Remembering Max
An old man's memories of a good friend
Being an old man, I sometimes relate stories from my past, as a kind of highlight reel of my life. In times of chaos, such as we find ourselves in now, it’s comforting to look back on better days. I offer this one as something light that may amuse you.
Back in the long ago days of me being young, and my 3 sons being in elementary school, we had been searching for a used bicycle for one of the boys. One Friday afternoon my wife went to a garage sale in the hope of finding a bike that would fit our limited budget. She returned home empty handed, but raved about the amazing puppy that she saw. Its mother was a long haired miniature Dachshund, imported from Germany, with a sterling pedigree. The father was from a good neighborhood. I was firmly resolved against adding a dog to the family, but her pleading was boosted by all three boys joining in.
Our Saturday routine was to purchase a pizza from a nearby pizza joint. The food was exceptional, and the boys loved going to pick it up, because there were a lot of video games for them to play while waiting for the pizza. By now the unrelenting argument for a dog was weakening my resolve, and my wife was nearly in tears. I suggested that she stop by the garage sale on the way to purchase dinner, and if the puppy was still there she could invest the $3 asking price.
Dinner arrived with three excited boys, but without the usual order of soft drinks. As it turned out, all the puppies had sold, including the one that my wife was set on. But one had been returned, as it cried all night. The drink fund had been spent securing this little bundle of black fur. We christened him with the not quite original name of Max. Once the excitement died down, a bed was made for Max in a cardboard box and we retired for the night.
Soon we learned exactly why Max had been returned, as his plaintive cries woke me. The trick of placing an alarm clock next to him to simulate his mother’s heartbeat did nothing. Stumbling out of bed, I picked up the dog and settled into the rocking chair that we had used with each of the boys in their infancy. This worked to calm him, but it also created an unexpected bond. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was now his official owner.
As he grew Max’s parentage revealed itself. He had the long black hair, parted neatly down the back, of his miniature dachshund mother. But the undercoat was dense and fine, like that of a Scottish Terrier. The scorpion-like tail arching over his back and his facial features confirmed it. His ears were from his mother, hanging down at the sides. This unusual combination caused me to call him “Max the Wonder Dog”, because he made everyone wonder just what kind of a dog he was.
Within a few months it became clear that Max was my dog, and I was his person. When I would retire to my office, formerly known as our dining room, he would be there. If I left the house for an extended period on a business trip, he would lick my pillow and cry softly. On my return he would greet me with great excitement for a minute or two, and then turn his back to me to show his displeasure at my leaving. Sometimes he would let me know how terrible my abandonment was for him, by leaving a memento in the center of the office where it could not be missed.
While Max expected eternal loyalty from me, he also offered it return. Each morning we would make a two mile run, followed by a cool down walk. One day, as we were walking home, a large German Shepherd came bounding across a field in full attack mode. It was easily twice Max’s size. Before I could pick him up, Max leapt up and fastened his jaws to the neck of the larger dog. It let out a yipe and ran off, never to be seen again. Max, having done his duty to protect me, resumed the walk.
Max turned out to be somewhat precocious. Housebreaking took only a few days, and he learned the usual commands of sit, stay, and roll over. But he also invented his own tricks. Sitting up to beg was one of the first. One day, on a whim, as he was in his sit-up position, I pointed a finger at him and said “Bang!” Max instantly dropped and rolled into his “dead dog” position. It made a fun performance for neighbors and friends, but his masterpiece was counting.
I would say “Max, how many?” while holding up fingers on one hand. He would bark once for each finger. We sometimes switched it up and would say “Max, what’s two plus two?” He got it right every time. Of course there was a secret to his math skills. Any time I would hold up any number of fingers on one hand, Max would bark until I put my hand down. This misdirection was not usually caught by amazed observers.
A smart dog can sometimes be a liability. Max was an opportunist, as well as an accomplished acrobat on his short legs. One night as we were preparing for dinner, one of the boys said “Is Max supposed to have that big piece of meat?” I looked to the kitchen to see that he had leapt up on a chair, scaled the table, and taken the roast that had just come out of the oven. Our limited budget in those days required trimming away the edges and serving the rest. Max acted like we should have been grateful that he tried to make his own dinner.
By the time Max had entered his teen years we had acquired three ducks following the unfortunate demise of a sole duck the prior year. That’s another story, which was posted here. They were christened Larry, Darrel, and Daryl. As they matured it became obvious that Larry was in fact Lari, a hen. Darrel was a drake, and Daryl a hen. Lari and Darrel eventually left us, but Daryl stayed on. She would torment Max, but after his training with Lucy, the previous duck, he ignored it.
With age, Max’s hearing began to fail him and cataracts clouded both eyes. When he was let out into the back yard, he would somehow always wind up in a far corner where the edges of the chain link fence came together. At first we could stand in the doorway and clap and he could hear well enough to come back in. But as his hearing left him, he would wind up stuck in that corner. At this point something eerie happened. Daryl, the duck that had just enough brain power to eat and poop, would go to the corner and nip at Max’s hindquarters guiding him back to the door. She would then tap on the door with her bill until we let him in.
This was around the time I had just finished reading Stephen King’s Pet Seminary, which featured animals behaving in unusual ways. I’ve always wondered what possessed Daryl to behave this way. Perhaps possessed is the appropriate word. Daryl was eventually relocated to a lake in the apartment complex where my oldest son was living. He could call her name and she would quack in answer from wherever she was on the lake. Every morning she would show up at his patio door, with a small posse of followers, knocking to get a ration of dog food.
The connection between human and dog can be incredibly rewarding for both parties, but it comes at a terrible cost. The person almost always outlives the dog and must bear the burden of managing the situation when the dog is no longer able to live comfortably. I put off this decision with Max until he turned 18, which is quite a long time for most dogs. I made arrangements with the veterinarian in advance, as I knew I would be a sobbing mess after he was put down. When discussing cremation they asked if I wanted a public or private cremation. I was aghast. Is there actually an audience for this procedure?
As it turns out, a public cremation is just a mass operation involving many dogs. Private cremation is just your dog, and you get the cremains (ashes) back. The price was $50 for public, $150 for private. I opted for public, but when I related this to my wife she tearfully said “I don’t want Max mixed in with other dogs.” So I changed it to private. The following day I took Max to the vet and held him as they did the injection. In less than a minute he was gone.
Our sons are all grown with families of their own, and we have six grand-dogs that we board from time to time. This gives us the chance to enjoy the company of a dog without the awful responsibility for the end time. That’s enough for now. Max is still with us, though, after two moves.
Thanks for sharing! My Dad brought my first dog home when I was about 2 years old... he was a beautiful English Setter and his name was Max.
Aww. 😥. Well written and a nice read. Interesting to read about Daryl's behaviour,in Max's later years. Duck Magic! ******************🦆🪄******************