Mack had ears that were, quite simply, a sensory delight. They were so incredibly silky that I used to spend ages just stroking them, marveling at the texture. One day, in a moment of dry, tongue-in-cheek humor, I turned to his co-owner, Liza, and made a suggestion.
"You know," I said, "when Mack eventually goes, I think I want to have his ears removed. I’ll turn them into a keyring so I can keep that silkiness with me forever."
I expected a laugh or a mock-shudder. Instead, Liza looked at me with a face of total, unwavering seriousness.
"Oh, good," she said. "I’ve been meaning to bring this up. I’m going to keep the rest of him and have him taxidermied. I want to put him right in the middle of my living room."
I stared at her in genuine horror. My "keyring" joke suddenly felt very small compared to the vision of a stuffed Mack standing guard over the coffee table. "Are you... are you being serious?" I stammered.
She held the gaze for a heartbeat longer, then a mischievous smile finally broke across her face. "Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling.
I never did get that keyring, and thankfully, Mack never ended up as a statue in the lounge. But that moment of wide-eyed horror remains one of my favorite memories of the absurdity that comes with loving a dog as much as we loved him.
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