9 months with Max

August was the third anniversary of Leo's death, and it would have been his fifteenth birthday. Few border collies - few dogs - make it to fifteen. Leo had 12 years, most of the last 9 pretty good ones. I think most dogs - most people- would take that ratio.
August 25 also marked 9 months with Max. He is fantastic. Just a wonderful, wonderful dog. Just tonight (yes, tonight - at night!) we were at the dog park and he showed this. First, walking in to the park in the dark he moseyed over and said hello to some people sitting in the dark. I couldn't see them, but heard a voice - "Whose dog is this? He's awesome!". Yep. That's all I can say. Later,  he was playing with a little black-and-white pup that was very happy to have a much bigger friend. I asked the owners how old. "One. And yours?" Nine and a half. No one believes me.
They played for a half hour in the late summer unseasonably warm unrelenting heat. Max then played bally for another 5 minutes.
Sure, he can be a handful. Another day of going out once and hour because of a bad belly (2nd time in 2 weeks). Whining to be entertained when he's bored, which is a lot. Grumbling about anyone else but S getting on the bed when he's there. Giving the cat the eye. Yep, all that. But he is something special, and he's great. The only thing I wish I could change is that 9 1/2. I wish I had him at 3, or 4, or 5. But he's going to get some great years. And again, I think most dogs - most people - would take that.

Ready for bally, Sept 4 2018

Taking a break, July 2018 (Brooklyn)

You have my undivided attention. And food. (Brooklyn, May 2018)

You'll know

When Leo was sick, very near the end, the conversation would often go to the question of when. When is it time? Well, everyone said the same thing - "You'll know". And in the end, I did. But the same can be said for when it's time to begin again, to get back on the rollercoaster of good times and bad times and scheduling walks and early mornings and late nights and all of those things. For the past few years, I wasn't ready. Between my post-doc and the trips to Santa Cruz (to shoot lasers - no really!) and finances and time and the memories of Leo and what we'd been through, I wasn't there.
But in the spring, I started to look again, in earnest. I even saw one I wanted to visit, a black-and-white border collie mix (Fluffy!?!) on Long Island. He was nice enough, but as S said, "he's not your dog".
I kept looking. On Saturday mornings or Saturday afternoons, when we'd sit on the couch for a bit, I'd fire up the computer and look. Just looking. Looking at the hopeful faces and the stories and descriptions. I knew what I wanted - an adult border collie. No puppies. A dog that knew how to dog. I just needed to find him. And then I came across this one:

I sighed when I saw him. I showed him to S. She didn't even want to look. I persisted - "That FACE! Look at that face!" She looked. And she looked at me and said "go get him. That's your dog."
It was hard to fill out the application - rather, it was hard to send it in. Hitting "send" felt very... final. Like "you can't take this back, are you sure you want to do this?", even though I could back out at any step along the way. The application process took about 3 weeks from beginning to end - the application, interviews, home visit, and then a 3-hour drive from Brooklyn to Harrisburg, PA to meet him. And when we met him, well, S was right - he was my dog. While I was doing paperwork, he was playing bally with S, but kept coming to check on me. We got his back-story (short version - his owner passed away suddenly, and he was homeless, then taken in by the dog boarder), and were told that we were actually the third application - but that this blog, this chronicle of life with Leo was the difference. It doesn't end there - we went to pick him up in Pennsylvania just after Thanksgiving. That's when and where L and I adopted Leo, in 2003 or 2004. Max came to us with a scar on his left shoulder from going under a fence (get that ball!) - same spot Leo had a wound from the last stages of his cancer.  Coincidence?

This is Max, a 9-year old border collie. This is my dog, Max.

Together in the end

The View

On Sunday, L and I took some of Luna and Leo's ashes up to the peak of Storm King mountain. It was hot, making the hike harder than it should have been - our burden was a small bit of the remains of our beloved dogs.  It was Leo's last hike last summer, and when we reached the top last year, he took a moment at the top and just sat there looking out. I don't want to say he knew, but he seemed like he was ok with things. This was in May, and things went downhill quickly soon thereafter. But for a brief moment, he was King of the World.

King of the world!

Looking out

At the top

And now some small bit of them are together up there.

The Old Car

My old car has finally gotten to That Point. I know, it's not a living thing (and after 130,000 hard miles, many of them in NYC and NYC traffic), but it was the car that Leo knew, loved, and spent a lot of time in.

A difference

I received a letter recently from the University of Georgia School of Veterinary Medicine.  Which alarmed me, at first - I hadn't applied for a fellowship at Georgia, and certainly not at the Vet School (I'm a paleoclimatologist - for real!).
This letter was to notify us that a donation had been made in Leo's name by the folks at VERG to the UG Veterinary School.

I am surprised, grateful, and impressed. It seems that our boy made a real difference on the folks at VERG, enough that they decided to give back in his name. I sincerely hope that some day one of those students going through there finds a new treatment, a better drug, a refined protocol that gives dogs like Leo another month, another 3, another 6. And I hope that my boy and (I hope) what was learned from him, and what will be learned by some vet student studying in a chair or alcove or at a desk or under a window or whatever it is that is forever Leo's at UG helps some other family and dog with their cancer struggle. I hope there's at least one dog that gets another hike, another walk, another camping trip. Because a year wasn't enough. Three and a half years weren't enough. 12 years wasn't enough. But another day... that's what it's about.

Home

Leo came home today. His ashes, anyway.

Sometimes I swear I still hear him, the jingle of his collar. The other day I nudged the Bally that was still sitting under the couch. It's still there. It'll be there 'til I leave here.

I know where Leo's ashes will wind up. A few places, I think. The park. The campsite. An urn on my mantle, and on L's.

And in 2 days I need to summon up all of his courage and strength, and maybe even a little of his ferocity, and defend my thesis. He got me through writing it. Now I have to get through talking about it without him.

He's in there, though. I probably have one of a very few theses that thanks a dog, posthumously. But then again, he wasn't any dog. He was Leo.

Recounting

At the end, it was peaceful. We went in on Wednesday knowing, but hopeful there would be something else. But there wasn't. We exhausted all of the options. His skin was getting worse. His lymph nodes were beginning to occlude his throat. His face and eyes were sunken. 

But he was still being Leo, right up until the car ride. In fact, he tried to jump out of the car when we got there.