Argos and Maximus... Déjà vu

Argos

Adopted 9 October 2016 in Fayetteville AR –

Among the dogs up for adoption at the 2016 Humane Society of the Ozarks “Putt for Paws“ –all eager and some exquisite, like rescued Weimaraners— “Bop” was in a class of his own: Past his prime, if he ever had one, head hanging, eyes milky ... he reminded me of quite a different dog, long since dead 15 years.

Bop was of mixed provenance with Yellow Lab input, and somewhere between seven and 11 years old.  His moniker, short for “Blind Ol’ Pup,” indicated he had lived in darkness a long time. Bop was one of 50-plus dogs living with a hoarder – a well-meaning man, as much a victim of human insensitivity as his wards. HSO, Animal League of Washington County, and Spay Arkansas joined forces to extract the dogs, provide medical and placement assistance, and help the man downsize to a sterilized pack he could manage.

Chances of finding a permanent home for a blind, old dog who recoiled from being touched were slim. I want to believe I would have done the right thing anyway, but something in my past weighed on the decision.  Meet Maximus:

Maximus

Adopted 3 August 1989 in Tulsa OK – died 4 June 2001 in Tulsa OK

Constant darkness; disorientation; helplessness; boredom ... blindness is hell.  As he got old, Maximus gradually lost sight due to cataracts.  

Brighter than most humans, brave, indefatigable, playful, and also willful, squirrel-chasing, and combative, Maximus was a prototypical Red Heeler, the multitalented Australian Cattle Dog.  Although exuberance doesn’t mesh well with incapacitation, he remained highspirited until frequent bumping and tumbling inevitably took their toll.  Some, perhaps much, of it could have been prevented, but I didn’t.  An early cataract operation, a bumper harness, a gate to block the basement stairs, I did none, and I regret it.  (Guardians of blind dogs be aware that there are helpful networks like http://www.blinddogrescue.org and others to educate and inspire you.)

Walks on a leash provided the freedom of movement Maximus longed for. Trotting along with his dog companions, steered by me away from obstacles, Maximus seemed like his old self during the walks. Then, on a day like any other, we got to the corner of the block and he sat down.  No amount of cajoling convinced him to go forward. Back home, Maximus lay down on his bed never to get up again.

Dr. Thomas McCoy came to check him and found no physiological reason for his sudden apathy. Food or petting didn’t interest him. I stayed with him, talking to him, and trying to read his mind. “I’ve had enough” kept coming through.

Later that day I asked Dr. McCoy to come back. Before the fatal injection I offered Maximus a bowl of vanilla icecream – the food that makes dead dogs walk. Still laying down, he lapped it with such gusto that we thought we should call off ... but he rested his head again, and with a big sigh seemed to say, “Go ahead.” And we did while he was contented.

I wouldn’t want to live without vision. Then again, I’m not half the person Maximus was.

Twelve years earlier, on Labor Day 1988, Maximus landed with a yelp and a roll in front of my home, pushed out of a moving pickup that accelerated and got away. The poor dog shook off the fall and sat motionless in the corner where he had landed. A week passed. Rain, heat ... he moved only far enough to relieve himself, and back he went to the spot where his person would come pick him up, he thought.

Neighbors delivered food and water to the SW street corner he occupied, but he wouldn’t follow anyone until one dawn he shyly trailed me and my dogs on our walk. The following morning as he greeted my dogs ready for a second spin I leashed him without resistance and took him to the vet for check up, vaccines, and sterilization. He was ready to be halfheartedly adopted by the young couple across the street. 

They called him “Mad Max” – a prophetic name when the fence is in disrepair and the people are often gone.  Bored and unsupervised, Max took to herding cars instead of cattle and biting tires instead of cow heels. I (not the owners) sprung him from the shelter two times. The couple had bigger worries than their dog.

It all came to a head on the morning of 3 August 1989. My mother was dying of cancer. (Gloria was her name, had been in the habit of giving Mad Max treats and, no fool he, between car chases he’d rest leaning against our fence, pathetically looking inside until she produced the desired tidbit. And off he went after the next cow-car.) From my mother’s bedside I could see Katherine crossing the street with Max following; and I knew. At the gate she tearfully explained that her male companion, a gifted lead-glass artist and schizophrenic, had tried to kill her and was committed. She was leaving for St. Louis to live with her parents, who didn’t want the dog. Would I take him or find him a home?

I opened the gate and let the dog in. “A life for a life.” My mother would have approved, and she died an hour later.

Given his likely background, Maximus must have felt he had reached Utopia. He never ran away again even if someone was careless closing the gate.  His energy and herding instinct found outlet with his canine companions Jefe, Kissu, and Estrella patrolling both 18^th Street and Zunis Avenue within the safety of a strong 5-ft chainlink fence wrapping their corner lot. When children and parents were not coming from or going to the nearby elementary school, Maximus’ principal occupation was the squirrels frequenting the backyard’s pecan tree.

His zeal was such that I was once acused by an Australian woman of having debarked a fellow Aussie! As she was letting me have it, Maximus kept challenging the squirrels. Finally I interjected that nothing was done to his vocal cords, tempting as it was; he was just hoarse after hours of barking.

Maximus enjoyed life more than one would think possible .. until he went blind. To the end, however, he would stop whatever he was doing and perk up his ears when he heard the noise of a certain engine.  Could he still be hoping to be picked up by the miscreant? In matters of loyalty, people cannot hope to understand dogs.

Atonement for my failure to avert his blindness or manage it better came on 9 October 2016, when at a Humane Society of the Ozarks benefit I met Bop (blind old pup) – old, depressed, and with meager chances for adoption. The connection, the opportunity ... 

A friend once sent me an email chastising me for having yelled at Maximus’ and even slapped his butt for throwing up some water he had gulped too fast. Knowing that it was not my typical behavior, he suggested antidepressants. My friend would realize the depth of my regret if he saw my yard -- brown, pitted, and impassable, turned over by Argos in search of earthworms, without so much as a complaint on my part.

. . . .

Which brings us back to the 2016 “Putt for Paws” and the dog resignedly awaiting his fate, never to know what it looked like. Would I have been equally touched by his quandary had I not lived with a blind dog before; or had I taken better care of his special needs?

Christopher Liner, no novice in the matter of troubled dogs and cats thanks to me, knew of the difficulties we would be piling on top of difficulties for travel, additional house maintenance, time invested in animal care, and more. Because of his innate benevolence and acquired tolerance of the Peninsular Spanish psyche which in the 21st century still clings to the notion of “atonement” for past mistakes, Chris said yes to Bop.

Sop to Cerberus, I asked Chris to rename our dog.  Steeped in the history and literature of Ancient Greece, he named him “Argos” after Odysseus’ faithful old dog.  To me: a reminder of a dog who for 12 years perked up his ears still waiting for the man who betrayed him.  A compass to do better this time.