max v. the vet

this is long. think of it as a novella. or don't.

today max and i visited the vet. this is always a challenge because i have to take him on the train, which he hates, and try to smuggle him into the station because dogs aren't allowed on the train except in bags, which max won't allow. so i put him in his soft blue sweater, something he wears primarily because his lack of fur makes him perpetually cold but also because his lack of fur is pretty unsightly and he simply looks less creepy in a sweater. i put his harness on and, just before going into the station, picked him up and carried him like a small, furry baby through the turnstile and down onto the platform. i stand on the 40 degree platform with max curled in my arms, shivering, even in his sweater. for the first time ever on a trip, he does not make his awful whale song.

the sixteen or seventeen year old version of max is white faced, bony, mainly hairless and full of awful bumps. his eyes are milky and he doesn't have anything close to a full set of teeth. i love him because he is my dog and he is, in his own strange way, affectionate. but i am baffled, over and over, by the way strangers are drawn to his ghost-skeleton self. they do not hesitate to reach out and touch him. we sit on the train between an older man with a magazine and a young woman filling out some sort of application. the woman looks up halfway through the trip, gasps and immediately reaches out to pet max's bumpy back. the man takes this as a cue and smiles at max, reaching out a hand. he does not seem to notice the bullet sized hole in max's cheek or the fact that his eyes focus just beyond the face of anyone near him. they think he is adorable. he smells like a vacuum cleaner bag, dusty and stale, but this does not seem to matter. he is a wild animal on the train and they want to touch him.

we get off the train and start the ten or so block walk down 7th avenue. max is slower than he used to be, but honestly, mostly this is because his nose latches onto the stink of every dog who ever thought of peeing on this street. hydrant. lamp post. mail box. but when we get to an intersection, he is something else. his whole body lengthens under his blue sweater and as he approaches the curb from the street he flings himself up in the air, front paws reaching miles ahead, ears flapping out in the wind. for a few seconds each intersection he really, truly flies. and people who see him smile or laugh. their eyes get wide. you do not expect to see a flying dachshund at noon. they say hello to him but he does not stop.

because there are so many blocks i carry him the last few, ghost face glowing by my ear. we are here for an ultrasound. max's liver has been acting up. he refuses to be weighed, feigning confusion. he knows where we are. he recognizes the smell. the place where his teeth left him. the place that pumped his stomach. the place with needles. i get as far as the hallway and he freezes. "look, man," i tell him, "i'm not the one dragging around the liver of a drunk. come on." i think this will lighten the mood but max immediately plants his shovel head flat against the corner of a door. i wince. there is a conversation over max about what will happen and then i leave him there. i promise to come back but max has not yet mastered english so he shoves his head under my arm and pretends he doesn't notice me going.

when i come back the vet suspects cushing's disease. there are things i could tell you about this but what it means to max is that he will get bumpier and more furless. he will drink gallons of water and his accidents will increase (increase noted). his short legs will weaken until he won't be able to fly over curbs. in other words, he will be an old dog. treatment, explains the vet, in a dog as old as max, would cause more pain than it would stop. our goal, she says, is to make him comfortable. there are words that go along with this phrase but she doesn't say them and i am too busy wanting to get my dog back to think about them.

i wait an hour before they bring him to me. i think a million bad thoughts about these people who should know my dog is scared without me, who should bring him back to me so i can talk to the top of his head, which he likes. a man sits next to me with a yellow lab. the dog is thick and older. she sits, but not like a dog. like a bear or a small child. a woman pushing a stroller comes in with some sort of collie mix, black and white. the dog wears a t-shirt, a normal human one. the midsection of his bushy tail is shaved and i can see the thick fur on his shoulder and chest are shaved, too. he is missing a front leg but does not seem to notice this. at one point, the dog leaps toward the bench next to the woman. he scrunches and falls but does not seem worried. the woman does. she is nearly destroyed. she lunges for him but he is already checking out another dog. she sinks back. the man next to me is ready to leave. he stands and the front of the yellow lab stands. her back end stays still. the front of her is baffled. the man reaches down and puts his hands on the dogs hips, lifting her gently. he has been doing this a long time.

the tech finally comes out with max on a blue plastic leash. i lean toward him and he flinches. he cannot tell who i am with his milk-eyes but when i put out my hand he smells me and puts his head under my hand. i carry him to the car service, whispering against his skull about how he looks nice in his sweater, how he is being very good. a guy in a camo jacket yells, "dachshund!" i nod. he reaches out a hand with long claw fingernails and max licks him. "he probably smells my brunch," the guy smiles.

we get home and i fill the kitchen sink with warm water and epsom salts. max smells like a shoe, like bad breath. the stress of the trip has coated the front of my jacket with flakes of him. his tail has a hole in it. i put him in the water and he doesn't cry. he doesn't try to get out. i pour salty water over him and we listen to npr.