Epitaph

Sir Macon D. Cole III, Big Doofus, Sheriff Bighead, Bag of Bones, Carcass…

August 17, 1994-January 22, 2009

He went peacefully and will be remembered as the most gentle giant we ever knew.

not so funny…ode to the mastiff

It’s really not funny that my dog might be put to sleep today.  It’s really not funny that my kids are crying about it.  But, there was plenty of funny in his life, let me tell ya.  If you’ve seen Marley and Me, you might be able to envision what life with Macon was like.  But Macon is not a Labrador Retreiver.  He’s an English Mastiff.  That’s kinda like the dog from Turner & Hooch, but taller.  In his prime he was 125 pounds. That’s thin for his breed.  His father was three hundred pounds.  Macon – one hundred and twenty-five pounds and afraid of thunder.  One hundred and twenty-five pounds and afraid to be left alone.

This is Macon at 2 1/2.  He wore a cast after exploratory surgery – his owners couldn’t deal with him.  We “rescued” him. 

As a young lad, he used to catch frisbees – what a sight!  An even better sight?… Macon standing on two legs at about 5′8″ on the sliding glass door, jumping and barking and sending the postman running.  The postman used to lean over and toss the packages toward the door and run for his life. 

On a leash, Macon was strong.  If he wanted to get away from me, there really wasn’t anything I could do.  He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, but he’d get excited, you know?  When a young boy used to ride his bicycle past our house, Macon just wanted to chase him. Who could resist the motion of a bicycle?  Once or twice, I couldn’t hold on tight enough.  I’m surprised the boy dared to cross in front of our house more than once.

One time, Macon bloodied every toenail on his front two paws to escape the crate I left him in.  And, he used to tear apart any door behind which he was enclosed.  In a thunderstorm, Macon would shimmy himself under the bed and when he tried to get back out, the bed would just thump up and down until one of us woke up and lifted the bed high enough for his hips to come out.  One night, he just crawled right up on top of me while I was sleeping.  “MIKE, he’s ON ME!”  I screamed.  Mike thought I was being raped.

I was told Mastiffs lived to an average age of 8.  We got him at 2 1/2.  So I figured I could put up with this behavior that long.  The trash torn up all over the kitchen.  The use of my home as a toilet.  The destruction of doors.  The wiping of his drooled-up face on my furniture.  This was Macon when he was 8.

But before I knew it, Macon was 10.  I just kept saying things like “Well, when Macon’s gone, we’ll get a new carpet, refinish the floors, replace the eaten doorknobs, pay back our friends for the doorknobs he ate at their houses while we were on vacation.” 

There were times.  Many, many times, when I told Mike, “That’s it!  I’ve had it!  He’s got to go.”  Mike patiently let me rant and rave.

But of course, then I would remember his mushy little heart and big loving eyes and he’d be saved.  And lucky for him, the older he got, the more I loved him.

At 13 and on Christmas Eve, he could barely walk and we thought it was time.  For a year or two already, he’d had neurological problems and walked on his back knuckles.  We were brokenhearted that we thought we would have to say good-bye on Christmas.  We gave him some steroids to see if we could get him through Christmas.  He bounced back the very next day.  This old man has a serious determination to live.  He just keeps on wagging his tail and following us around and being happy.  Like at the end of a pregnancy when you have a hard time believing that the baby will ever actually come out, I stopped believing he was ever going to die. 

Now, he’s 14 1/2 years old.  Some friends have nicknamed him “bag of bones” and me, I call him “carcass.”  Seriously.  I’m sorry, it sounds cruel, but that’s what he looks like laying in the yard.  For the last three years of his life, I’ve had to walk closer and look for a breathing pattern to make sure he was still alive.  But he was still happy. If he heard me, he would lift his head and wag his tail.

Today, everything changed. Today, he wouldn’t take his medicine.  Or walk outside.  Or lift his head.  Today, his spirit was broken.  He went to work with his Daddy (owner), who is a veterinary surgeon.  Daddy will give him everything he’s got to revive him once again, but I have a feeling Macon won’t be coming back this time.  Mind you, I’ve said this a thousand times before.  He’s like the Energizer bunny.  And that’s what is a little bit funny.