Maxi's Secrets

by Lynn Plourde

  She turned to me and said, “You’re the brave one, Timminy.”

  I didn’t feel brave, I just felt sure.

  I climbed into the back with Maxi. No seat belts back there, but Mom didn’t say a word, and I knew if we got stopped by a cop for breaking the seat belt law, they’d have to answer to the Boss.

  I said, “Put down all the windows, Dad, and let’s take the back roads to the vet’s.” He did, and Maxi twitched her nose, taking in every last country smell (I hoped one would be turkey poop). I fed her small bites of cheese and she licked my hands not because they tasted like cheese, but because I was her boy.

  At the vet’s, Dad went in first. The vet assistants came out to help carry Maxi.

  We gently lifted her in her blanket. Mom and Dad held on to an edge of the blanket. Me too.

  I only remember a couple of things after we carried her in. I just wanted to be with Maxi the way she had always been there for me.

  The vet said something about ashes and a paw print and fur clippings to remember her by. I spoke up and said, “Lots of fur, please.”

  The vet explained what would happen when he gave her the shot, but I didn’t hear him. (Later, my parents said he’d told us she might still twitch after it was over, after she’d been still for a while, but it would just be a nerve letting go—she’d already be gone. But I didn’t hear that. And he didn’t know Maxi the way I knew Maxi.)

  I do remember hugging and holding Maxi when it happened. She was on her blanket on the floor. I sat next to her, my parents kneeling behind me, each with a hand on one of my shoulders. But then their hands started to quiver. I could tell they were crying for Maxi, for me, for themselves. Their quivering hands made my shoulders shake. And it would have been so easy to catch the rhythm of their sadness, but I refused. It took all my strength to absorb their quivers and not let my body shake.

  I didn’t want the last thing Maxi felt to be sadness. I only wanted her to feel love. So I wouldn’t let their quivers move past my elbows. I willed my forearms and my hands to be strong and give loving pats and send love, only love, through my fingers to Maxi.

  Until.

  She.

  Stopped.

  Moving.

  Then finally I leaned down and put my forehead against hers.

  “I love you, girl. I love you.”

  Then Maxi (they can call it a spasm or whatever they want, but I know better) leaned in to me. Her head slipped off my forehead and into my chest as she gave me one final Maxi hug. That’s what I felt.

  That’s what I know.

  • • •

  SECRET #48

  All that matters is LOVE.

  CHAPTER 49

  • • •

  SECRET #49

  Sometimes there are no words.

  CHAPTER 50

  ALL I REMEMBERED was the silence. It was so loud—like the air was humming or buzzing. Had it been like that for Maxi? In her silence? In her deafness? Maybe it was so loud because there was no Maxi snoring or eating or walking or barking or anything.

  A life makes noise. Maxi’s life made a lot of noise and now there was a giant buzzing emptiness.

  At first, I tried to be polite when people said things about Maxi dying. But then I gave up. When someone said, “You can always get another dog,” I wanted to scream, “There was only ONE Maxi!”

  When people said, “I know how you feel,” I wanted to head-butt them—because no one, no one had been Maxi’s boy, so they couldn’t know how I felt.

  And it’s stupid to have rules about how long you’re allowed to cry and when you’re supposed to flip a switch and stop crying. You can’t even think. All you can do is feel. So how the heck are you supposed to follow rules? And who made up those rules anyway? So I made my own rules, ones I thought Maxi would have liked.

  Everything Maxi stayed Maxi. Her food dish stayed in the same spot, her bed stayed in the same place, her toys in her toy basket. Even her last pile of poop on the lawn was going to stay there until it blended back into the ground. I liked all those reminders of her. Somehow she felt closer, like she’d always be part of my life.

  And she would be.

  • • •

  On the first weekend after Maxi died, I invited all our friends to a pizza party. We left our crusts on her bed in the middle of the room. I’d divided that big bag of Maxi fur they’d given us at the vet’s into smaller plastic bags and gave some of her fur to each friend with a note attached. I pretended Maxi had written them.

  Like Rory’s …

  Rory,

  Thanks for saving me from a porcupine quill infection. And for the all the photos—you’ll never find another puppy as photogenic as me. Keep nagging your dad to get a dog ’cause you’re a dog kinda guy.

  Your friend,

  Little Beast

  P.S. I promise not to tell the world your secret that you’re more a marshmallow than a beast.

  Rory surprised me by showing a slide show with all of Maxi’s photos. We ran it through and through on our big-screen TV. Then he played the turkey poop video he’d taken, and it almost felt like Maxi was with us …

  “Ew! That’s worse than milk snot,” squealed Devon.

  “Did someone cut the cheese in here? Or does this Maxi video have a sniff-and-whiff option?”

  “GROSS OUT!”

  We all laughed and laughed. Maxi made us laugh—once more.

  After Rory, Devon, Becca, Brian, Benjamin, Kassy, and Carver all left, it was just me and Abby.

  I told her, “When you get your guide dog, I want to take a special walk. It might be a while before I’m ready though. And when we walk, I’m going to take my Maxi fur and ashes along. I’ll let your dog smell Maxi’s fur so they can get to know each other. Then we’ll leave a trail of Maxi’s ashes in the woods.”

  Abby was crying, quiet crying. “Why the woods?” she asked.

  “Because she loved it there even though she didn’t get to go very often. Because that’s where she was a hero. Because there are so many smells in the woods—and all kinds of delicious poop too. That’s where we’re gonna set her free, Abby.”

  • • •

  SECRET #50

  Some things in life are so big, you couldn’t forget them even if you wanted to—and you won’t want to.

  CHAPTER 51

  ONE NIGHT, MAXI came to me.

  In a dream.

  Or maybe I was awake.

  I couldn’t be sure.

  Her face appeared, the reverse of fading out, she faded in. First, a white blur like fuzzy Christmas tree lights when you squint your eyes. Then, she slowly came into focus. If I shut my eyes tight, she disappeared and my world was still a black hole. But when I relaxed, loosened my eyes, she became clearer, came closer.

  She looked so happy. So happy to see me again.

  Me too, girl, me too.

  Then her big, furry body filled my eyes, filled my head. It was like being in the front row of an IMAX movie theater. She covered the whole screen. Her tail wagged, which triggered her body waggling. I laughed. She cocked her head to the side, looking puzzled. That made me laugh even harder. She barked, then stopped, as if waiting for me. So I laughed again. When I stopped, she barked.

  My turn. I laughed.

  Her turn. She barked.

  I laughed.

  She barked.

  I cried.

  You can hear, girl. You can hear now!

  I checked. To be sure.

  Sit, Maxi.

  She sat without a sign language cue.

  Give me a kiss, girl.

  And she did. A big, fat, slobbery kiss.

  How you doing, girl? I’ve missed you.

  Maxi woofed and woofed, jumped this way and that way, as if she were telling me a story of all she’d been up to. She was so excited, so happy. Then she leaned in to give me one of her hugs with her head pressing against me, but this time it almost felt like she had arms, or wings, as they closed around me and held me. Held my body,
reached in, and held my heart too.

  I smiled and cried, all at the same time.

  Maxi pulled back and stared at me, deep, past my eyes, to the inside. She was saying her final good-bye.

  One more slurpy kiss, then she turned and ran off. She left as fast, as mysteriously, as she’d appeared.

  I shouted after her, “I’ll always remember you, girl. ALWAYS.”

  I couldn’t move for the longest time. I wasn’t thinking, just being. I wanted to lock that Maxi feeling inside me, to never let it go.

  When I finally could move, I had no idea what time it was. It was like time didn’t exist.

  I knew I wouldn’t tell Mom or Dad about Maxi coming to visit. I think it would make them sad, sad for me. But I wasn’t as sad anymore. Maxi made me feel better, like she’d always made me feel better.

  There was someone, though, that I had to tell about Maxi’s visit.

  I got off my bed. It was dark, a moonless night. Still, I didn’t turn on the light. I didn’t need to. I finally understood it was possible to feel your way through this world. I sat at my desk, felt for the power button on my computer, turned it on. I went to FaceTime and called Abby.

  It took her a while to answer. When she did, I clicked the audio only option. I didn’t need to see her. I just wanted to hear her, as she had always heard me. Her voice would tell me everything I needed to know.

  “Timminy, it’s the middle of the night. I was sleeping. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, sorry. I just needed to tell you a couple of things.”

  Abby paused, not wanting to step on what I had to say.

  “Maxi came to see me tonight.”

  “A dream?” she asked.

  “More than a dream,” I said. “And guess what? She could hear.”

  “Oh, Timminy, Maxi could always hear you.”

  “I know, Abby, like you can always see me.”

  I could feel Abby’s smile in the darkness.

  “I’m ready,” I said.

  Abby waited.

  “I want to go for our walk.”

  “Now?” asked Abby.

  “In the morning, after breakfast.”

  Abby paused. I could hear all the hope in that pause.

  I said, “Yes, Abby Winslow, I’m finally ready to go for a walk in the woods with you and that guide dog of yours.”

  Then, on cue, a bark filled the air—a small bark, Darshan’s bark.

  I smiled and said, “Sounds like Darshan is ready. You haven’t gone in the woods yet, have you?”

  “No, we’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “I’m glad,” said Abby.

  I smiled—I hoped Abby could feel my smile in the darkness. Then I said, “Um, by the way, do you know if MIRA trained Darshan to signal you to duck when you’re walking under trees?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Abby. “That’s why you’re coming with us.”

  “Just so you know, Abby, I’m out of practice. So you’d better hang on to your eyeballs.”

  Abby laughed.

  I laughed.

  We laughed together.

  That’s what best friends do.

  • • •

  SECRET #51

  Best friends are forever friends. They make you laugh and cry and laugh some more—even the ones who have moved on.

  SPECIAL THANKS

  There would be no Maxi without Maggie, my “favorite puppy in the whole wide world—all time, ever” (as I used to tell her). Our beloved Maggie, who was black, not white; an Irish setter mix, not a Great Pyrenees; who could hear some, but listened rarely; who lived much longer than Maxi, to be almost fourteen (in human years). She shared her porcupine-quill and turkey-poo adventures. She taught me her secrets and showed me how to say good-bye when she was ready. Then Maggie led me to Maxi’s story as she sat on my desk each day (her photo, her ashes, her fur sample). I always said you were a great author’s dog, Maggie, as you lay by my chair while I wrote all those years. Little did I know, girl, you had one more gift for me—this story. I owe you big-time the next time we meet. I’m thinking a mountain of horseradish cheese for starters.

  My next thanks goes to my first reader, always my first reader, my husband, Paul Knowles. When we married more than thirty years ago, I had a dream—to become a children’s book author. You believed in my dream, always. You believed when I collected hundreds and hundreds of rejections for thirteen years before getting my first picture book published. Most of all, you know who I am at my core, and you have always guided me to write from my heart, from my soul. You have made me a better author and, more important, a better person. I am so grateful you are my forever love.

  Thanks to my agent, Susan Cohen, at Writers House, who has always believed in me and my writing. Sue, you have been so positive and encouraging through years of revisions and rejections (and some acceptances along the way too). This author journey I’m on truly has felt like “ours”—the highs, the lows, the laughter, the tears. I am honored to share it with you.

  I owe a huge thanks to Nora Long, Susan Cohen’s assistant at Writers House. Nora read an early version of this manuscript and had the most amazing reader’s eye to know exactly what it needed. She wrote me a six-page, detailed editorial letter encouraging me, challenging me, and guiding me through a major revision that would then be ready for submission.

  I can’t thank my editor and publisher, Nancy Paulsen, enough for saying yes to Maxi, for adopting this crazy dog and this newbie middle-grade author. I wanted Susan Cohen to submit Maxi’s Secrets to Nancy because I had read her books and knew she published books with “heart.” I hoped the story I wrote from my heart would touch her heart. And when Sue Cohen called on June 4, 2015 (of course I know the date), to tell me Nancy Paulsen wanted to publish Maxi’s Secrets, I sobbed, tears of joy. Then it felt like Nancy was hugging me the whole way through the revision process—her comments included squeals of delight when she read a part she loved, wise questions as she encouraged me to go deeper into the story, and magical powers as she helped me to somehow write “more” while writing “less” (thirteen thousand words less in the end). Nancy, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your “heart.”

  And, finally, this book is better thanks to the experts who shared their wisdom with me. Thanks to literacy strategist Susan Dee and librarian Cathy Potter for their “nerdy” book wisdom and suggestions. Thanks to veterinarian Bill Bryant for being our Maggie’s favorite vet and for giving me guidance on the canine medical information in this book. Thanks to Christina Lee, founder and president of Deaf Dogs Rock (deafdogsrock.com), for sharing her wisdom and advice on deaf dog issues. Thanks to Chad Hill, a seventh-grade student who is blind, and Jude Carey, a teacher of the visually impaired, for their detailed and thoughtful feedback and suggestions on how to make Abby’s blindness ring true. Thanks also to copy editors Anne Heausler and Robert Farren, who taught me some writing tricks and gave this novel the final polish it needed.

  Lynn Plourde

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