dogslife

Max, my old dog: 1992? - August 25, 2007

We picked up Max from the Oakville Humane Society in December of 1993. My mom and I were hung up on an enormous black lab named Moses, who probably just reminded us of the dog we had when I was very young, but my brother wanted the tailless mottled mongrel hound* with the broken tooth who'd been given the default dog name of the 90s. The people reviewing our application were extremely wary of letting us take Moses into our suburban townhome, but they thought Max would be a good fit so we settled on him.

The following spring we enrolled in obedience classes which my mom and I attended with him, and which Max passed with the proverbial flying colours. He wasn't the smartest dog by a long shot (cookies placed under transparent cups were regarded as tragically unattainable and a blanket on the head was taken as a good sign of the day growing late) but he would work hard at pleasing his people and I was so proud of him as he learned sit, down, stay, up, and the miraculous off. He and I drilled so often that eventually I could run him through a calisthenics routine -- sit-down-sit-up-sit-down-up-sit -- with hand signals alone while a cookie lay on the floor next to him, only to be seized when he heard a bright "take it!". His best trick as far as I'm concerned was the reflex to correctly shake hands, right paw to right hand, left paw to left hand, which he picked up on his own in the course of learning "paw - other paw". We probably could have enforced "off" with respect to furniture a little more consistently, but he was a comfortable dog to cuddle with on the couch on the basement, and it's the least we could do for him after he'd cleaned my brother's bare feet from his ankles to the tips of his toes. (I suspect Max got the sweet end of both deals, as he licked feet with such gusto it was hard to believe he was doing anything but exactly what he wanted.)

15 years is a long run for a big dog. We thought he was a goner about 10 years ago when a thyroid deficiency brought him limping to death's door; but the vet held him for a few days and figured out that all he needed to be a happy healthy pooch was a couple of little blue pills every day for the rest of his life. It seemed like the clock reset when he got onto his meds and he enjoyed the rest of the extended adolescence that is the birthright of all hounds. I was glad that shortly after I moved out in 2002 that my mom's partner of many years was moving in, which meant moving his home-based business as well, giving my mom a fuller warmer home as her nest emptied and Max the full-time pal he deserved in his old age. They moved way outside of the city a couple years later and got another dog, Lucy, to keep Max company, and, I think, to make the inevitable loss more bearable.

Max liked the new house, with its expansive backyard and many shady spots which he'd avoid while trying to bake himself in the sun. It was the right house for him as his muscle tone started to dissolve and his eyesight and hearing faded. Not a lot of stepping up and down to get in and out of the house and a main floor with plenty of space for dogs to get along in. I think he retired well.

It's odd to say he's dead now, because the dog he was for most of his life has been gone for some time already. We used to joke that he'd die if only he weren't too senile to apprehend it as an option. I suppose I've learned something about aging from him, though I'm not sure I can say what it might be. My dog is gone, and I miss him, but I've been missing him for years. I know now that that was nonsense. He's gone now.

*Near as we could figure, he was half American Foxhound and half Australian Shepherd. Though the latter left him with no tail, the former gave him the inclination to wag like any other dog, so to read his mood you watched his ears and his thumb of a tail, which would wag flat against his rump. He never really hollered like a hound, though he loved a good sniff and could happily hold his nose to the ground for long stretches, though we had to conclude that he was just indulging an inclination, not a talent, as he never was very good at locating anything by scent.