Max

September 17, 2018

Greetings from man’s best friend’s friend,

Every once in a while someone will ask; “You still got that dog Max? He must be old by now.”

This question, usually proffered in a tone of incredulity, is often prompted by some mild complaint on my part, one of the classics I am compelled to wheel out from time to time. 

To be clear, I am not prone to complaining, or to talking about Max.  But, it is a rare moment that I might mention Max that it is not paired with a complaint.  It usually has something to do with some inconvenience put upon me by the dog.

The lifespan of dogs of Max’s ilk is typically somewhat shorter than what he is currently enjoying.  This leads not only to the incredulous tone when someone asks about him, but also provides something like 100 dog years of material with which I might pair with less than complimentary commentary.

Depending on the era, the dog produced different reasons for complaint.  There was a number of years that he barked at everything from squirrels to passing cars to the sound of a toilet flushing.  There was a period of time when the dog slept on my bed.  There have been various things torn, lost, stained, and scratched, which I blame him for.  I’m not prone to harbor grudges but they must be kept somewhere.

Honestly I have no reason to write about Max today.  He has not done anything particularly remarkable, other than a certain air he has taken on, or given off, I’m not sure which.  The only reason I mention him at all because there might come a time when I’ll mention him for the last time, and I want to resist becoming maudlin on the subject.  And avoid any regrets.

I don’t like to overlay human attributes to dogs, it’s a pet peeve of mine.  I don’t think of Max as a person, he is a dog.  I believe if he thinks of me at all, he probably does not think of me as a dog, but rather as whatever the mind of a dog thinks of when it sees a person.  That is our relationship; somewhat formal, somewhat awkward, somewhat laughable if you look at it from far enough away.

But I will admit that I have had more conversations with him in the last year or so than perhaps previously.  I use the word ‘conversation’ loosely since Max is deaf as a stone and being a dog does not speak or understand English, which also true of a stone. 

It is more of an instinct when I speak to him.  It might be 1:30 in the morning and he has been yowling at me from downstairs for some reason and I show up and ask, “Do you want to go outside?”  He does not have any facial expression that I can discern.  He looks at me the same whether he wants food or water or to pee on the floor.  So my question, posed in the miasma of near-REM, might just as well be “Do you want to fly a dirigible?”   But I am making an effort.

On our walks I will sometimes confide in Max.  I will tell him about things I am thinking about, sometimes asking his opinion, if it seems appropriate.  It really never is, I’m just trying to be nice.  I don’t think it matters to him, but it sometimes does to me. 

When I am home alone with him I try to be kind, friendly even.  Maybe our tenuous-relationship momentum is too strong.  His response, one honed to razor sharpness over years of practice, is that of total indifference.  The only sign he gives that he knows I am there is to leave the room I am in to avoid having to raise enough energy to show annoyance. 

Max is not as steady as he once was, and I am not certain how good his vision is, which can lead to some comical standoffs with walls that he might think of as doors.  He still looks out the window, and for all I know sees the squirrels who were once his nemesis, but evidently has forgiven them.  Mostly he walks between the places where he sleeps.  Which is not in my bed.

Once in a while a little of the younger dog appears; when he comes in from the rain and gets dried off he may bound around a bit, or perhaps on a walk he will break into a little lope until he gets winded.  It’s probably not true, but I think he does it for us, to show us he’s still in there.

When I am out on the deck eating breakfast, somehow he knows it, even if he has been sleeping. I will hear him tap at the glass door and see him staring at me, same look as 1:30 in the morning, but we both know it means “I want to be with you.  And eat your bagel.”

Max is old by now.  I don’t know how old exactly and I am not going to guess because I will get corrected later in the day.  He has developed old dog habits, including some that no one would want me to mention while they were drinking their morning coffee.  I can mention that he has become much more vocal, particularly in his getting up and lying down.  Even as I write this he is lying behind me in the living room complaining, I think, probably about me.

Like any relationship of this many years, Max and I have had our share of good and bad.  In spite of all my complaining about him, I know he has been a good companion for my family.  In our way we have reached an accord of sorts.  I have to guess at his share of it, being that he

does not speak English, and I imagine he is guessing at mine, what with my limitations.  In some ways it’s a beautiful thing.

Hope this finds you in good company,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith