She drove me absolutely crazy. She made me laugh equally as much. She stirred up my life in a way I didn't know could happen, and I think, in the end, I'll be a better person for it. She was adorable, and oh so messy. She whined a lot, begged for treats a lot, barked a lot. And on October 24th, at only one year and eleven days old, I stroked her head as she went to sleep for the very last time.

I miss that Macie.

No one is more surprised than me, but it's the truth. Over two months have passed, and I still look for her on the vent when I walk down the stairs. When I see a deer in our backyard, I often brace myself for the barking. I think of her at the strangest times, and when I do, I wish desperately that she was still here, driving me absolutely crazy. She was the oddest purchase I've ever made - me, a non-dog person who didn't ever want a pet inside our home. And yet when she was gone, I quickly realized how much she was ingrained in our daily routine . . . how much she'd become a member of our family . . . how much she was mine.

It's a long story and I've tried to write about it several times, but the words just wouldn't come out right. Basically, Macie got sick again, and this time, she was worse. She couldn't keep food or water down on a regular basis. We had to give her a bath twice a day because of the constant stream of yuck coming out of her. Her energy level was low and she had those awful, "Please help me, I'm hurting" eyes. It lasted for over a week and, once again, there were numerous visits to the vet, lots of tests yielding no results, and the same lack of a real diagnosis. All the vet could tell us was that Macie's liver wasn't functioning properly, and they didn't know why.

About a week in, my ever looming selfishness reared its ugly head and I was no longer simply thinking, this is no way for a dog to live. I was also thinking, this is no way for a non-dog person who now owns a dog to live. I didn't want to spend hundreds (okay thousands) of dollars on bloodwork and ultrasounds and antibiotics for a dog. I didn't want to hide pills inside balls of bread and try to sneak them to a dog who didn't want to eat. I didn't want to wash a dog's bottom every few hours. I mean, have you ever given a dog a bath? When it's over, YOU need a bath. And so does the rest of your bathroom. I just wanted Macie to be okay - to be her usual barking, begging, whining, driving me absolutely crazy little self.

And then, something changed. Macie woke up one morning about ten days into this second bout with illness and her tail was down. She wasn't walking right. Her stomach was hard. Worst of all, she wouldn't even think of licking a spoonful of peanut butter or rolling over for a belly rub. I knew we had reached some sort of turning point.

By that afternoon, she was shaking uncontrollably and her tongue was white. I rushed her to the vet, shocked when they put her on a scale and said she weighed almost nineteen pounds. Nineteen pounds? She was thirteen pounds three days ago and she's barely eaten a thing since . . . how can that be? The vet examined Macie. Said they would keep her overnight to hydrate her and try a new medicine. I left in a flurry, thankful she was in good hands and anxious to get to Charlie's championship baseball game. Before I turned into the ball park fifteen minutes later, the vet called me back. Macie's abdomen was filled with fluid - that's why she weighed so much. An ultrasound showed her liver and kidneys were like black holes - barely existent, let alone functioning.

I'm not sure how I made it back to the vet's office, the tears were so thick and the sobs so consuming. But I'll be forever glad I did.  I missed my son on the pitching mound in the championship game.  I missed him getting the hit that scored the game-winning run in extra innings.  I missed him celebrating with his teammates and their families.  But I'll be forever glad I did. 

They brought Macie in to me.  Wrapped her in a towel.   Showed me the syringe of clear, pink liquid. Explained what would happen.

At that moment, I felt a sense of peace . . . of gratitude even . . . because there was complete clarity about the decision. The vet assured me that even if Macie was his dog and he had a million dollars to spend on her care, the same decision would be made. There was nothing to be done. Macie was likely born with liver and kidney problems, and she would never get better.

She looked up at me with those eyes. Those precious, big, brown eyes. And they were full of helplessness. She needed me to do something, and there was only one thing I could do.  End the suffering.

The first shot calmed her instantly, and she finally stopped shaking. The next shot took only seconds, and our Macie was gone.

With her death came great regret, as I image is the case when any life ends.  I should have given her more belly rubs.  I should have played tug with her more often.  I should have let her sit next to me on the couch. 

With her death also came important life lessons.  Lessons I certainly didn't expect to learn only eight months after Macie entered our lives, but ones I wish I had learned years earlier.  Life is short.  Love big while you can.  Overlook the mess and embrace the heart within it.  Don't worry about the little things - you can always replace a stair banister that's been chewed to bits, but you can never replace the sweet little puppy with the big, brown eyes. 

I miss that Macie. 

I suspect I always will. 

   

The last time I wrote about our puppy, I should have promised it would be the final time.  I didn’t, and here we go again.  Of course, the last time I wrote about our puppy, she had just ventured back from the brink of death.  Dramatic, I know, but very much true. 
 
Today, though alive and well, Macie’s days are no less numbered, mainly because her newest trick involves barking her head off at the deer behind our house EVERY SINGLE TIME SHE SEES ONE.  Friends, the autobahn for deer is two hundred feet out my back door. I don’t know where they’re heading, but apparently, every deer in the metro Atlanta area has to walk through my backyard to get there.  What this means for me is every time I sit down at the kitchen table to enjoy a few minutes of quiet and a warm cup of decaf with enough vanilla creamer to make it taste like desssert, my lovely reprieve from the busyness of life is broken by the sound of an ear-piercing bark from a twenty pound dog who wants to tackle a hundred pound deer. Needless to say, several of my robes now have coffee stains down the front of them, and I almost fell off a chair while changing a lightbulb last week.

Despite Macie’s obvious desire to be featured on Craig’s List, she remains a permanent fixture in my nightmares home.  And between the frequent episodes of incessant barking, she continues to teach me.

Macie is fully aware she is not allowed to chew on the dining room rug.  If a human is within her line of sight, she will stroll into the dining room, lie down calmly on the rug, and pretend to be preparing herself for a nap.  When Macie thinks no one is looking, however, she’ll race right into that dining room and take a big ole' bite.  Of course, our brilliant little puppy hasn’t yet realized there is more than one entrance to the dining room and I can sneak up behind her and see exactly what’s she’s up to at any time and just what kind of fool does she think I am anyway?  I am ALWAYS looking. 

The fascinating thing about dogs is they are more like humans than we’d like to admit.  Macie knows the rules.  She simply breaks them anyway.  

Hmmm.  Sound like anyone you know?  I’d like to say it sounds like my nine-year-old son and my seven-year-old daughter, and frankly, it often does.  You know who else it sounds like? 

Me.

I know the difference between right and wrong.  I choose wrong anyway.  I know the difference between judging and empathizing.  I judge anyway.  I know the difference between serving others and serving myself.  I serve myself anyway.  I know the difference between coveting and loving.  I covet anyway.  I know the difference between God’s way and my way.  And still, over and over and over again . . . I do it my way.  I should be taking a nap, and instead, I’m gnawing on the damn rug.

Like Macie, I know the rules.  I know what I’m supposed to do – with my time, with my talents, with my treasures.  I simply choose to do what I want to do instead, and many times, there is a big difference. 

I’d like to blame it on Satan.  He was the pesky apple pusher, wasn’t he?   I’d like to blame it on Adam and Eve.  They ate the forbidden apple, right?  We are fallen because they fell.  But really, I shouldn’t blame anyone.  Instead, I should express thanks.  I should drop to my knees, grateful and appreciative and forever indebted, because no matter how many times I break the rules . . . no matter how many times I make the wrong choice . . . no matter how many times I do what I want to do instead of what I know I should do, He forgives me.  

Personally, I’m not the best at forgiveness.  I remember.  I stew.  I dwell.  Most of all, I harbor unrealistic expectations.  I believe I will only have to forgive once, because how in the world could anyone who has sinned against me have the nerve to do it again. 

Oh. 

But wait. 

We sin.  That’s what we do. 

We know the rules.  We break them anyway.  Day after day, month after month, year after year, generation after generation.  And because He forgave, so must we.  Not just once, but every time.  Everyone. 

Even if it means giving a belly rub to the puppy who barks like a maniac at the deer . . . and then eats your dining room rug.

Matthew 6:14  For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.

This dog.  I’m tellin’ ya folks, she’s full of wisdom.  I know you’re tired of reading about my puppy.  Frankly, I’m tired of writing about her.  But she just . . . . knows things.

I need to begin by telling you we almost lost Macie this month.  No, we weren’t out buying poster board and preparing to staple signs to telephone poles.  When I say ‘lost,’ I mean the dog almost died.  It’s a very long story, but it started with a lazier than usual pup that turned into a vomiting pup that turned into a pup who couldn’t even stand up.  The vet still doesn’t know what happened, but Macie’s liver was failing, and for a full week, we weren’t sure she was going to make it.  There was even talk of a blood transfusion at one point.  This was serious.

Now, before you start wondering just exactly what I’ve been praying about in regards to our puppy for the last eight months, I must reassure you that I did NOT want Macie to die.  Yes, there have been quite a few moments since we brought her home when I would have been perfectly happy to spend an afternoon stapling lost dog signs to telephone poles.  Still, I had no desire for the nemesis of my sanity to stop breathing at ten months of age.  It was a very scary week.  Surprisingly, however, although Macie could barely lift her head and orange liquids flowed from body parts that should never release liquids, I’ll be darned if that sick little critter didn’t teach me a lesson anyway.

If you didn’t know this already, there’s a reason people use the phrase “puppy dog eyes” and it ignites instant understanding.  Dogs don’t appear sick when they’re deathly ill.  They aren’t strangely thin or extremely pale.  But their eyes . . . oh my.  They become windows to the dog’s soul, and I realize that sounds absolutely insane, but people, it’s the honest to goodness truth.  Just thinking about the way Macie looked at me as the orange liquids flowed makes me wince.  Her eyes told me everything I needed to know about the way our puppy felt.  She was desperate. 

I wonder how many people would be saved if human eyes could convey such an acute need for someone, anyone, to reach out and help. 

I wonder how many times I’ve failed to notice that someone right beside me was in pain.  How often have I spent too little time with someone who was lonely?  How many times did I participate only half-heartedly in a conversation with someone who was hurting so badly, she didn’t know where to go, or who to turn to, or how to ask?

Human eyes can look sad.  They can look sick.  But I’ve never seen a human’s eyes look like Macie’s did the week she almost died. 

I suppose God created puppy dog eyes because dogs don’t have the capacity to communicate with speech.  They can’t tell us their stomach hurts worse than ever before or someone they love has broken their heart into a million pieces or their most important dream didn’t come true. (Wouldn’t you like to know what that dream would be, by the way?  It’s rainin’ bones, hallelujah, it’s rainin’ bones!)  Sorry. We’ll dive into dog dreams another day – it’s simply too good to dismiss.  My point, however, is that canines can’t tell us when they need help.  They have to convey messages in another way. 

Humans, on the other hand, have the ability to call out for help when we are struggling.  And sometimes, we struggle.  The world can be a cruel place.  People don’t treat us in the ways we want them to.  Things don’t happen on our timeline.  Life feels difficult and we find ourselves scared and lonely and hurt.  When the tough times come, and they always will, we can ask for help.  Of course, there’s that tiny little problem we humans have with the whole asking others for help idea, and that is the fact that we HATE doing it.  Yet, the fact remains.  Sometimes . . . we need to be rescued.

Help can come in many forms.  Maybe a smile from a stranger would lift our spirit.  Perhaps a night out with our husband would calm our soul.  Maybe lunch with a friend who will share a cupcake (sans calorie counting) would bring us joy.  For me, all these things sustain me through the inevitable tough times, along with many others – long walks, good music, Bailey’s on the rocks after the kids have gone to bed on a Saturday night.:) 

Still, there is only one who can truly rescue me.  And all I have to do to find him, is look up.     

Psalm 34:17   The Lord hears his people when they call to him for help.  He rescues them from all their troubles.  

Our little Macie couldn’t ask for help when her liver was shutting down, but her eyes let me know she was in great need.  I pray I will be able to cry out for help when I am in such need - to my family, to my friends, to God.  And I pray I will be able to recognize when someone around me is crying out for help, whether they are using words or not.