Max

This has been a sad week. I put my dog to sleep on Saturday. He was old and it was time, but I’m still grieving. I’ve been reflecting on how much Max or as I often called him, Poochy, added to my family’s lives. For the most part, Max was my dog. He slept in my room, I walked him, and he followed me around. He was a 65 pound lab chow mix and made me feel safer in the house by myself.
Max had all the humans so well trained. Whenever I brushed my teeth, he barked until he got a treat. He was Pavlov's dog drooling at the site of my toothbrush. However, I was equally trained and produced his chicken treat each time he barked. So he learned to bark whenever the water ran in that sink. Translation: when in the master bath, if I didn't want to be barked at, I had to go down the hall and use the kids’ bathroom to wash my hands. Okay, now how ridiculous is that? To appease my dog, I went to a different bathroom to wash my hands. As I write this, I realize I don't sound too bright.
The kids and I were also trained doormen; opening and closing the back door on demand. We were “terrible” pet owners and slipped food under the table when Max begged. I would often purchase special bones at the meat counter just for Max. In theory, the dog didn't get on the furniture. That was the theory. Whenever I left, Max immediately got on the couch. I also have fond memories of him crawling on all four paws for her royal snottiness, my cat Snowball. I cat never deigned to interact with the dog, but he consistently tried. I have so many fond memories of Max. Yesterday I started down the hall to wash my hands before catching myself. Instead of wallowing in my grief, I’m choosing to count the joy and blessings Poochy provided us over the years.