A few weeks after we got him, age 7. A near-perfect working border collie, with a coat like a yak.
Also known as Mac-maniac, Mac the Knife, and Mac-a-roni noodle pie.
From the moment I met Mac, and the moment he met the rest of our family (he came to us at age 7) his supreme, quiet self-confidence infused everything he did. Just three months after coming to us, Mac earned his CGC with Anthony (then 11). Before long, he'd accomplished much more.
Born in Maine, Mac grew up in Boston, riding the subway and attending doggie day-care. After a brief stint in Chicago, he was a California-dog for a summer before we relocated to New Mexico. He liked everyone except toddlers; eating snow was a winter-long joy.
Mac's first true love, Amy. She came to visit when he was 10, just before moving out of the country. Amy's tears join ours and his breeder's, Whitney, today.
Rick and I were laughing through the tears on the way home from the vet: Mac jumping in the pool at our old house; exchanging cheap-shots with his nephew, Jake; being teased as a "golden retriever" in a BC suit during therapy dog testing; teaching me to trust him because he always knew more about pressure and stock that I ever will. Stock respected his power but didn't panic.
Mac's perfect "a-wee" flank; quiet, confident, effective.
The last three months have been a roller coaster, with many more good days than bad. Friday was the last hurrah; this morning we sent him over the proverbial Rainbow Bridge with our tears and our hearts. Post mortem found cancer "everywhere". Tissues have been sent our for histopathology; preliminary diagnosis is lymphoma concentrated in the digestive system's lymph glands. Bloodwork was always normal, and the cancer was too dispersed to show on x-rays or ultrasound. Only exploratory surgery would have found it (and he was too weak for surgery).
If there's a heaven for dogs, Mac is now getting all the sheep in the pen the first time and his flanks are perfect. Even better, there's an endless supply of tennis balls and he can eat all the cat food he'll ever want.
That'll do, Mac, that'll do.
Leo, I'm sorry.
ReplyDelete