There Was a Dog
On Boarding With a Welsh Terrier Named Max
His name was Max. I lived under the same roof as Max, but he belonged to my parents. He was a wiry Welsh Terrier about the size of a douchebag. The day they brought him home and set him loose in the expansive back yard, he immediately sprinted north, south, east and west at light speed. Then he did it again a few more hundred times.
I witnessed this and wondered aloud, “Is it okay for him to be running at full speed like that for so long? A human would have a heart attack.” My mother assured me he would know when to stop. Dogs know. But Max didn’t know. He finally stopped when his legs buckled and he fell over, unconscious. They had to rush him to the animal hospital. The vet pumped him with fluids and declared Max an "indoor dog." It was the first of many visits to the emergency room. With the money my parents ended up spending on Max, they could have bought a Lexus SUV with DVD players in the backseat, or put me through my first semester of college.
Max was just as much trouble indoors. He still ran at supersonic speeds around the house for no apparent reason. Consequently he would occasionally knock my mother down, like a bowling pin. He would give her bruises. She’d show up at her sewing class. Her friends would see her injuries. My mother would explain it was Max, and assure them, “He didn’t mean it.” Max’s boundless energy was enough to tire the most disciplined of cocaine addicts.
When he wasn’t busy bruising my mother, he would passionately express his deep desire for my leg. Or anyone’s leg. He was a mad humper. He’d hump legs, pillows, the air. The air. I was once watching The CBS Evening News when Max trotted across the room, thrusting his pelvis against the wind. This was after they “fixed” him.
If things weren’t bad enough, Max had a Gatling gun bark. He would bark if he suspected a cat was outside or when it thundered or when a motorcycle drove by or when the wind blew or when we didn’t give him a cookie or when his eyes were open. He hated children and would snap at them when given the opportunity.
When we would say, “Come here” to Max, more often than not, he would run in the opposite direction. When he was asleep, or trying to get some sleep, if anyone dared to affectionately pet him, he would snarl loudly, not wanting to be disturbed. These traits made him a difficult dog to bond with. My mother loved him nonetheless because of his “cute, square face.”
One of the few times Max slowed down was shortly after he stole half a club sandwich. My parents had returned from lunch at a restaurant and my dad made the mistake of placing half of a club sandwich – in a container – on the edge of the kitchen table. Max the land shark swooped up and claimed the container as his own.
He proceeded to eat through it until he sunk his teeth into the brass ring. If anyone got near him under the table, he would rabidly growl at the fool who was brazen enough to try stealing his stolen club sandwich. As usual, Max won the battle between canine and human, devouring the sandwich.
After his delightful afternoon snack, he was in the mood to play. He brought me his favorite rock, wanting me to throw it. Max had a collection of rocks. He would gather them on his occasional closely monitored visits to the backyard and bring them in the house. He loved trying to eat the rocks and especially loved it when people threw rocks at him. It was his favorite game.
Thus, he brought me a rock from his collection and expected me to throw it across the room, which I did – carefully. Usually, Max was so fast he would return the rock by the time my arm had lowered from tossing it in the first place. But after eating the sandwich, he did not run to the rock. He walked. Slowly and deliberately. It took about twenty minutes for him to get to the rock, and another twenty to bring it back. Once he dropped it at my feet, he was ready for another go. I told my parents we probably needed to take Max to the hospital because he was acting as close to a normal dog as I had ever seen.
The vet did some x-rays on Max and asked, “Did this dog eat a sandwich?” Why yes he did. “The long toothpick was still in the sandwich and it’s now puncturing his internal organs. We need to operate on this dog immediately.” They performed the surgery, took the stick out, and Max was back to bouncing off the walls in no time. This particular brush with death was not his most harrowing.
Some time later, we left Max at home, as we often did. It was always a struggle to get out the front door because Max would transform into a werewolf and do everything in his power to go with us. Anyone walking by on the street who saw us whenever we left home would understandably think we were battling a dragon.
One day, after we made our usual narrow escape, Max was in the house, presumably looking for trouble when he found it. He received some unexpected visitors. A number of bees flew into the house through the chimney, hoping to set up shop. When Max saw the bees, he did what any of us would do. He ate them. He had consumed approximately twelve live bees by the time we returned home and discovered him unconscious on the living room floor, his mouth frothing, tongue dangling with a dead bee on the tip of it.
We rushed Max to the vet. He truly looked as if he had shuffled off. When we got to the animal hospital they swiftly transported him to his personal suite. Max was a local celebrity there. He was... known. Once again, the veterinarian brought him back from the brink. And there were a number of other incidents, but you get the picture.
Max is no longer with us. In the end, it wasn’t dehydration or toothpicks or rogue bees that got him. It was time that caught up to him, as it does with all creatures great and small. I was looking at a picture of him the other day. It reminded me of his various antics. I have no idea how my parents put up with him for fourteen years. That’s ninety-eight in dog years. Since he has crossed over and is no longer capable of defending himself, I feel at least a few words of praise are in order…
Max lived life to the fullest. He was never deterred by his small size, never hesitant to seek a new adventure or to defend his home with every fiber of his being. He never gave up, he never gave in, and he never allowed minor irritants such as a pierced spleen to quell his spirit or to keep him from having fun. He had an uncanny ability to provide comfort whenever one of us happened to be feeling a little down, making sure to stay by our side and to tenderly lick our hand or face to help us through.
For all his stubbornness, he did love us. Undoubtedly, he loved my mother as much as she loved him. That counts for something, I guess.