Senior moments
Or how to love a dog with cancer
The black garbage bag in the freezer contained the frozen corpse of a sweet dog named Maggie. I buried her under a tree the next day. I was far too tired and numb to do it after the drudgery of the long journey back from Baghdad. So I slept first. My dreams were about war, but they were also about Maggie in a bag, dead in the freezer. My wife told me the pack had killed her. They ripped her apart in my backyard.
Twenty-seven dogs. That’s the number I came home to. Charity can also be mental illness. That number was a nail in the coffin of my marriage. Thinking in a three-bedroom house filled with 27 rescued dogs is challenging. I love canines, and I would give anything to save one and give it a better life. There are limits. Having two wild packs that cannot be in contact with the other crowded into a three-bedroom ranch was untenable. Neither humans nor canines could flourish in such an environment.
When we divorced, I began …
