Life with Maxie

by Diane Rehm

  Later that summer, we went on vacation to a resort that did not allow dogs. Unfortunately Maxie then had to have his very first experience with a kennel. We went out to visit the facility, which had come highly recommended. It was for just one week. But sadly, for that one week, Maxie refused to eat and barely emerged from his individually fenced kennel with a run attached to it, which he came out of only to relieve himself. When we returned, I vowed I would never again place Maxie in a kennel, no matter for how brief a period.

  Stubborn Little Dog

  As fall arrived, I took joy in watching Maxie chasing floating leaves, perhaps regarding them as mysterious intruders. But he soon realized they represented no real threat and ultimately sat in the sunshine watching them fall. It was about this time that I decided it would be good to take Maxie for regular walks in the neighborhood, to give him a taste of the world outside his own garden. So I purchased a small harness and a leash and proceeded to carry him out our front door to the street and put him down, expecting him to move forward and follow my lead. No such luck. No budging, much less walking. And no amount of cajoling, pulling, or tempting with treats could get him to move. He just sat there! Now, I was really confused. Who’d ever heard of a dog that wouldn’t walk? So, on that first day, I carried him back into the house and back out to the garden, wondering how we could get this project going. At first I speculated it was his “short shoulder” somehow preventing him from walking on a leash. But the more I thought about his ability to run like the wind inside the house and outside in the garden, the more I came to the conclusion that we had a stubborn little pup on our hands. Day after day I tried, using different tactics. I even asked his adored friend, Thea, to walk with us. No luck. He’d move for two steps, stop, sit down, and refuse to budge. What to do?

  Answer? I bought him a stroller! A doggie stroller, in which he could either sit down at the bottom or put his paws at the top and look over the rim. He seemed to have no objection to this, so that became our daily practice, strolling Maxie through the neighborhood. He looked adorable, with his little head popping up from time to time to see who or what was ahead. Of course, again, people wanted to pet him, but Maxie would have none of it, growling when a stranger came too close. Clearly, we were both enjoying fresh air, but I was the one getting the exercise, not Maxie!

  Our walking/strolling days came to a close when the first winter snow arrived. Of course Maxie had to go outdoors, and he was curious about the white stuff. So he took one big leap and landed in a big drift, way taller than he. His size meant he was virtually buried up to his nose. John then shoveled out a path so that he could have a way to walk around the garden. I’d see his footprints everywhere in the snow. Later, when it turned to ice, he’d walk on top of it, occasionally falling a few inches before clambering up again.

  Life Has a Way of Changing

  When we first purchased our home back in 1967, I thought we’d be there forever. Even after the children left to create their own families, our house was just right for the two of us. We refurbished the entire interior of the house, remodeled the kitchen, created a beautiful patio, worked diligently to see the garden grow from an unkempt play yard to a magnificent flower-filled haven from the noise of the outside world, and we assumed we would continue to enjoy it. But life has a way of changing, and in our case, it changed a lot.

  In 2004, John was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. Mild though it may have been at the time, we realized we could not be sure of what lay ahead, and that we would inevitably face changes, both in our ability to navigate a four-story house as well as to maintain it. At first, John resisted. He wanted to stay in our home. And so did I! After all, our children had grown up in this home. We loved our neighbors and the neighborhood. I cherished memories of John, David, Jennie and all the neighborhood kids playing soccer in the street, watching Jennie learn to ride a unicycle, seeing David and his dad throwing a ball back and forth, welcoming trick-or-treaters on Halloween, and having our beautiful daughter’s wedding reception in our garden. Nevertheless, I knew the time had come. I began looking at condominiums soon after we received the diagnosis. Our children telephoned regularly to urge us to move to a safer environment without stairs to navigate, and to do it soon.

  So I kept looking, though John continued to say he wouldn’t move. But one incident, perhaps brought on by medication, convinced him and me that the time had come. At about 3 a.m. one late summer morning, John arose from his bed, walked in his sleep, opened wide both the front and back doors, and went back upstairs to sleep, with no memory of what he’d done. When I went down in the morning and found both doors open, I knew we had to have both a change in medication as well as a change of residence. Faced with the reality of what he’d done, and hearing his children and me plead with him, John finally said, “You’re right. It’s time to move.”

  Together, after nearly a year of searching, we eventually found the perfect apartment, complete with a gorgeous view of trees and lots of light. And the condo accepted small dogs. The real question was: would Maxie fit into a new way of living at a condo? After all, it would mean no more private garden. No more basking in the sunshine or chasing squirrels. No more running up and down the fence with the neighbor’s black Lab. No more being by himself and just with us all day long. Instead, elevators, doormen, receptionists, other residents, and other dogs. I was worried. Would he behave? Would he bark? Would he snarl? Would he bite? Would he ever adjust?

  During the four-month period when the apartment was being renovated, we brought Maxie over frequently, hoping that he would begin to feel comfortable in the new environment, despite the constant presence of workmen, loud noise, and strange smells. Though Maxie adored our contractor, John Baliles, and had known him since he was a puppy, we had absolutely no idea how long—or whether—his adjustment would take. We worried.

  But happily, and eventually, it happened. His transition began slowly. Our condo is in an area surrounded by parks, so John and I were both able to take Maxie outdoors each day, which we began doing even before the move to acclimate him to the surrounding area.

  We finally moved into our new home in March of 2008. Little by little, Maxie grew accustomed to the smells of the park, the trees, and the sidewalks, so that he finally agreed to be walked with on a leash. That still left the adjustment to the many people he encountered. We held him in our arms as we went up and down in the elevators, cautioning those who saw him to keep their distance. His resistance to other humans was as great—if not greater—than his reluctance to walk on a leash.

  And then, a small miracle. One of the doormen in our condo, Nervo, began taking the time to bend down each day and speak softly to Maxie. He would put out his hand, palm up, urging Maxie to come forward with endearing gestures and words. Each time Maxie encountered Nervo, he would inch closer and closer, until voila! One day he allowed Nervo to scratch him on the head. That tiny gesture signaled a huge breakthrough.

  Small gestures led to bigger movements. Others, seeing Nervo successfully engaging the dog, began speaking to Maxie more softly and sweetly, commenting on what a beautiful and well-behaved little dog he was. They admired his shiny long black coat, his sweet face, good manners in the elevator, and the dipping of his head when people approached him. A clear transition had begun toward shedding his fear of strangers.

  Maxie and Nervo.

  Companionship and Comfort

  Now a year and a half later, at age six, Maxie accompanies me to my studio almost every day. Each morning as I prepare for the short car ride, he waits by the front door, knowing that because I have briefcase in hand, we’re going to the office, and that when he gets there, treats will be awaiting him. During my mornings on the air, he’s in the studio under the table with me or in my office under my desk. He greets guests with a wave of his plume-like tail and approaches them with his head down, assuming there’ll be a sweet pat on the head. I know that I have only to look down on him, or he up at me, and I feel easier, more relaxed, and even
more confident. Every now and then, as I am in mid-sentence about some extremely serious topic, he’ll put his forepaws up to my lap, asking me to scratch his head, or even pleading to sit in my lap.

  Our subject in 2009 was frequently Afghanistan, an extraordinarily difficult subject for me and for our listeners. There might be two guests in the studio and one on the phone, and my complete focus would be on the subject at hand. And yet, at a moment during those conversations, Maxie would poke his head up, looking at me in his own endearing way, and I would feel myself relaxing. I can recall one program in particular in which we discussed mental health among those serving in the U.S. military with Yochi Dreazen of the Wall Street Journal and Nancy Sherman, professor of philosophy at Georgetown University and author of a book titled The Untold War: Inside the Hearts and Minds and Souls of our Soldiers. The sadness of war and the loss of humanity that were part of that conversation struck me very hard, so much so that tears came to my eyes. Somehow Maxie must have sensed my sadness, because he put his front paws on my knees asking to be petted, but at the same time, perhaps, trying to comfort me. I know there are many stories of comfort dogs, helping people who are sick, in hospitals, or in nursing homes. But I wonder whether anyone else in the world has a comfort dog in a radio studio?

  All of our guests seem delighted to see Maxie. I bring him into the studio in my arms, and there are invariably oohs and ahs and questions about Maxie’s breed. When I put him down on the floor, people call to him, wanting to pet him. Some put their hands down for him to lick; others simply marvel that he is so well behaved in the studio. Maxie’s preference is clearly toward women, especially those who gesture toward him softly and quietly. I urge everyone to ignore him and let him come to them. Even special treats don’t tempt him—he’s a very cautious pup. Dr. Patricia McConnell, professor of zoology at the University of Wisconsin and a certified animal behaviorist, brought along numerous treats for Maxie, to no avail. She finally put the treats on the tabletop in the studio and let her hand fall down by her side during our conversation on the air. Lo and behold, Maxie walked over to her and began rubbing his head against her hand. He had finally decided Dr. McConnell was safe. The same is true when guests come to our apartment. At parties large and small, we urge everyone to ignore Maxie, to let him come to them, and before long, he does.

  Remarkably, there has been only one instance when he barked while we were on the air. It happened when Greg Mortenson, author of the bestselling book Three Cups of Tea, barged into the studio a half-hour late. Maxie, in his ever-protective mode, barked vigorously. In my effort to quiet him down, I said, “Maxie Rehm, hush! It’s our guest!” Maxie continued to bark for a few seconds but then fortunately quieted down. Everybody in the whole world heard Maxie bark—including my colleagues at NPR, who razzed me about it afterwards. So indeed, my listeners now really know he’s in the studio while I’m on the air.

  Maxie and me at the studio.

  When work is done, Maxie and I do errands together. Sometimes he’s able to enter a card store or gift shop with me. My beauty salon welcomes small dogs, and when I say to Maxie, “Let’s go see Mustafa,” I am certain he knows we’re going to get my hair done. As I go through these rituals, he sits on the floor or in a chair beside me. Even now, however, if he is sitting right next to me, he is in “guard mode” and will growl if he’s approached. At grocery stores, where he is not permitted to come inside, he waits patiently for me in the car.

  On our way home, we stop at what John and I call “Maxie Park,” a sweet spread of lawn bordering community gardens across from our condominium. There he can once again be in the kind of soft, grassy environment he knew as a puppy, rolling, stretching, sniffing, but also seeing other dogs.

  But sometimes I’m away. I travel to other cities to visit NPR stations around the country and am not always able to take him with me. When I am gone, Maxie sometimes hides from John under my desk in the opening we call “Maxie’s Cave.” There have been days when he’s refused to come out for as much as fourteen or sixteen hours! Finally, out of necessity, he moves!

  Our earlier sad experience with boarding Maxie at a kennel convinced us that we simply had to find a trustworthy and willing caretaker. Lo and behold, on a visit to our revered dermatologist, Dr. Carol McNeely, she volunteered her services along with those of her husband, Arnold Spitzen. They have long cared for the dogs of friends and neighbors of all types and sizes. And they have their own Max, a lovely friendly and gentle chocolate Lab.

  So, in 2009, when we went on vacation to the Poconos with our children, there was no need to be on the phone with a shelter attendant each day to check on Maxie’s status. I was getting emails and photos of Maxie relaxing on the bed, watching television, enjoying his meals, and thoroughly relishing the attention he was getting from his new caretakers, who have clearly become good friends of ours and Maxie’s. In fact, while we cruised the Nile and traveled to Egypt and Jordan with NPR listeners, Maxie stayed with Arnie and Carol for a full three weeks! We feel extremely blessed to have found such good and caring friends.

  Just a few weeks before we were due to leave on our trip to the Nile, however, I encountered a major problem that threw into doubt whether I would be able to travel at all. I had gone to a nearby department store to pick up a single item. It was a hot day, and I did not want Maxie to be in the car by himself for more than three minutes. So I rushed in, completed the transaction, and ran back to my car in the parking lot across the street from the store. Unfortunately, as I stepped off the curb, I caught the heel of my shoe in the hem of my slacks, and fell—splat—in the middle of the street, on my right side. When I tried to get up, I realized I was so badly injured I could not stand. Fortunately two women saw me fall and rushed to help me. They immediately suggested calling an ambulance, but I said this was not possible, that I had to drive home because my little dog was waiting for me in my car. They shouldered my weight and got me to my car, again urging me to let them call for help, which I refused. I managed to get into the car and call my husband, crying, telling him I’d hurt myself and would need to have a wheelchair waiting for me at the front of our condo building. He heard the pain in my voice and begged me to go straight to the nearby emergency room but I said I just wanted to come home with Maxie and go to bed.

  I cannot tell you how I managed to drive home, with Maxie huddling in my lap, but I knew I had to get there to make sure he was safely in the apartment. By the time I reached our building, John was at the door with Nervo, who had a wheelchair waiting for me. However, I realized I could not get out of the car and into the wheelchair without excruciating pain in my right leg. I finally understood that I had no choice but to go to the emergency room at a nearby hospital. So, while John took a bewildered Maxie upstairs to our apartment, Nervo helped me into the wheelchair to get around into the passenger side of the car. When John, who no longer drives, came back downstairs, Nervo got behind the wheel and drove us to the emergency room of the hospital. There we waited for seven hours, until an MRI finally revealed that I’d fractured my pelvis. At that point, luckily, I was admitted to the hospital.

  There I stayed for nine days, the first five in full hospital care and the last four in the rehabilitation portion of the facility. Luckily, a fractured pelvis does not require surgery, but there is a great deal of discomfort before the healing process begins. Dogs are not allowed in the hospital itself, but they are permitted to visit when patients are in rehab, so long as they have all of the inoculations and vaccinations verified by their veterinarian. The day when that little dog came racing into my room, up onto my bed, and began licking my face and wagging his tail was a very happy one. It was a joyous reunion for me and one that I truly believe assisted in my speedy recovery. His presence allowed me to relax, to forget the pain, to enjoy his warmth and his unconditional love, to laugh at his antics, his immediate nestling on my bed, right next to my fractured pelvis. He wanted me back at home with him, and he let me know that he would be there waiting for me.


  Each day John would bring Maxie in to see me in the afternoon, and we would spend a few hours together, as he sat on my bed and I rubbed his tummy. Gradually, as I was able to use a walker, John would take him by the leash and we would walk up and down the halls of the rehab center, greeting other patients who would ooh and aah over him. In fact, I actually put him on the carrying tray attached to the walker, which stirred up quite a joyful commotion among nurses and patients as I wheeled him through the corridors.

  I have no doubts about the spiritual and emotional therapy that pets offer. It is their complete comprehension of the fact that there is a problem that allows them to enter our hearts and transmit the caring energy we need for healing.

  That healing energy continued once I returned to our home. Maxie came with John and my dear friend, the former Episcopal Bishop Jane Dixon, to pick me up at the hospital on my day of discharge. Jane, too, is totally smitten with her dog, a sweet Boston Terrier named Arthur. Jane feels as I do, that dogs emit that indescribable loving energy. They never hold back when someone they adore is in need.

  Friends, of course, are the same way. Jane asked what I needed or wanted when we got back home. “A bowl of strawberry Jell-O,” I said. And within an hour, there it was.

  Oh, what joy it was to once again be in my own room with Maxie by my side. I spent a good deal of those first few days at home in bed, and when I was in bed, Maxie was right there with me.

  Then we were back to our usual regime. I was able to get back on the air, totally mobile with first a walker and then a cane. When I walk with Maxie these days, he understands that I am not walking as quickly as I used to and matches his pace to mine. When I take Maxie to the office, he knows treats await him, and he greets each of the show’s producers with an expectant eye, wondering who will give him the next treat. He enjoys coming into the studio with me, and either sits quietly under the studio table or goes to sleep at my feet. After the show is over, he and I go for a brief walk, I give him a snack, and then he sleeps under my desk while I continue the day’s work. We do our errands and then head for home.