Magnum & my senior dogs

I saw Magnum’s picture on St. Hubert’s website.   His bio was charming and sweet.  I wish I could remember exactly what it said.  Something about him being aged like fine wine, dignified.  I looked at his picture multiple times a day during the week. I tried to convince myself that getting another dog was foolish. I had two senior girls, Junie and Penelope, who were settled and happy.  I travelled too much for work already.  I needed to keep my life simple. Minimalistic.  Free. Uncomplicated.  I couldn’t emotionally afford to take on too much.

By Sunday morning, none of these concerns mattered.  I put Junie and Penelope in the car and drove to St. Hubert’s shelter in Branchburg, New Jersey.  At the desk, I said, “I’m here for Magnum.”

A woman behind the desk stood and came to me.  “He’s older.  Do you have other dogs?”

“I have two senior girls, a Weimaraner and a beagle.”  They were waiting for me in the car.  They went everywhere with me.

“He’s ornery and not good with other dogs,” she said, eyes saddened.

Something inside me resisted this.  I still don’t know why.  But I knew, without a doubt, that Magnum was my dog. “I’d like to meet him. And then I’d like him to meet my dogs.”

After a bit of conversation away from me, the shelter volunteers agreed.  For people in rescue, the most rewarding adoptions are seniors and special need dogs you never think anyone will love.  I’m still grateful for their willingness to let me meet him.  I followed them through a door into the back, past kennels.   It was clean and well maintained, but for any dog lover, there is nothing worse than a trip to shelter when you can’t take them all home.

Magnum was in a middle kennel, flanked on either side by other dogs.   He was in the back of his cage, facing the wall.   “Hello, Magnum,” I said, and he looked at me.  We made eye contact and his tail thumped and he jumped up on his wobbly, arthritic legs and came forward.

From behind, I heard, “He never does that. I have goosebumps.”

I smiled at him, unlatched the door, and bent to greet him.  I sank my hands into his fur and knew I was going to love him for the rest of my life.  

We walked outside in an area designated for adoption meet and greets.  He pranced for me, no matter that his hips were warped with arteritis.   He tugged me forward and turned to make sure I was still there.   After a few moments, I left him to get Junie and Penelope.   I looked over my shoulder as I left the gated area to see him holding still, eyes not wavering from me.  Junie and Penelope jumped from the car, happy for an adventure.  We approached the introduction carefully, and slowly, as you should when you meet new dogs.

But it wasn’t necessary.  After the first sniff, Magnum and Junie took off together, noses to the ground, following a scent. When he returned to me, he leaned against my legs and panted in my face, and I didn’t care that his hips were warped with arthritis, eyes clouded with age, and his old man breath atrocious. It was instant, true love.  I watched him with my girls for about three minutes and said, “He’s mine.  I’d like to take him home.”

I needed to return Junie and Penelope to the car to wrap up.   We all walked toward the building together.  When Magnum saw me veer off toward the parking lot, he pulled away from the volunteer and wedged himself between Junie and Penelope, as if to say, “Um, I’m going that way too.”

Inside, they snapped a picture of us.  Our first.  I’d take hundreds of pictures of him during our time together.

Magnum’s Freedom Ride. He’s looking at the shelter through the back window.

The next few months with him were amazing. He settled right into my life like he’d always been my boy. He loved Junie, Penelope, and me and discovered the joy of life and cracked my heart wide open. Magnum had clearly been neglected before me, and the shelter staff believed he’d lived outside his whole life.  It’s hard to imagine leaving a dog outside in a New Jersey winter, but way too often they are.

Living inside a house was a miracle for him. From sticking his head in the fridge when I opened the door to snuggling on the couch, he emanated a sense of wonder that transformed me and the lives of everyone who knew him.  He loved car rides and blankets, and warm baths. He loved napping with Penelope and Junie on the couch.

He loved to take walks, though his hips were so arthritic he was almost crippled.  I remember one day, in the early fall, the leaves vibrant with color.  We ambled slowly toward the river.  He sniffed the air with each step, tail wagging, eyes squinting with joy.  We paused on the Califon bridge, and Magnum stuck his face through the rails to watch the ducks on the water.  Stillness fell and the noise of the world disappeared.  I watched him and he met my gaze.  All of my concerns and worries fell away.  It was the first time I’d ever felt contentment.

Often, I’d catch him staring at me and it was just love. All love.

I believe he was a Boddhisatva. An enlightened being who consciously chose to incarnate on earth in the service of love.  I’d had such a rough path before I met him, and he taught me its possible to just let go and be loved.  Everyone thought I was so kind for taking on a senior dog, but really, Magnum saved me. 

I came home one day to find he couldn’t stand and took him to the Emergency Vet.  They met me at the car with a gurney and took him.  Later, when the tech pushed the gurney into the room where I waited, and Magnum saw me, he smiled, eyes widened, like the day we met in his kennel. He tried to run to me, not realizing his body wasn’t working anymore.  I made up the distance and put my arms around him. I knew it was time to let him go. 

When he died, the grief was so intense the only thing I could do to feel better was adopt another senior dog.  A therapist would tell me this was a grief coping strategy called ‘replacing’ the loss.  I’ve thought a lot about it, and I’m okay with it if it is.  Life hurts so much, so often, it’s the least toxic of all my coping strategies.  Losing a dog is so painful. I feel gutted in their absence.  I do what I can with the tools I have. 

I’ve learned that grief and love are the same emotion, inverted.   Grief is the price of love, so I repay the balance by opening my heart again.  My most noble goal is to transform pain into love.  While Western psychology might think replacement is a poor coping strategy, I’ll go with the Sufi mystics who think living broken open hearted is the path to God. 

My love for Magnum opened my heart and healed the core of me. I’ve not been the same since, and the journey, while painful and exhausting at times, has made me more human.  There have been so many dogs since, loved for months or years at the end of their life. I’ve held them all in my arms as they’ve left this world.  If there is something beyond this reality, my only wish is they are all there to greet me when it’s my time.   

I lost three dogs, during the pandemic, and my heart hurt so much I thought I was done adopting them forever.  But I did some grief work with a counselor, cried for days, and lost another senior, who like Magnum, was a Bodhisattva.  Shamus, of the many names, passed away about a month ago. Shamus-Moo. Moofasa. Shamuska. MooMoo.  He came into my life and turned on the lights.  His energy filled up our home and I loved him to the core of me.  His personality ranged from simple Shamus-moo, to Presidential candidate Shamus.  (He should have won.  He ran on the campaign slogan “More snacks and naps for everyone.”) He was a chimken monster, snuggler, and lover of life.  He’d boop his siblings every morning to say hi.  He loved them and us so much.  What he did not love was the vet, and upon realizing his destination, he’d look at us as if to say, “Dis is bullshit.”

Shamus was pure joy. His vision was poor. He heard very little. His old bones ached. But he loved life with every atom in his body.

He didn’t want to eat in the end, so we Door Dashed him chicken nuggets from McDonald’s for every meal. On his last day, he gave Gus (one of our little guys) a nugget from his pile. Picked it up and dropped it in front of Gus when the other dogs were not looking. It was his final act of kindness.

His first humans dumped him at a shelter with his younger brother who got adopted before him.  He was at risk, but No Stray Left Behind took him, and he made his way to us and once again, cracked my broken heart wide open. 

In his absence, all we can do is open our heart to another dog, who will be coming soon.  And maybe even more, because suddenly, after a long dormant period, I want all the dogs again. 

I don’t know how I got so lucky to have Magnum and Shamus. All these beings who have passed through my life have enriched and changed me.

Covid sent us all underground.  I got lost in the darkness.  I think we’re collectively experiencing a dark night of the soul.  The only way out is with love.