1988

Today is my dog's birthday. I'm not the kind of guy who posts pictures of his pets, but if I find a good one of Maynard I may scan it and post it at a later date.

He's not the only dog in our household, we also have Maggie. They are both weinerdogs, or if you are above the Mason-Dixon line, dachshunds. Mags is the baby of the family, we got her in 1997. Her birthday is a few days from now, and she's already started hinting around. If you've ever owned a weinerdog, you already know how incredibly INCREDIBLE they are.

But today's story is about Maynard. My 10 year old daughter and I picked him up on Christmas Eve, 1988, as a surprise present for my wife. Black and tan, slick and shiny, about the size of a soda pop can, Maynard instantly became a member of the family.

1988 was a big year here at Castle Escape. In May I underwent surgery and it was discovered that I had testicular cancer. Had had it for quite awhile as it turns out. I wasn't supposed to survive.

Screw that.

Extensive experimental chemotherapy, and 5 months later, I was cancer free. My hair was still "attempting" to grow back in when I got ol' Maynard and brought him home to live with us. My wife, who is the bravest person I know, my daughter, who went through tremendous anxiety over the whole ordeal, and I, consider my survival a blessing. When we look back and think about 1988, two things come to mind. That was the year Dad got sick, and that was the year we got Maynard.

He answers to "Nerd", "Dummy Dog," "Breath of Death" AND when he's in trouble, "Maynard Conrad Baldwin". And for many years, he was always in trouble. ;)

He's been here to see our daughter graduate from high school, attend college, get married, and have children of her own. He's been here to protect us from that mean ol' mailman and that awful paperboy. He even barks at leaves falling from the trees, since they obviously pose a danger to the family. Such a dummy dog.

But he's my boy. My whole life turned flip-flops that winter of '88. And he's been here ever since, at my feet, or in my lap, every day I have taken a breath. He can no longer jump, or run. But he can be picked up. And he can be nurtured and cared for. And appriciated. And loved.

Right now, as I write this, he's here, giving my forearm a bath. While the licking seems to repulse my wife, she seems to understand that its JUST SOMETHING WE DO, and accepts it for what it is.

Experts say the life expectancy of a dachshund is 11 or 12 years.

Screw that.

Maynard celebrates his 16th birthday today. And we'll save you a piece of cake ;-)


From the Escape Archives... Originally Posted on 10-20-04