Marcus

Not dead yet.

Hello, hungry people.

That’s our dog Marcus.

The sand, the snot? We were at the beach. Marcus had been running every which way. Seagulls, crabs, things only he could see. A lot to chase.

He’s not nearly as fierce as he looks in the photo. It’s just that he was ticked off at me for aiming my iPhone at him, and he’s telling me:”My attorney will be in touch regarding a rights and usage fee.”

***

Now it has come to this: He has to wear doggie diapers at night.

You don’t need the backstory. You know why this has to be. Accidents. They’ll happen. In our bed.

And you know where this is heading.

The long goodbye.

Which is why I’m writing about Marcus now, before he’s gone. There’s a clause in our contract that says he gets to review his eulogy in advance. That way he can delete any references to his bad breath, occasional farts and insistence on peeing every ten steps when we’re out on a walk. A squirt here, a squirt there, a squirt everywhere. Also, he likes to snatch up mulch from the yard, munch on it for a while inside the house then thoughtfully spit it up so I can step on it later in my bare feet.

Not that I would embarrass him by mentioning any of that.

***

I don’t know who this is harder on, him or us.

“It breaks my heart,” Debbie said the other night as we were strapping on his diaper.

It’s a two-person operation. First, we have to help Marcus jump up on the bed, something he was able to do on his own until a few months ago. He’s graciously indignant about it and would prefer to curl up on the blanket, so I have to put my arms under him and keep him standing while Debbie wraps the diaper around him.

Marcus looks embarrassed by the whole ordeal. He looks apologetic. too.

Sorry about this, he tells us, in the way dogs tell humans exactly what they feel. Dogs don’t hold back. They lay it all out.

We’re sorry too, pal.

You’re closing in on 17. I won’t do the math in human years. You’ve had a good run.

***
Marcus was a rescue. Our son, Dash, who was living in Fort Lauderdale at the time, spotted him at an adopt-a-dog stand at a farmer’s market. And that was that.

This is him as a pup.

***

When Marcus was a coupla years old, Dash fell in love and moved to New York City to be with Arielle, who not long afterward became his wife. They lived in a tiny Lower East Side apartment. With two cats.

We got Marcus.

***

We never ran the genetic tests, but there’s a breed with a mouthful of a name — Novia Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, bred to fetch ducks that’ve been shot by hunters — and that’s pretty much Marcus.

Except, he doesn’t love the water. And if he heard the sound of guns or spotted a dead duck he would run the other way.

He’s a lot like Ferdinand the Bull, sniffing flowers in the pasture instead of charging matadors in the ring.

What a great book.

It was published in 1936 and deemed subversive at a time when fasicism was on the rise. It was banned in Franco’s Spain and burned in Nazi Germany as “subversive pacifist, democratic propaganda.”

Can you even imagine? Yeah, you probably can.

I have an old copy that is falling apart. I’ve read it to our kids and grandkids and pick it up every now and again.

Do yourself a favor. Seek it out.

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Here’s Marcus several years ago, loving on our grandson Boz.

What he loves more than anything, besides us, are the liver treats Debbie makes for him.

She cooks a big batch at least once a week. Slabs of beef liver covered with cornmeal and cooked low and slow at 250 degrees for two hours. Stinks up the whole house.

We are diehard dog people.

I grew up with dogs. So did Debbie. The last words my father said to me, from his hopsital bed, were: “Make sure you feed Homer.” That was his dog. Another rescue.

Our sons and their families have dogs, the inventory currently consisting of a Bassett Hound (stinks faster than I can smell) and a Clumber Spaniel (picture a manatee with hair.)

I’m not about to rank all the dogs that have been part of our family. Except to say, Marcus will likely be our last.

We’re facing his mortality.

And, by default, our own.

We were talking about this the other evening while having drinks with neighbors. They are about our age and share their home with an older dog. This question came up and I’ll pose it to you:

Easy, huh? Except not really. Debbie is strongly in the “No” camp. Me? Well, notice I said Marcus will “likely” be our last. Debbie will win in the end. Still, It’s tough breaking up with dogs.

And with that, please excuse me. Marcus needs a walk. I’ll let him squirt wherever he wants.