Spoiled Rotten

When Birdy and I first started dating and he learned I was an only child, he automatically assumed I was "spoiled rotten". We'll leave the brat part out.

I took offense to this comment. Having held down three jobs for the majority of my adult life (prior to birthing children), I didn't feel that I was spoiled. So, I'm an only child, what's that got to do with anything?

I wasn't the kid who got something everytime we went to the store. More the opposite, actually.

Sure, I got a horse in high school. I was also the one taking care of her in all types of inclement weather. Hauling warm water in the winter, mucking stalls, fly wipe-downs in the summer, mowing the barn lot...there's alot of work involved with horses.

I had a house of my own, but I kept it up. I kept it clean and I paid for most of the home-improvements that went along with it. With my three jobs...

Yes, I had a sports car, but I bought it and I paid for it. With my three jobs...

I like to have things my way, but show me one woman who doesn't want things her way??? Or a man, for that matter. I don't always win, but I do try...

That said, when Birdy & I first started dating, he was living in his Granny's old house. His Granny was living in Louisiana with his parents. Birdy & some buddies poured a concrete pad in the backyard for a kennel.

For Max. Birdy's black lab. Birdy's hunting dog.

Now, when we started dating, I had a dog, also. She was a Rottweiler and she had no idea she was a Rottweiler. We didn't tell her she was a Rottweiller, so Dago (she was named after a custom-cycle shop in San Diego), neglected to eat my children.

Dago had a kennel and a dog house in my backyard. She played daily with my boys. A good-natured girl.

Birdy wasn't too keen on my Rottweiler. He was pretty sure she was going to eat one of my kids. Or a neighbor kid. Or maybe even him. But, she didn't.

After we'd started dating, Birdy would stay at my house and Max would stay at Granny's. I found this to be a total waste. Max needed to come live with us.

"No. He's my hunting dog and I'm not going to have him chewed-up by your Rottweiler."

Are you kidding me? She didn't even chew shoes as a puppy.

Every morning when I got off work from my third-shift job, I stopped by Granny's and took care of Max. Every morning.

When the weather got hot, I found a tarp to put over his kennel so he didn't have to bake. Nevermind that my lush, green backyard was shaded by an enormous elm tree. Max couldn't come live with us. Dago would chew him up...

One morning, I decided I'd had enough. If I wasn't going to take care of Max on my way home from work, he wouldn't get taken care of until after Birdy got off work and that wasn't fair to a black dog in the hot summer.

So, I brought him home with me. I didn't ask anyone, I just did it. By this time, Max and I had our own thing going on...

Max and Dago became fast-friends. They fell in love. She hovered over him like her mother hovered over his dad.

Now, Max, having had many different homes over the years, probably wasn't too sure about his new "digs". I'm positive his dad wasn't too sure of his new "digs", either. But I was. At some point, that summer, I'd made up my mind..."I'm keeping it."

Meaning Birdy.

Which included the dog.

The most ill-mannered hound on the planet, until I met Chelsea, my golden retriever.

Every morning, when the alarm went off, I'd flip on the basement light to get the dog food ready. Downstairs, on the deep freeze, I'd pour food for two dogs, who had their noses pressed against the basement window, salivating in anticipation of a delicious breakfast, hand-prepared by their mother. And Purina...

Dago would stare.

Max, on the other hand, arfed.

At 0500 in the morning.

Arf! Arf! Arf ARF!

The neighbors loved us. I know it. They so loved us, they shared the love with Bartonville's finest in the form of reporting me for barking dogs. They loved loved loved me, but they loved loved loved my barking dogs more.

I felt they needed to move to a retirement community in Siberia. No outside dogs there....

I'd hustle up the steps with breakfast. Dago ate like a lady, Max didn't even taste his food. One quick inhale. Never a taste. Then, he'd hop up on the back steps and nudge me with his nose, wanting lovin'.

It was at this point, months into a relationship with Max's dad, I could identify with Max.

His dad, although a very good man, could be pretty difficult at times.

"I can do my own laundry..." well, then, go ahead...

"I can cook my own food..." please, be my guest...

"I need _____." "I need you to ______." "Hey, I need______."

There were nights I'd call Max's dad and ask, "Are you coming home???"

"Yes, after I finish this beer..." which meant he was definately ordering at least three more.

How many times, on the way home from hunting, had a black dog been stuffed inside a sky kennel waiting on that golden moment "after I finish this beer"?

At the cabin, my husband would turn Max loose and Max would just take off.

Away he would go, tail wagging happily, sniffing and pissing, totally oblivious to the bellows of his father, "Max! COME!"

You betcha, Daddy, right after I finish this beer....

Then the day came when Dago was diagnosed with cancer and we had to put her down. I was devastated. The kids were devastated, but my husband? Ah, my husband, so sure that my Rottweiler was going to devour every high-dollar hunting dog at the cabin, He Was Devastated.

Capital D.

Then, it was just me & Max in the mornings over the breakfast inhale. We'd sit on the steps, me being nudged, and chat. What a sweet dog, even if he is a little hard-headed.

Well, really hard-headed.

Pretty sure he gets that from his Daddy...

Every now and again, when Daddy wasn't looking, Mama would sneak in a little treat for Max.

Green beans. Max LOVES green beans...

Left over hot dogs.

Slice of cheese.

"What are you making for breakfast?" my husband would ask, "Eggs."

"That's an awful lot of eggs."

"Yep."

"How much of it do I get?"...well, not quite as much as that dog of yours...

Max was starting to learn that, although his Daddy was The Man, Buttered Bread comes directly from Mama...

And Max began to age. The gray in his beard travelled down to his chest. He started to lose his hearing...tiptoeing over and old black dog asleep on the back steps wasn't quite as difficult anymore. But we still had our moments on the back steps, snugglin' and a-lovin'...and Mama always made sure there was a treat somewhere for Max...

Daddy would take him hunting, Mommy made sure there was cheese and aspirin waiting for an old dog.

Daddy would take him to the Cabin where Max would "waller" in fish guts, Mommy would make sure there was a nice trip to the groomers on the agenda. Or perhaps a cut & curl in the backyard...

Daddy would take him hunting, Mommy would load him up in the Yukon to just go around the block. Or a BigDog TruckRide out to see Grammy & Papa. Just because. Just because he was the nicest boy.

Thoroughly annoying with his very demanding Arf! ARF! Hey, don't forget about me...like that's possible. Like Max would ever allow us to forget about him...

Then Max was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. And it scared me. Being Daddy, I automatically put him in charge of Max's medicine. But, being Daddy, he wasn't consistent with the medication. So, I took the bottle and read the directions. And I took over dispensing pharmaceuticals.

It has become my second-calling...

In the beginning, being the Treat Train, I could get Max to take an aspirin or his lasix plain...but as time wore on, he didn't like the taste of them pills...so I invested heavily in dog treats. One for each pill. There's alot of pills...

And that was splendid.

Then the esophagus began to calcify. That made eating for Max even more difficult...so I invested in canned dog food.

"Canned dog food is horrible for dogs!" Max's Daddy said.

"At this late stage in the game, I really don't think it matters much what he eats, so long as he eats."

And eat he did.

We were busted. We'd been holding out on this dog all his life. Canned dog food and nobody told Max about it.

Medicine three times a day, treats two times a day and canned dog food at dinner. Who cares about hearing? The food around here is awesome!!!

Every time I walk into the garage, Max is sure I'm fishing out a treat with his name on it. And I usually do.

Birthday? Steak for dinner.

New Year's Eve? Steak for dinner.

Imagine my surprise on Monday, when I loaded up Max's treats and laid them in front of him and he nudged them with his nose, looking away.

He didn't eat them.

I panicked. OMG. The calcification is getting worse! Oh, NO!!!!

I left the treats with Max and went to work. When I came home, the treats were still laying there. This isn't good. Max must have his pills. Must. Must. Must.

I had to figure out how to get him to eat his pills, he was already behind on the day for his medicine. I don't know if I can play catch-up and double-dose...

I decided to try a slice of cheese.

And he inhaled it.

Are you kidding me? Here I was worried about the cacification...

Next dose, filled treats.

Max eye-balled me, nudging treats around, pathetic ho-hum look on his face...

Huh uhhhh.

You rotten dog.

Spoiled.

Rotten.

Dog.

And his Dad thinks I'm spoiled rotten.

I hollered in the house at the boys,"Get me a slice of cheese, please!!!"

Game Over.

I cannot afford to stuff steak with medication. I can't. Max isn't covered under Daddy's prescription plan...

Max is a monster of my own creating, and I love love love spoiling him...