Sandy Slaga

Maggie Mae Eyes

If eyes are a window to the soul, then my chocolate Lab’s eyes must be a window to her heart.

Two nights ago, during our ritual bedtime hugs and petting, I felt a lump on her right front elbow. Correction. This was no lump. This was a damn softball.

Shocked at its size and perplexed at Maggie’s obvious indifference, I did what any menopausal married female in crisis does. I screamed for my husband.

My mind was already in the car with Maggie, cuddled in my down comforter, rushing to the emergency vet and demanding the best of everything and NOW.

My husband, being of the Y chromosome, calmly observed that there was no need for panic. Certainly, when I’m at Defcon 1, that’s what I want to hear. Relax! That yes-the-house-is-burning-but-calm-down attitude.

I shot him a look expressing how special I felt about him at that moment.

Then I looked at Maggie. “Let it go,” her eyes said.

Maggie slept like a baby that night. I tossed, turned, paced and fought urges to devour the entire contents of my kitchen.

Yesterday morning we were first in line at the vet. Long history. Over the last ten years, our yellow Lab and Doberman both got their angel wings while under Dr. Ann’s loving care.

So when it wasn’t Dr. Ann who attended Maggie, my eyes flared while my teeth held my tongue and mouth in place.

Then I glanced at Maggie. “Give her a chance,” her eyes said.

The softball came with a high fever. And I’ll be damned if that softball didn’t turn out to be a black ball. A big, black, inoperable ball.

While Dr. Ann’s colleague tested and biopsied, I bit my lip to stop the tears and so that I could listen carefully. As if what anyone had to say mattered.

And then I looked at Maggie. “Ok. Ok. But when are we going home?” her eyes asked.

So home we came. One blubbering menopausal female. One there’s-no-need-to-panic male. And one feverish canine with a bright red gauze and ace bandage-wrapped right front leg.

Blubbering and wailing, while cathartic, are a bit of a hinderance to good nursing care. And so while Maggie hobbled, I followed. While I held her, my husband got the pills down her.

This morning she was worse. This morning, I was on a mission. Eight o’clock. Vet’s office. Maniacal, menopausal and now mustering every last hormone in my body, I looked at Dr. Ann’s colleague, prepared to launch a tirade.

But before I spoke, I looked at Maggie. “It’s ok,” her eyes said. “Just get rid of this damn fever so I can feel better. And then take me home.”

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