Of late, I am a canine nurse. Max is in the recovery stage after his recent conflict with an unknown assailant from a member of the local pit viper family of venomous snakes.

Max – 0

Snake – 1

My assignment as his caregiver is to administer his meds and to keep the wound clean. This is not as easy as it seems, mostly because Max is a somewhat uncooperative patient, and I am definitely a less than adequate nurse.

The Doc said, “I have never met a dog that doesn’t love Cheez Whiz. Hide the pill in a glob of that stuff and he’ll swallow it right down.”

Well, meet Max.

I have learned that Max does not like Cheez Whiz. He is particular about his cheese consumption. I can’t say that I blame him. There was a time, like back in the days of college dorm life, when I thought Cheez Whiz was the best cheese spread on the planet. If I had Cheez Whiz and Ritz crackers, I could pull an all-nighter, easy.

I’m not sure how this happens, but taste buds change. I couldn’t imagine why Max would take one lick of the cheese in his bowl, heave, and walk away. This stuff used to be good.

I decided to sample the Cheez Whiz myself. I turned the can upside down. Nozzle pointed at my left index finger. I squeezed out a perfect cone of cheese the size of a massive Hershey’s Kiss.

Max was watching me. He had the Don’t-Do-It look on his face.

I discovered that Cheez Whiz is among some of the most god-awful cheese flavored paste ever created. And although I’ve never actually tasted Turtle Wax, for some reason my taste buds said, “Yuk. This stuff tastes like orange colored Turtle Wax.”

I apologized to Max and threw the can in the trash. Luckily, I had a pack of good old Kraft American Cheese slices in the fridge. You know the kind. The ones individually wrapped in plastic. When I was a kid, we called them “peel cheese”, because you had to peel the plastic off to eat them.

I know this is a fake cheese product, made of cheese-like ingredients and artificial flavoring, but hey, I had a pill to give. I wrapped a pill inside a sliver of American cheese, pressed it into somewhat of a football-like shape, and dropped it into his food dish. Max inspected the morsel and swallowed it whole.

The dog knows his cheese.

My next assignment. I am supposed to irrigate and wipe the wound on his foot twice each day. The Doc gave me a plastic tub of antibacterial wipes to use for said purpose.

The first day home, Max did not like having his paw held. He tugged. I held tighter. His paw was a moving target, which made it hard to do anything close to a thorough job of being his nurse. But I persisted and he tolerated my efforts.

By day three he would hand me his paw when I sat on the floor to do my thing. Now, he even lets me spread his toes so I can get down in there good around the puncture hole in his skin.

Max is definitely on the mend. Thanks for all the well wishes. He can’t read. He’s not on FB. But I will certainly pass along your words of encouragement.

The big deal is the leash. Doctor’s orders. “Keep him on the leash until that wound heals up and the hole closes.”

Max doesn’t mind his leash, but he’s not a leash kind of dog. He is a free-range dog. He wanders through the woods to visit my neighbors. They give him treats.

One night I came home after dark. Max was not around. He wouldn’t come when I called, so I got my neighbor on the phone.

“Is Max up at your place?”

“Yep. He’s laying down in his place by the table.”

“Max has a place?”

Every time we go outside, his ears and nose are working overtime. The least little sound from down somewhere deep in the woods and Max is gone like greased lightning. He frolics in the creek. He digs holes. He challenges about anything that comes our way, which is certainly how he got snakebit in the first place.

So, the Doc doesn’t want him in the creek or in the mud or in the woods. She wants him on lock-down.

“Too much chance he could get a secondary infection,” she says.

The flipside of this coin is that I am not a leash kind of dog owner. If I walk out to the truck, he’s on the leash. If I need to take the trash out, he’s on the leash. I tried working in my shop the other day for a while. I even closed all the doors so he wouldn’t have to be on his leash. But Max doesn’t like the shop. More accurately, he doesn’t like the sounds in the shop. The air compressor and nail gun cause him to have nervous spasms.

Neither one of us is very happy with this arrangement. Some days I’m not sure if it’s him or me tethered to that leash. We seem to be bound to each other in more than just spirit.

I even took him to church with me today because I never leave him in the house alone and leaving him outside to roam for a few hours was not an option. I went to music rehearsal early. I missed about half of Sunday School so I could take him out for a walk and give him some water. I almost took him inside for the preaching but didn’t figure he needed it. All dogs go to heaven, right?

I will be glad when this is over. We both will be glad when he heals up all the way. We’re getting to be quite like the odd couple who need a break from each other. He wants to run in the creek. I want to pull free of the leash and do my own thing.

But there are days to go, yet. Several days to go before I’m free.

We are buddies. That’s the gospel truth. He has seen me through the last couple of years. He has doctored my soul much like I have doctored his paw. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. Not now. His time will come too soon as it is.

At worst, it’s only a minor inconvenience to care for someone who is a loyal companion. If he had opposable thumbs, I’m sure he’d do the same for me if I got snakebit.

But knowing what I know now, I don’t want any Cheese Whiz.

I’m leaving special instructions. “Do not hide my pills inside a glob of cheese.”

Use cheesecake instead. With cherries on top.

Who’s a good boy?