Life Line

Sixteen years is a long time. There's a lot of love to be given, to be taken. There's an abundance of events that will occur within that time period. People will develop differently at different time periods of their life and find who they are at that point within sixteen years. It's a lot of photographs, memories made, people met, cities driven to and from, experiences. Sixteen years is a lot, right? Long enough for a lifetime maybe? Not for humans. But, for dogs, sixteen years is more than any of them could ever ask for.

 

The things that people can experience within sixteen years still applies to dogs. Their humans will be giving them a lot of love, and in return they'll be giving back an equal, yet opposite, adoration. The dog will develop and adjust to its own life that will be ever-changing with their humans' lives. It's a lot of photographs taken, moments that won't be forgotten, people met, car rides to and from various locations and vacation trips, experiences. Sixteen years is a lot, long enough for an overly blessed lifetime, for a dog.

 

Today, I lost my best friend--a sixteen year old golden retriever who went by the name Maxwell. The truth is, I think his life line should be remembered in a more meaningful way than a simple Facebook status update saying "RIP". He was honestly my best friend, there with my step by step since I was two years old. If there's one thing that I would argue to the death with my psychology teacher, it's that memories before the age of three aren't "false", that I do remember going to that house late at night, and picking out a golden retriever puppy. I remember that dog would just lay there and do nothing, so even later in the evening we went back and traded it in unknowingly to the owners of his parents for a different dog--one that would become our Maxwell.

 

I hate the fact that one day, I'm going to be able to come home wearing a black shirt and be able to lay on my living room carpet without worrying that I'll get dog hair on it. I hate the fact that when my family leaves and I'm back at home visiting from college, I can't just sit on the floor beside him and tell him all my problems. I hate the fact that I was the only one home when he died, and I wasn't there beside him. I hate the fact that in the future, if my family wants to go on a vacation, we can, because he's no longer too old to leave or too old to sit in the trunk of the car on the way to our destination.

 

It's not just a death of a childhood pet, at this point. Max was family, a brother to me who I adored more than anything. He was a rebel--running away from home and in his younger years fighting friendly with another dog we had. Even when I didn't know how to cook, he'd be in the kitchen salivating and begging for food. When I was little, he was my dance partner, and my thunder buddy. He was "Mighty Max", a fictitious superhero who would protect me from the villains and evildoers of horror movies, even though he would, literally, not even harm a fly. He would hide with me in the closet waiting for my dad to pull into the driveway, to walk into the house, so we could scare him. And later on in life, he had become my confidant--always there to listen, and give me those all-knowing eyes that dogs seem to be capable of giving. He was there with me every step of the way.

 

It's a really hollow spot inside of me, now. I can't even look at the staircase leading upstairs where he had passed away without bawling. He's irreplaceable. No other dog will ever hold a higher adoration inside of me than Max has.

 

So, this blog post is to his life--sixteen beautiful years. It's to him waking me up late in the night for restroom breaks, forcing me to stand on the porch in those Soffe shorts that girls like to wear to bed in the middle of winter. Here's to him running off during his unsupervised restroom breaks and having us search all of the middle of nowhere for him. This goes to all those times he would knock me down on the ground for a bit of my food--chocolate pie, pizza, he didn't care. For all the days he proved that cats and dogs can be friends. For loving me unconditionally, for loving every one he ever met unconditionally. For tolerating five year old me when I would sit with him in too small of cubbyholes I found around the house, for locking him inside of cardboard boxes with me because those were our new homes. To all the times I snuck him into my bedroom during thunderstorms when I shared a bedroom with my older sister Julia, especially after he ate her favorite Barbie Doll. To letting me use him as a pillow and making me feel safe from all the evil that lurks in human minds.

 

But most importantly, this goes out to his existence.

 

The final memorabilia of him.

 

Let this be a testament to his life line, to the 5480 days of his existence full of new and daring experiences.

 

I don't want to be selfish anymore. I know that he couldn't hold on much longer--he was really struggling for survival in the end. But, I don't want to focus on the negative aspects of his life, or of having a pet. Max was a beacon of light in the dark. He was constantly teaching me good lessons. It's weird how someone who can't even speak the same language as you can help you so much in life. I hope that dogs everywhere will get treated with the love and compassion that Maxwell was surrounded by, and that all dogs will teach their humans what my dog has taught me.

 

I'm glad that Max is in a better place now. If there's one thing that the movies have taught me growing up, it's that all dogs go to Heaven, and Max deserves Heaven more than anyone or any dog.

 

Rest in peace, old friend.

I love you.