Max
by Faith Amadio
It's not that I didn't like dogs. I did! It's just that I really didn't think dogs particularly liked ME. And "PUL-LEASE"!! I'd sneer, to whomever would listen, no snickers on the sidelines that dogs are good judges of character. Come on now! What's their IQ? 12? And they're good judges of character? Give me a break, I'd smirk, superior in my knowledge that I knew better. And so my life went. Dogless. Just the way I THOUGHT I liked it.
Besides, I have a very good character, I'd think to myself, self-righteously, dredging up old memories of dogs I'd previously known and had less than a satisfactory relationships with...... After all, didn't I risk my life to feed Midnight when I was a child? Midnight was a slathering lunatic of a dog, driven completely insane by neighbourhood children, who used to tease him mercilessly. He was tied up outside and to feed him you had to run within reach of his snarling and snapping jaws, drop his food and run out of his reach, all the while praying you didn't trip. Well, all right, if the truth be known, Midnight was our family pet and I was forced to feed him. But, I still did it, didn't I? And, maybe he really wasn't such a slathering lunatic, after all, but, still, he was large and I was small, and he sure looked scary!
And what about Boy? Boy was my grandfather's prized Dalmatian. I used to beg to be allowed to walk Boy and, finally, I was given permission to do so. I was thrilled! I should have suspected something was up when I was sternly admonished not to let him get loose, under any circumstances. Any circumstances? I was told he "tugged" a little and to hang on to him. Tugged a little? Boy ended up galloping at 100 miles an hour dragging me haplessly bouncing after him. Every bounce, you must remember, was embedding gravel, sticks and twigs into my young and tender body. Bloodied and bruised, I hung on for dear life, screaming my fool head off. I'm sure all the noise and hysteria only egged that maniacal dog on even more. I'm proud to say, though, that I didn't let go of him. No siree, not me. I was tough. Boy never appreciated my sacrifice, though, and several months later broke free and disappeared. He no doubt fled the country and is living in Brazil.
And then there was Lucky. A three-legged (not so lucky, was he?) chihuahua I once had the misfortune of knowing. Lucky was the dog of besotted owners who really should have just skipped Lucky and gone straight to children. They rescued him from certain death (if you knew Lucky, you knew it was certain) and everafter lavished him with such abject adoration it was embarrassing. He was their badge of righteousness and they never once missed an opportunity to pat themselves on the backs for being so kind and generous as to rescue such a needy dog.
Lucky's temperament matched his physique - sorrily lacking. He was small, even for a chihuahua, and looked dainty and helpless. This small and dainty disguise of Lucky's was all the more diabolic because Lucky was about as friendly as a tank of hungry piranha.
I first met Lucky at a family backyard barbeque......his owners came in late, carrying him like a trophy. Everybody oohed and aahed over him, his beautiful brown eyes and small, delicate stature, his dainty feet, his perky ears. Hearts squeezed with sympathy over his terrible disability. There was much conjecture about just how his leg came to be amputated and horror stories were presented that wrung tears from even the most hard-hearted of souls.
My youngest daughter, just a toddler at that time, was enchanted with Lucky and could hardly be pried away when Nature called. She and I trooped off to the house to use the facilities. As she was toddling back to the group and I was guiding her staggering and uncertain steps, we were ambushed. A diminutive bundle of fury, Lucky, barking and snarling, lunged at my little daughter's feet. I scooped her up in the nick of time but not to be deterred, Lucky then lunged at MY feet. I considered flinging the child aside and running for my life but I just knew that was not acceptable behaviour. As I tried to high-step out of the way, I thought of kicking Lucky into next week, but by this time, because of my daughter's shrieking and what with Lucky's barking, we had become the centre of attention. There were 40 eyes watching us. How would it look to my family and friends if kicked this dog? I just knew it wouldn't endear me to anyone's hearts. So I jumped and danced and pranced until, finally, Lucky's owners, wiping tears of laughter from their silly faces, rescued me. Feeling extremely foolish because, by this time, my daughter thought it was sort of brand new game and was squealing to "go back and dance some more, Mommy", I slunk off to my seat, hoping to fade into oblivion.
Lucky's owners, in that falsetto voice people use for animals and babies, insisted Lucky "apologize". Why, oh why, do normal people act like that? It's degrading. Holding Lucky over me, they scolded him in a sing-song voice, "Naughty, naughty boy. Mustn't scare our Auntie ever again (so true, you can pick your friends but not your relatives), Now you apologize to your Auntie, you hear? You apologize, Lucky, you naughty boy."
And what did Lucky do?
Lucky peed on me.
No one was amused when I offered to even Lucky's legs out.
So, you can see that my past experiences with dogs hadn't been altogether ideal and you can see how totally faultless I was, can't you? Of course, you can.
Still, when I decided to buy a house in a neighbourhood that had never ever seen genteelly run-down but had gone directly to seed, without even passing "GO", I decided I needed a dog for protection. Friends of friends knew of friends who's friends had a family of friends whose dog just had puppies. Would I be interested?
Out to the farm we went where I was immediately hypnotized by 13 squirming, licking, wriggling puppies........I now believe I was drugged and brainwashed.
One puppy, more daring than the others, latched on to my shoelace and flopped behind me where ever I went. What could I do? I had to take him home with me. I needed that shoe.
I was mildly surprised when I was expected to pay for him and raised an eyebrow at the amount. I mean, couldn't these people count? There were 12 other dogs they had to find homes for. Shouldn't they be paying ME to take him? However, I begrudgingly paid honest money for the porky little bundle of fur. Money well spent, I consoled myself. For protection, of course.
After hours of debate, we chose the name "Max". I set the children straight right from the very beginning. Max was not a "pet" - he was going to earn his keep and learn to protect us. Period. He was a working dog. Not a member of this family. This bobbing head and round tummy with four short little legs that kept splaying out from under him as he scampered around amidst the squeals of delight from the children, was going to be a guard dog, by cracky.
Even with all the noise and commotion, giggling and shouts of delight, I'm sure the children heard my lecture and I'm sure they understood the rules.
Max was confined to the kitchen and bedded down for the night with a blanket and clock. I turned a deaf ear to his whimpering which eventually turned to howling in three minutes flat. Just when I thought I'd cheerfully strangle him for keeping me awake, the din ended. Hang tough and you can train any dog, I thought smugly. Who says training a puppy is hard? I had the knack! Maybe I should write a book? Or charge outrageous consulting fees? I snuggled in my bed feeling very proud of myself. It was obvious I was a natural at this dog training thing.
Morning came bright and early and I stumbled bleary-eyed down to the kitchen. In the greying light of early morning I almost stepped on one ten year old, pigtailed little girl sleeping on her back on the floor. Sprawled spread-eagle across her chest, snoozing peacefully, one floppy ear pressed against her chest, listening to her heart beat, was one plump little puppy. It was a Norman Rockwell moment. Even I was touched by this charming scene.
Max never slept alone again. When he grew too big to sleep on top of you, he slept beside you, and, when he grew too big to sleep with you, he slept at the side of your bed. Such devotion was certainly commendable, I had to admit, grudgingly.
Within weeks (well, all right, within minutes) he'd ingratiated himself into the childrens' affections.
But I was not going to allow myself to become attached to him. Max was a guard dog. Period.
And when it soon became very apparent that Max was going to be a very large guard dog. I thought, all the better.
He grew (and grew) to be a large, goofy-looking, ungainly dog - long-legged, floppy-eared and clumsy but always good natured. Naturally curious, he followed me everywhere. Even into the bathroom. I tolerated his presence, barely, and sometimes was very annoyed that he was always underfoot.
One particular evening, exhausted after a long and very trying day, I climbed wearily into the bathtub for a long, relaxing soak. Max, never far from my side, had now grown tall enough that he could actually look inside the bathtub...a new experience for him and he was curious at the sound of the running water. As I lounged back amidst the bubbles, he became increasingly agitated, then he began running back and forth, whining and crying. Finally he started barking, and, in exasperation, I tried shooing him off....he persisted, even though I was yelling at him by this time. He became completely beside himself, hysterical even, and was trying to grab my hair with his teeth, alternating with shoving me with his wet and very cold nose. Exposed and very vulnerable, I was shrieking, he was frantic and I was convinced he'd gone totally berserk. It finally dawned on me that, in Max's mind, I was in "danger" and he was simply trying to "rescue me"! I had to convince Max I was "safe" by chirping in this sing-song voice, "See, Max? See how much fun this is? Look, Max! Look! This is SOOOOOOOOOO much fun! WHEEEEE!" I ended up calming him down by crooning a lullaby, washing myself with one hand and patting him with the other was how I was finally able to finish my bath. But I was impressed with his devotion to me.
Max will be 10 years old this December. In the past ten years we've had many mishaps and adventures but he has been a very good dog, and, in fact, has designated himself my personal bodyguard. His dedication is unsurpassed and he loves me unconditionally. He's very perceptive, too. If Max doesn't like you, well, there's something wrong with you, that's for sure.
So, Happy Birthday, Max, old buddy, old friend. Shall Mommy sing Happy Birthday to you, Maxie? Come on, everybody, sing Happy Birthday to Uncle Max -- all together, now - one and a two and a .......... Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you........