Life with Maxie Read online

  Life with Maxie

  Diane Rehm

  Photographs by Cindy Bertaut

  Life with Maxie

  Digital Edition v1.0

  Text © 2010 Diane Rehm

  Photographs © 2010 Cindy Bertaut

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except brief portions quoted for purpose of review.

  Gibbs Smith, Publisher

  PO Box 667

  Layton, UT 84041

  Orders: 1.800.835.4993

  www.gibbs-smith.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4236-1628-3

  To those who love and care for dogs everywhere.

  Life with Maxie

  Table of Contents

  Longing for Maxie

  Smart Pup

  A Tiny Barking Machine

  Stubborn Little Dog

  Life Has a Way of Changing

  Companionship and Comfort

  Maxie’s Presence

  Longing for Maxie

  I fell in love with Maxie, my long-haired Chihuahua, long before I met him. In the Dallas International Airport in the fall of 2002, one of Maxie’s distant relatives was lying on his back, stretched out in his owner’s lap, having his tummy rubbed. He was brown and white, with soft, silky long hair, a beautiful apple head, and gorgeous eyes, angelic in his pose of utter contentment. John and I were touring for our book about marriage, Toward Commitment. It was my first encounter with a long-haired Chihuahua, and I would not forget it.

  In my lifetime, there have been several dogs I’ve loved. During my childhood, there were three: Patsy, a brown and white terrier; Skippy, an all-black terrier; and finally, Caramel, a blonde Cocker Spaniel. They were all dear to me, creatures who loved without expectation. They were part of my growing up, true friends in whom I could confide my greatest joys and worst fears. As I walked each of these dogs, before and after school, I would talk with them about what had happened during the day, my teachers, my friends, my parents, and all the worries I as a young girl had.

  When John and I married, and after the children had reached the ages of about six and nine, we brought into our home a purebred long-haired Dachshund, Katinka, a beautiful red-haired female who became a loving family companion for fifteen years. Our daughter, Jennie, was learning to ride horses at the time. So, with the help of her father, she created a system of hurdles over which she trained Tinka to jump. It was always a delight to see Tinka racing around the garden, jumping hurdles at Jennie’s command.

  Tinka was bred once, giving birth to a gorgeous litter of seven puppies. They arrived in our kitchen at two o’clock on a summer morning, with our entire family attending the mother. The puppies went to happy new owners quickly, all of whom reported on their good health and behavior.

  But Tinka was not the only creature in the house. There were also two cats. Cricket was a nearly-dead stray our daughter adopted on one of our beach vacations and lovingly nursed back to health. She provided a number of our friends with adorable kittens. Also, there was Jibne (the Arabic word for “cheese”), who had been a gift from a friend. Both looked askance when Tinka first arrived. As time went on, however, they grudgingly accepted one another. Each knew where his or her feeding bowl was placed in the kitchen, and all waited patiently when it was time for meals.

  Eventually, all of our pets reached old age and passed away, the children went off to school, and John and I were on our own. During those years I was so intensely involved in my work as a radio host for WAMU/NPR that the lack of a pet did not trouble me. From time to time, we talked about eventually owning another dog, but only casually. John’s standard comment was, “When you retire.” And, for the most part, I agreed. However, when I saw that beautiful creature at the Dallas Airport, all of my pet-longings began to bubble up once more.

  I confess Chihuahuas of the short-haired variety had never particularly appealed to me prior to this meeting. But I was bowled over by this dog, so much so that I walked over to speak with the owner and sit beside her as she stroked him. I was immediately enthralled with the dog’s apparent intelligence, sensitivity, and beauty, which came through clearly in his eyes. His coat was unbelievably silky to the touch. I’ve always loved dogs, but for reasons hard to explain, this one really grabbed my heart.

  I spent some time talking with the owner about the breed. She explained there were relatively few in this country, and that, should I be interested, we could be in touch by email and she would help me find a breeder. I put all of this into the back of my mind and walked away, but it was hard to take my eyes, and my memory, away from that dog.

  Nearly a year after the encounter in Dallas, on a warm lazy Sunday morning in August of 2003, while John and I were enjoying a restful at-home vacation, I began to scan the newspaper ads for long-haired Chihuahuas. I had been in touch by email with the woman I’d met at the airport, but there had been no leads on breeders in the area. I cannot fully explain what it was that, finally, on that very morning, made me decide that now was the time to search. Perhaps it was just that I looked out into the garden and felt a yearning to see a little dog playing in the sunshine.

  My husband saw me studying the want ads and asked what I was looking for. When I told him what I was doing, he asked why, since he felt we had an agreement not to get a dog until I retired. “I’m just looking,” I said.

  But there it was, as though miraculously placed there just for me: an ad for an all-black long-haired Chihuahua. Without a word to John, I put down the newspaper, went to the phone and dialed the number in the ad. “Yes,” said the woman at the other end of the line. “I do have a purebred long-haired Chihuahua, twelve weeks old. If you’d like, I can show you the puppy today.”

  So, with my reluctant husband at my side, annoyed with me and muttering to himself about our earlier agreement, off we drove to meet the lady with the dog.

  “I just want to look,” I said.

  “I’ll bet,” said John.

  In silence, we drove an hour to her office in Frederick, Maryland. When we walked in, my eyes immediately fell to the floor where two adorable little twelve-week-old puppies, one male, one female, were happily romping. Two tiny, fuzzy black creatures, playing with each other, one a little more assertive than the other. I sat down on the floor to gaze at them, watching them nuzzle and tumble over each other. Touching each of them, I remarked to the owner that their fur seemed so minimal, like short baby hair, and extremely unlike the beautiful long-haired dog I’d seen in Dallas. She assured me that the fuzz would turn into a handsome and silky coat before long.

  As I gazed at these tiny creatures, petting each one, holding each one, I cried out, “I want them both!”

  “What? You’re out of your mind!” John hollered. “We can’t possibly take two puppies. And besides, you promised you’d wait.”

  And he was absolutely right. I had agreed to wait. But here were these babies, a brother and a sister, and I could not imagine separating them. I just kept thinking they’d be so happy together, and we’d be so happy watching them. At that moment, all of my repressed longings burst out loud and clear. Why? Perhaps it was the realization that our children were gone from our home forever, leading their own productive lives. Perhaps there was a yearning on my part to replace our children. Our pets had all lived long and lovely lives, but they, too, were gone. Perhaps I just needed a creature to need me. Out loud, I said, “I know I agreed to wait, but I’m longing for a puppy now.”

  Here we were, two seemingly mature adults who’d written a successful book on marriage, who’d toured the country lecturing and offering guidance to others as to how they could deal with their differences, and here
we were behaving like two stubborn children. The owner looked aghast. She said with some discomfort, “I can see you two have some things to talk about.”

  John and I excused ourselves and went out on the porch. John said angrily, “You promised me you’d wait until after you’d retired!”

  “I know I said that awhile back, but I really have no idea when I’ll retire. It could be years from now. And besides,” I said, “you’ve retired. You would be there with a dog. I have no idea when I’ll retire, and I’m truly longing for a dog now. And they’re both so beautiful!”

  But John would not budge. Looking at the anger reflected in his face and body language, I knew it would be a losing battle if I continued to pursue with him the idea of bringing two puppies into our lives.

  Of course, I was hurt, angry, and embarrassed that this had erupted into such a loud and personal disagreement in front of the puppies’ owner. But I was also terribly disappointed. I had, perhaps foolishly, hoped that seeing the pups would change John’s attitude, and that he would be as enthusiastic as I about having a new pet once he saw the puppy. But clearly, at that moment, it was not to be.

  So after the unproductive exchange outdoors, we walked back into the owner’s office in silence. I was in tears, and said to her, my voice shaking, “I’m sorry to have brought you all the way here, but I’m afraid my husband is just not ready for a dog.” Then, to my utter and absolute amazement, John quickly spoke up. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’ll take one of the pups. And I think we should take the little boy.” Oh, sweet sigh of relief! I looked at him with my mouth wide open, then laughed and threw my arms around him, saying, “Thank you, sweetheart.” At that moment, and after our heated exchange on the porch, I think he had finally realized just how much I wanted a little dog and decided it was too important an issue to deny me. I also believe he saw how absolutely charming the pup was. The male was the more playful and outgoing. He came right up to us and licked our fingers, wagging his tail. However much John didn’t want to admit it, he too thought the puppy was adorable. So, in the end, a compromise. One little puppy, a boy, came home with us.

  Why had the moment finally arrived when I knew I not only wanted, but needed, a puppy? I believe that for that entire year I’d been secretly longing for the dog in the Dallas airport, without allowing myself to voice that desire. Yet somehow I knew the time was right: there were no other creatures to care for or to offer me the kind of uncompromising love I’d felt from other dogs or cats we’d had in the past. I needed a creature who accepted me totally, to whom I could speak in funny baby-like words, who would, in my imagination, laugh with me at my own silliness, who would play on the floor with me, lick my face, and tickle my chin. And John, now retired, would also benefit from having a creature to care for in the home while I went about my professional life. The house was too quiet, too calm, without the kind of small noises animals make or the playfulness they inject. Of course, there was also my dream: to have a little dog to take to the office with me on occasion, to sit with me at my desk, to go into the studio with me, to be a quiet and comforting companion.

  Smart Pup

  Driving home, delighted with our ability to ultimately reach a quiet peace, and with a tiny black pup in my lap, John suggested that since he was a dog of Mexican origin, with the rounded apple head and large eyes, he should be given a name appropriate to the breed. “Maximilian,” he said. “Nineteenth-century emperor of Mexico.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “And we’ll call him Maxie!”

  So Maxie moved into our home and into a large fenced garden filled with beautifully tended flowers. We immediately took him outside, placed him in the grass (which was tall enough to nearly cover him), and walked around the garden. Right away, he peed. Smart pup, I thought. He’ll get the order of things quickly.

  And my instinct was right. He was house-trained easily. We were both at home for the next few weeks and could put him outdoors every half hour. I loved sitting in the grass playing with him. Maxie was an incredibly responsive puppy, watching every move we made. When I worked in the garden, he would play for a time and then sit next to me. If neither of us was outside, he would sit on the stoop leading from the kitchen, basking in the sunshine. Indoors, we had purchased a crate in which he happily dwelled, except for times out to eat and to play. Within a very short time, he could be trusted throughout the kitchen, and then the house and even on our bed overnight. We realized very soon that he could sleep through the night without an accident. As soon as one of us rose early in the morning, we’d put him out in the backyard to relieve himself. His internal discipline was remarkable.

  However, there was one small problem we noted shortly after Maxie came to live with us. Out in the garden and in the house, he could run like the wind when excited. But he walked with a slight limp in his right leg. Since we had no intention of turning Maxie into a show dog, the limp didn’t bother us at all, but I wondered whether it was uncomfortable for him. On our very first visit to the vet, we were told that Maxie had what she called a “short shoulder,” which created the limp but clearly did not impede his running.

  I’ve often wondered whether he was born with the problem and we just hadn’t noticed it early on, or whether an event that occurred shortly after we brought Maxie home might have contributed to it, and to even other, more serious, behavioral difficulties that followed.

  A Tiny Barking Machine

  The incident occurred when dear friends came to visit and brought with them two young children, each of whom was longing to hold the sweet-smelling new puppy. Alas, Maxie was such a wiggly little creature that he fell from one child’s arms onto a wooden floor, hitting his head and yelping, running off and away from all of us to hide under a chair. Might that fall have injured his leg, and possibly so frightened Maxie that it affected his entire personality? Who can know.

  But I do wonder, because shortly thereafter, Maxie began growling at the sight of strangers, barking fiercely at anyone who came to the door, whether the mailman or the little girl across the street. It was as though he became another dog, no longer a funny, friendly pup, happy to be held and played with. With just two exceptions, John and I were the only people who could hold him and with whom he was at ease. He even began to snap at anyone who tried to pet him! But because he was so adorable looking, everyone wanted to pet him.

  On his second visit, the veterinarian had to muzzle him just for a routine exam. Even worse, if I were in bed with Maxie by my side and John approached, Maxie would begin growling, even fiercely at times. Eventually he would settle down, but we both became increasingly concerned that this was a pup that would have to be watched every minute when other people were around.

  Of the two others in Maxie’s immediate circle of acceptable friends, one was our son, David. Shortly after Maxie came to live with us, John and I had to go out of town. David and his wife, Nancy, who live in Gettysburg, agreed to come down to Washington to stay the night and care for Maxie. In fact, that night David slept on the floor in the kitchen with Maxie so he wouldn’t feel lonely. From that moment on, the two became real pals. Now when David visits or we go to Gettysburg, Maxie jumps with joy right into David’s lap, wagging his tail, licking his face, clearly delighted to see his good friend.

  The other person Maxie adored was our neighbor across the street, Thea Clarke. Thea is a young woman slightly older than our son, who, in earlier years, had been a babysitter for both of our children. Maxie seemed to understand that Thea was “one of the family,” someone I saw frequently outdoors and in our home. At first, Maxie would sit in my lap if Thea and I were in the living room together. But before long he would get down and move toward Thea’s chair. At first tentatively, and later enthusiastically, Maxie went happily into her arms.

  Both David and Thea talked to Maxie using soft, gentle voices. Both waited for Maxie to approach them. And both got down on the floor with him. I do wonder how such tiny dogs feel about the huge humans towering above them. They must, at some level, b
e terrified. But at some point, they learn to trust that they will not be harmed.

  Maxie’s life at our home was little short of idyllic. He had the house to himself and a beautiful garden in which to run and play or to sit beside me as I worked in the flowerbeds. Occasionally he would run off to chase a teasing squirrel or bark at a nearby bird.

  And there was a huge black Labrador who lived on the other side of the fence, with whom Maxie would run up and down, barking and racing back and forth. Good exercise for both!

  Late that first summer, when Maxie was just three months old, we were invited down to Bethany Beach to the home of friends we’d known for many years. It was agreed we would bring Maxie with us. Our host had her own dog, a lovely and gentle yellow Lab named Daisy. The host felt, as did I, that the two would get along together quite easily. Alas, that didn’t happen. Poor Daisy was totally intimidated by Maxie, who barked and nipped at her feet. Since Maxie was too small to climb stairs, Daisy decided the better part of wisdom was to seek refuge on the upstairs landing, out of reach of this tiny barking, nipping machine.

  To our horror, not only did Maxie nip at Daisy, he actually bit our host’s finger, drawing blood. It was extremely embarrassing and created a greater concern for us that Maxie simply could or would not behave well outside his own domain. Though our hosts were kind, it was clear they were unhappy with Maxie’s behavior.

  There was a wonderfully amusing moment, however. The first time we took Maxie out on the beach for a walk we realized just how tiny he was. He lifted his leg to pee, and the wind blew him over! We’ve always laughed about that. He was happy to run and play in the sand, as long as he could stand up and not get caught by an ocean wave!