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Madison 2008-2024

April 25, 2024

Her left ear was the color of latte, a soft creamy caramel beige. A spot the very same color covered her lower back in the shape of a semicolon. Even though she had me at “woof,” this punctuation birthmark was the clincher. She stole my heart. She was ours. And we were hers.

We met when she was just hours old, eased into this world by my middle sister, Sandy, whose small but mighty dog Annie had three healthy Havanese puppies in a litter of four. Sadly, one male didn’t make it. But two females and another lucky boy survived. They were all spoken for, except one.

It was May 2, 2008, the day a little dog changed our world.

At 10 weeks and weaned off her mother, we brought her home. It was July, and a heavy thunderstorm appeared out of nowhere just as we were leaving my sister’s place. Our dear sweet puppy whined and cried the whole way home. My parents were with us, and I distinctly remember my father saying something like, “That dog is going to be nothing but trouble, babe.”

Not surprisingly, growing up we never had pets at home. But that baby girl eventually stole Jimmy John’s heart as well as ours. He even carried her around in a baby pouch once. He denied it, but I have the photo.

Rebecca and I hadn’t yet decided on a name, but one day not soon after we brought her home, I called to say I’d thought of one on my way driving to work in Detroit. Before I could say another word, Rebecca said, “Me, too. Is it ‘Madison’”?

It was indeed. The stars had aligned. Our baby girl would be named after an I-75 exit ramp.

Madison was born with attitude and a signature swagger, likely something she inherited from her four-legged mother Annie, who was not known for a particularly sunny disposition – except in the company of her human, Mama Sandy, whom she adored.

Sometimes Maddie drove us nuts with her indecision about whether to be indoors or outside. In and out, driveway or patio. Make up your mind, we’d plead. I suspect serving as her hotel doormen was our highest calling. Honestly, maybe it was just her way of keeping us under watchful eye.

She was around us all of the time. Everywhere we look is a trigger. Lack of her familiar sounds create an emptiness I cannot describe. No more clicking of her toenails on the kitchen floor. Or that noise she’d make when she was futzing with the pillow before finally settling into her corner bed. Or when she’d be on the family room couch in the evening preparing to knock off each pillow using her front paws and tiny button nose. I swear one time we heard her say, “Well, they are throw pillows, aren’t they?”

The thing is, dogs age too damn fast. One year equals seven human years and all that. It’s not entirely true, but it sure stinks.

As Madison aged, she slowed down but remained playful. Usually at night, she’d stand on the upstairs landing and half-bark to get our attention. “Play. With. Me. Now. Please.” I’ll miss that.

Over the last couple of years, her front left paw became permanently discolored a shade of brownish pink because she always licked it, trying to get at an old lady wart that had grown there. Sometimes we covered it with a wrap or put on a long-sleeved onesie. She wasn’t a fan of them, unlike her custom-made bandanas – one for every holiday or special occasion. From valentine hearts to snowmen to tie-dye prints and baseballs, as well as Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Our pooch’s politics didn’t fall far from the tree.

And then there was her belly. What a beautiful belly! Pink-spotted like a mini-cow with teeny tiny teats. She never had pups, so they were flat black dots. Her white fur and undercoat needed a good brushing every week, but she didn’t much like it, unless it was followed by a treat.

And her ca-ca eyes! Oh, don’t get me started. She became Rocky Marciano if you tried to wipe those sleepers from her face. I rarely won a round.

Her supple skin was dark underneath all of that hair, and it only showed when she was soaked from the rain or after a bath, which she barely tolerated, unless of course it was given by her longtime groomer, Laurie, who adored her. It was mutual. Laurie learned to keep Madison from barking when she was finished by not putting on her collar and colorful bow until she heard our car pull up.

And those eyes. She was the epitome of a brown-eyed girl. Maddie could look at you from afar and know what kind of day you had. She was in tune to your feelings, knowing there was a direct connection to her day if yours was off. Then she’d sometimes wink her left eye, as if to say, “It’s OK. You’re home now, Ma. When do we eat?”

Yes, as with most canines, food was the center of Maddie’s universe. The last few years, her delicate tummy could tolerate only special dry and canned food, and five (count ‘em, five) Cheerios as treats. But you had to lick them first, or she’d spit them out. (Ask Auntie Pat about this trick sometime.) Maddie’s breath was stinky, but her mind was sharp.

Aside from eating, her next great love was playtime. She loved the neon green mini-tennis balls we fired down the hallway from a K-9 Kannon (she went through three of them!), catching her favorite hedgehog (un)stuffed animal in the air multiple times in a row if you threw it properly, and licking a furry puppy rescued from the Dollar Store. (Thanks, aunties.)

She traveled everywhere with us and had her own monogrammed Yeti mug. (Of course, she did.) She was undeniably willful, often stubborn and cuddled only on her terms – usually for about 20 seconds. Then she was done with you. Most of that behavior was ignored because she was so smart, adorable and the most amazing dog ever.

You can fact-check that last statement by “liking” her Facebook page. It’s called Maddie: Most Amazing Dog Ever.

Maddie was one lucky dog. More than one close friend referred to her this week as “the luckiest @#$! fur baby to have you as her parents!”

We had her for 15 years, 11 months and 23 days. About 76 in human years. A long time, but not long enough.

Our hearts are broken.

She crossed over the Rainbow Bridge – as most pet lovers like to say – on Tuesday, April 23, 2024, at 3:23 p.m. “42324.” “323.” They’re both known as palindromes, when a word, phrase or number reads the same backward or forward and has the same meaning. Like Mom.

But not like dog and god, although I would strongly disagree about that.

I don’t know why we called ourselves “Mama J” and “Mama R.” We have no children. I guess you do strange things when you don’t have human kids. But Madison was like our child.

We know the exact time of her passing because we were with her at the veterinarian’s office in a room with a stainless-steel table covered in a gray towel. I kept thinking that we should have brought a nice blanket, her favorite bed or at least a soft pillow. It all seemed so clinical, but I suppose they’re used to it.

Not me. This was the first time I’ve ever lost a beloved pet. Usually I just break up with whoever I’ve had the pet with and leave before they pass. (The pet, not the person.) Not this time.

We knew it was coming as she was slowly pulling away from us and this world. Sleeping more, not eating much, refusing her meds. Her little body was tired and weak.

When you’re taking that final ride to the vet in the car, you don’t really think it’s going to be so. There’s always that faint hope that the good doctor will prescribe another pill or simple treatment to give her just a few more years, months or days. Not this time.

As Rebecca held Maddie’s head in her hands, I put my good ear to her chest and listened as she took her last few breaths. Then she was gone.

Madison would have turned 16 on Thursday, May 2, 2024. That’s 80 in human years.

I hate to say this, but a part of me feels guilty about what we had to do. I know we did the right thing, but the selfish me wanted to keep her around as long as possible. Longer than she could stay. I suppose I was hoping she would just pass peacefully into the night. Not so easy either.

As her Auntie Kelly texted: “15 years is a long time. You gave her a better life than some kids have. We think we prepare ourselves, but who are we kidding? … They’re probably sick of hearing your names in heaven right about now. And what a good life she had. … I’ve got really bad breath if you want me to come over.”

I actually stopped crying for a second after reading that last sentence, till I realized I even missed Maddie’s stinky dog breath.

Truth is, nothing has ever made me cry as much as this week. Not the deaths of my mother, my father or close family and friends. A part of me feels guilty for feeling so stuck in such profound sadness.

But I think I know why.

For 15 years, Madison was a constant in our lives. She was ours. All she required was our love and loyalty in return for her unconditional love. That was it.

A quote from something I read this week referred to a beloved dog as “the corner puzzle piece.” Without it, nothing else seems complete. Something’s always missing. It describes how we feel about the loss of Madison.

Patio security.
Yeah, it’s mine.
With her baby.
With her other baby.
Get the ball!
Best. Day. Ever.
Was I bad, Santa?
Cruising on a fall day.
Rub my belly, please?
Where are we headed?
Going for a swim.
With her mamas in AMI.
A beautiful day in the neighborhood.

This past Tuesday was an overcast April day with temps in the 50s and a chilly morning drizzle. Just the way Maddie liked it.

Sunny days and hot weather were not her cup of tea. It’s a wonder she agreed to go to Florida with us every year. Guess she knew her second-floor patio was vacant, ready for her to spy on egrets and unsuspecting tourists walking to the pool.

By early afternoon, the skies cleared and she was perched on her raised lounger listening to wrens furnish their nests while keeping an eye out for her archenemy: that heavy-set squirrel flitting around the yard who always tried to piss her off by stealing bird seed. He was nowhere in sight today.

Madison was our protector, whether we liked it or not. And we were hers. But the only thing we could not protect her from was time.

RIP, Madison. Your mamas loved you so much and will miss you every day.

Kiss your mother, siblings and Uncle Chico. Go ahead and catch that squirrel, baby girl.

Nothing but rainbows for you now.

Retired print journalist, blogger and Madison’s other mother.❤️🐾

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