the chain link and the dogs would lick them and work the sad eyes. I swear, they give those dogs lessons.
“Just stand there,” they tell them, “and stare soulfully at them. If they start to turn away, whimper just a little. Try to telepathically transmit the message that THEY ARE YOUR LAST HOPE.” It didn’t matter if the dogs were clearly unsuitable; I wanted to take them all home. So the huge, hairy Chow with the sign on his cage, reading, “VERY AGGRESSIVE”? I looked at him and wondered; well…maybe he just needs love?
We managed to get out of the first place without any psychotic dogs. Then we went to the Dumb Friends League. This place is very nice. It was waaaay worse, in terms of heartstring tugging.
The dogs there were behind glass. They would leap up, plant their paws on the glass, and look bewildered. They just wanted to say hi! Why were we so far away?
To make matters worse, many of the kennels here were paid for by contributions from animal lovers, in their beloved late pet’s name. So there, next to the actual living sad eyes of an imprisoned dog, would be a picture of someone’s pet. “In memory of our darling Chippy. You were the heart of our home.” Soulful eyes in the picture. Soulful dog in the kennel sadly licking the glass.
We looked, we interviewed, we didn’t find the right dog. You know what that means?
A) This is taking on the time requirements of a part time job, and
B) I will not survive it. I just can’t take all the sad little doggie faces.
So after I’m gone, do me a favor? Buy one of those kennels in my name. Make it good and sappy.
Well, we didn’t get the dog. I won’t call him Clark anymore, because I really want to name a dog Clark. He can’t have the name. I mean, you gotta come home with us if you want the name. As it is he’ll have to settle for the name, “that other dog. The one we ALMOST got. You know, before we found Clark.”
And now I really want to find the right dog. This week is Max’s birthday, and I want him to have a dog. A great dog.
We had a great dog once. Aurora. Ror, we called her. She was a Doberman/German Shepherd cross. She looked pretty much like a German Shepherd, but she had the lines of a Doberman in her head and body. So she sort of looked like a Shepherd that had been drawn by someone with a poor sense of proportion.
Ror was actually my ex’s dog. The whole rotten divorce was worth it, just to have had that dog in our lives. The dog and also my ex's mother’s salsa recipe. Oh yeah, and the KIDS! They made it all worth it too. Love you, guys! Smooch!
Anyhow, the dog. He had her when we met, and when we got married Ror and my dog, Winston, went to go live with my parents. My dog didn’t survive his own stupidity (he was a good dog! He was! Shut up!), but Ror won the hearts of Mom and Dad. After a few years she came back to live with us. By that time we had a two year old (Tre) and I was pregnant. I was a little nervous to see how Ror would react to the new baby. She was great with kids, but how would she deal with a newborn?
Well, Ror was Max’s other mother. She LOVED Max. If Max cried and I didn’t respond immediately, she’d trot back and forth between us and whine. She doted on that child. As he grew, Ror stuck close, allowing him to use her as a teething toy, a pillow, or a handhold for walking. By the time Max was a walking, talking boy, they were like siblings. Ror lived with my parents again by then (she went back and forth, depending on who had the best space for her). We visited and she and Max disappeared to the back yard. I peeked out the window at them and saw them running around the yard, side by side. Max rested his hand lightly on her back and they just soared.
Well, eventually Ror got old. She was fourteen, and a large dog. She got more and more stiff and sore, and her eyes clouded with cataracts. We gave her medicine, but she was dimming. One day Max rested his hand on her shoulder and she turned and snapped at him. For the first time ever, she made contact on a child with her teeth. She left a bruise above his eyebrow, an arrow pointing down at his bewildered face.
We loved Ror.
But the time comes.
The vet couldn’t do anything else for her, and she wasn’t safe around the kids anymore. We had her put to sleep.
I sat the kids down to tell them Ror was dead. Tre cried, but Max just nodded vaguely and jumped up to play. A few days later we went over to my parent’s house. Max immediately trotted back to the room where Ror liked to sleep. He was almost three.
“Can Ror come out? Can she come play?” I followed him down the hall and knelt down next to him.
“No, Honey. Ror’s not here. Remember what we talked about? Her body stopped working –“
“HEY!” The reality of what I’d been telling him was dawning on him. He wanted it to stop. “HEY!” he cried, “HEY!” He sank down onto my lap and started to cry, huge sobs. I held him and cried too. Mom sat behind me, patting Max’s leg. Together we all wept for the passing of a really good dog.
What I’d really like is to find such a dog for Max. It’s time. So if you know of a perfect dog, kindly let us know. And if you don’t? Pray.