With the election coming soon, one name we seem to be hearing more and more is Mayor Pete. We keep referring is this guy from South Bend, Indiana as "Mayor Pete" because no one, even in South Bend, has any idea how to pronounce Buttigieg.
That's because its Maltese.
It's actually a pretty common Maltese surname. The Maltese probably have no idea why we're having such trouble pronouncing it. Although, to be fair to Mayor Pete, if I was mayor, I'd insist people refer to me as Mayor Dave. And no one has ever mispronounced my last name. Literally, ever.
But that doesn't change the fact that we have a Maltese name making big news. In a nation of immigrants, this shouldn't be a surprise, but it makes me realize how little I know about Malta. I know it's famous of its...um...falcons? And, um, Churchill and Roosevelt and Stalin met there, right? Oops, no, that was Yalta. So, falcons. Given this lack of knowledge, I started reading up on the history of the little island in the Mediterranean Sea. If you think that's odd, then, Hi, my is Dave and we've obviously never met.
Maltese history, it turns out, is incredibly interesting. It is mostly a history of invasion and occupation and foreign influence and perseverance. This small island, less than half the size of Rhode Island (insert Rhode Island size joke here), has been invaded and occupied by the Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs, Normans, Sicilians, Catholics, French, and British, among others. It is featured in the Bible and was the site of a key siege and standoff during the Second World War. Being right in the middle of a major trading route, and right between Africa and Europe, it has been a place of great strategic importance since the dawn of history.
Through it all, the Maltese people have adapted yet held onto their own identity. They have endured, and their culture has endured. Which is why Buttigeig doesn't sound French or English or Italian. It is distinctly Maltese.
But I didn't actually want to talk about those Maltese, the actual people of Malta. No, I wanted to talk about a different Maltese.
This one.
The Maltese breed takes its name from being known as the preferred breed of choice for the royal families and nobles of Malta, going all the way back to the time of the ancient Greeks. They were so popular there, they became synonymous with the island. Like the island, itself, they tend to be small, somewhat overlooked, and almost always underestimated.
A few years ago, my wife called me at work one day to ask what I thought about adopting another dog. With two kids in the house, including a super-active toddler, I was nervous about that idea. It would have to be a pretty special dog: patient, gentle, easy-going. I didn't think we would find a dog like that. I was against the adoption. Then, she told me his name was Tobey.
Toby, it happens, was my grandfather's dog when I was a little kid. If you're the kind of person who believes in signs, this would seem to be a big one. I'm not, but I said, Okay, let's meet the dog.
(Sidebar: I want to address the spelling of Tobey vs. Toby. I liken it to whiskey or whisky: if there's a glass of it in front of you, who cares how it's spelled? There, now let's move on, shall we?)
Tobey wasn't exactly like the other dogs we've rescued over the years; abused, abandoned, age unknown, medical history unknown, emaciated and starved. Tobey was a loved, well-cared for, healthy (somewhat tubby) dog whose owners were in the impossible position of not being able to care for him anymore. I think he liked us right from the beginning.
We needed to find a pretty special dog, and, it turns out, we had.
Tobey was constantly kind, patient, protective of Leo, alerting us to strangers coming into the house (or near the house, or driving by the house, or...), asking for belly-rubs, and cleaning up after us if we accidentally dropped any food on the floor. His gentleness around the kids was nothing short of amazing. He had the patience and gentleness of...well, let's just say I think most saints have the patience of Tobey.
Then, a few weeks ago, we noticed a change in Tobey. He seemed to lose his energy. And we thought, maybe he's getting old. Then, he seemed to lose his appetite. That was a bad sign. We took him to the vet, who took some blood and told us Tobey was diabetic. They wanted to start him on insulin, and to make an appointment for next week. The next day, he refused to even drink water. We took him to Tufts Veterinary Hospital, where they said he was in the middle of the diabetic ketoacidosis crisis. None of those words sounded promising.
I can't say enough about how incredible everyone at Tufts was. They called us, kept us informed of what was happening, how he was doing. They talked to us when we visited him. They took the time to get to know Tobey. They treated him, stabilized him, and Tobey seemed to be on the mend. Then, an ultrasound revealed some further complications: It wasn't just diabetes. Tobey had a tumor on his adrenal gland, spreading into his vascular system. And he also happened to have a massive blood clot that could break loose at any time and cause a fatal stroke. Three for three on the "How Bad Can It Be" checklist.
The vet took the time to explain how to give him his insulin. I didn't bother explaining that my mom is diabetic and that I knew the drill pretty well. Though when she asked if I knew what low blood sugar looked like, I kinda chuckled. I also flashed back to a memory of being maybe five or six and my dad waking us up in the middle of the night and driving us to the hospital, with my mom acting weird and slurring her words until the doctors could take care of her. Yeah, I'm familiar with it.
Finally, Tobey was home, on insulin, blood thinners, antibiotics (did I mention the pneumonia?) and anti-nausea medication. But at least he was home.
But, we noticed, he still wasn't eating much. His energy level was still way down. He refused all food. I pureed his food and spoon-fed it to him. I had to force food and medicine into his body, hoping to keep him alive. He actually, for the first time ever, bit me. (I deserved it; I'd try to bite someone with their hand down my throat, too.) Nothing was working. He needed to go back to the hospital, get another ultrasound, see if they missed something. And all I could think was the cancer was spreading, and that we'd need to soon say goodbye to our Maltese.
The ultrasound found his stomach full of liquid and his digestive system had become stuck. They admitted him for a few more days, put him on some new medications, and Tobey, incredibly, bounced back. Again, the doctors and staff at Tufts were amazing. And considering the amount of money we ended up spending, I'm awaiting the invitation to the new hospital wing that they'll be naming after Tobey.
He's home again, now, on no less than eight medicines, but eating normally, barking whenever the door opens, pooping in the house, all the normal Tobey things that Tobey does. And we're so glad. Plus, he got a cool electronic sensor that tracks his blood sugar, which I'm pretty sure makes him a cyborg.
I thought the little dog was gone, too sick, too tired, too weak.
But I underestimated him. I should have known better.
Usually, when I write one of these long, emotional posts that have nothing to do with beer, its ends on a downer. I'm glad this one has a happy ending. Tobey's doing fine and looking forward to going out on our new canoe a few more times this summer.
Never underestimate the Maltese.
No comments:
Post a Comment