We were involved in a full-blown, no-holds-barred dogfight today. Oddly enough, Max and Buddy were on the same side. Even more peculiar, I may have been the most injured party.

Walking back from our morning excursion, we encountered a big Boxer type dog. I felt uneasy from the moment he suddenly appeared out of nowhere, bounding around the corner unleashed and unescorted. He just seemed out of control. I tried to get between him and my dogs and asked him who he belonged to. He came bounding over to me, stooped to smell my boys and the next thing you know, it was on.

Mind you, everything happened in such a flash, I can barely recount the course of events. All I know is he was attacking Max and I instinctively grabbed him by the neck in a headlock until he released him. The dog broke away to grab Max while Buddy was snapping at his heels, and then he was all over Buddy.

By now, Max had completely broken away from the leash by slipping out of his collar. He was ready to rumble. I kept pulling the stray dog away from them both, commanding Max to stay. I had to physically restrain the dog, which my guess is weighed about 80 lbs. I grabbed his collar from behind pulling back on it, and held him in a death grip between by legs while I reached into my pocket for my whistle. Another lady who was passing by walking her dog asked if I was okay, and I just screamed, "Call 911." She went into the store on the corner and everyone came running out to see what was going on. By now, the owner came strolling down the street in her bathrobe, carrying a leash and calling the dog's name. I screamed at her to get control of her dog while I checked mine out. She kept saying, "He's never attacked anybody before. I don't know what happened." I told her while I didn't know about his history, he definitely attacked today.

Turns out that neither Max nor Buddy had a scratch, which, unfortunately, I can't claim for myself. I don't know how it happended, but someone in the scuffle my knuckle got scrapped. By the time I got home and my adrenalin calmed down, I realized I was sore all over. I felt like I had been in a fight which, realistically, I guess I was.

All things considered, it could have been much worse. The lady, who is a neighbor I had never met, called shortly after to apologize profusely. Somehow the dog had escaped the gate when she went out to clean the yard. She told me they had rescued him about a year ago so she didn't know a lot about his history. They suspect he had been used in fighting because, at just a couple of years old, she said he has very few teeth left. I guess that explains why Max nor Buddy was injured. Or why I wasn't hurt worse.

I have a soft spot for rescues, and for those who take them in. I can also relate to having your dog embarrass you by behaving like a dog. The lesson for me in this unfortunate incident is twofold: stay out of dog fights and always carry a cell phone.

A couple of weeks into our new living arrangement, I am happy to report there's been no bloodletting. Maybe Max is mellowing in his old age. Okay, that's an over-simplification. Max is minding his manners, mostly. More importantly, Buddy's temperament makes him easy to live with. He is such an easy-going dog that nothing riles him. Not even Max snapping at him. When Max does go off, and there have been a few occasions, Buddy is smart enough to walk away and give Max his props.

This is really a great experiment in social behavior. I'm getting to witness the natural order of things within the canine pack. It's fascinating and funny how they navigate the rules of acceptable behavior. They don't need a criminal justice system to keep them in line, the pack leader does that. In this case, that would be me.

The pecking order goes like this....I'm first, then Max, and then everybody else. Buddy understands that. He's naturally a follower, and he's happy to let Max show him the ropes. Although I must add that Max has learned a few things from Buddy as well.

The first few days were touch and go around some predictable issues, mainly food and territory. Buddy eats half as much as Max, and it takes him twice as long. He slowly chews each morsel, enjoying every bite. Max on the other hand attacks his food. He puts his head down, inhales and when he looks up, it's all gone. I think he's even surprised by how quickly it gets away. He always has this look of dismay when he finishes. He walks back into the kitchen, as if to say "Call the po-lice. Someone stole my food!!" Initially, Buddy would walk away from his bowl with a few bites left and Max would swoop in to finish it off, like Mikey. Poor Buddy would go back to the bowl a few minutes later, only to find his left-overs had up and left. I had to put a stop to that so Buddy could get his nourishment.

Max's most cherished possessions are Mr. Jack, a five-pronged brightly primary-colored toy that squeaks when you squeeze it, and a ball, any tennis ball. Up until now, no one has dared mess with either. Buddy has managed to play with both, not entirely without incident, mainly because he defers to Max. He waits until Max is finished before taking a turn. Max has never been good with sharing his ball. I cringe when another dog runs into his game because I know there's gonna be a fight. Buddy has made that mistake a couple of times and Max has chastised him. Duly noted, Buddy lets out a sharp retort in anguish, like "I can't believe how mean you are", but he always gives Max a wide berth. I'm there to keep things safe, but I let them work it out and they seem to manage just fine.

Buddy has taught Max how to enjoy the simple things in life... like a dog biscuit and a chew. Max has never been interested in treats if they didn't smell, or taste like meat, but seeing Buddy enjoy a nice reward makes him want it too. He's also learned that sharing things, like his bed for instance, can open the door to new experiences in a different bed. And he's learning that old dogs can learn new tricks.

We've got a new roommate. It's a temporary arrangement, but there's now another dog in the house. Now for most households with a pet, this might not be such a big deal. But this is Max we're talking about. He relishes his role as the "only". Max is not the least bit interested in changing his status.

For the past week, we've been adjusting ourselves to Buddy's presence. He is the most adorable combination of Lhasa Apso/Tebetan Terrier, with Farrah Fawcett hair. Long, curly, luxuriously thick hair... the kind most women would kill for. Buddy's very agreeable and even Max can't seem to raise his ire.

I must say things are working out much better than the last time we tried a companion pet. Poor Maggie didn't stand a chance. I thought Max would appreciate having a playmate, someone to hang out with when I'm away so that he would not feel lonely. Turns out I was sadly mistaken.

Maggie was a rescue dog at Barking Hound Village where Max went for daycare every week. The owner there is an animal lover with a soft heart for rescues. He can not abide the idea of a dog going uncared for or unloved. She was a Beagle/Bassett hound mix with a pink nose, big paws and a submissive demeanor. After meeting her at the daycare, I brought Maggie home. Things got off to a rocky start right away. Max attacked her at the door and I had to literally pull them apart.

Max went from expressing open hostility to benign indifference. It's as if he decided that if he didn't acknowledge her presence, then she really did not exist. They would pass each other and he would totally ignore her. She tried to engage him in every way she could possibly think of. But in her desperation, Maggie resorted to destroying things. At first, it was replaceable stuff like my socks and Max's toys. But then she escalated to soiling the rug and pulling things down off the coffee table. The last straw was the day I came downstairs to find her nibbling on my sofa pillows. We had returned from our morning walk. I fed them the morning meal, left them contentedly resting at opposite ends of the room, only to return later to see Maggie chewing the cover off the pillow.

After a couple of months of trying to work things out between them, I decided that was it. Enough already. I even bought her lots of raw hides and chew toys to satisfy her nervous chewing habit. In his worst days, Max was never destructive. I admit to having very little tolerance for the needless loss of hard-earned possessions. Maggie had to go... back to BHV, that is.

Of course, my friends concluded that it was all part of Max's grand scheme to eliminate his arch rival for my affections. Maggie was a big goof who loved to jump up and give sloppy kisses. She wasn't the smartest dog, but she tried hard to please. She just didn't know there was nothing she could do that would satisfy Max.

I don't know exactly how long Buddy will be with us. We're fostering him while his Mom gets back on her feet. But knowing that its a temporary arrangement seems to be enough to prevent Max from sabotaging Buddy. They're actually adjusting nicely. Let's hope things stay that way.

Today's adventures took us to Piedmont Park or, for Max, to Disney World. Max is overcome with excitement at the very thought of Piedmont Park. The sights, sounds, and smells of nature at peak volume make him giddy. He's in full maximum dog mode whenever we visit. We don't frequent the doggie park as much these days; too many undisciplined dogs. So we explore the magnificent beauty of Piedmont.

This is the park we were nearly banned from once because Max tried to pluck the ducks out of the lake. Really. He just went crazy. His natural hunting instincts took hold when he saw all the ducks swimming around in the water. He was circling the lake, going right up to the ledge, making these strange anguished sounds. It was all I could do to restrain him from jumping in. This is one time when the leash came in handy. That, and the fact that Max isn't too fond of water. Anyway, now he's made peace with the ducks. He likes to go over to see them from time to time. And since he's no longer a threat to their welfare we are welcome to visit the park.

Over on the green, there was a luncheon event going on under a tent. The staff said it was a "Green Day" event. Laughter filled the air as the attendees listenened to an amusing conversation between local anchor Monica Kaufman and media mogul Ted Turner. Something about bathrooms???? I found it funny to see the hat-wearing Midtown mavens mixing it up with the bums and vagrants who claim the park as home. Fortunately no mishaps ensued at the intersection of chic and shabby.

You'll never guess what Max found today. Okay, by now you know. Just like manna from heaven, Max rolled up on a ball. We played catch until he realized he could be sniffing something. He walked away from the ball and followed his nose to nirvana.

Max doesn't have bad days, only better ones. That's one of his most endearing qualities. It doesn't matter to him if the computer is on the fritz, if the mortgage gets paid, or if bill collectors ring with incessant frequency. Max awakens each day with eager anticipation of the day ahead. Given his track record to date, there's no reason that he should expect anything differently.

In fact, news of an economic meltdown has not trickled down to his level. We may have had to cut back on some of his more exotic tastes, like the all-meat chicken jerky strips he's so fond of. For the most part, Max's life has a predictable rhythm that he lives for.

Each day starts and ends the same, with lots of routine rituals he can count on. He lays in wait every morning as I walk by his bed on the way to the bathroom, and flops over on his back for his wake-up belly-rub. He can't get the day started without it. On rare occasions, I may be rushing to get out to a morning meeting and forget to do my duty. He doesn't mind letting me know what my priorities are. He falls out on the sisal rug, pounding his tail on the floor until I get the message. "Lady, I know you're not planning to leave me hanging. You know what I need." Of course, I oblige.

Max did grow out of one of his routines... his weekly visit to doggie daycare. For years, every since Max was a pup and I learned that doggie daycare could wear him out, Max had a standing Friday play date with his buddies. He had become quite the celebrity at Barking Hound Village (http://www.barkinghoundvillage.com/home-banner-01.html), where all the staff had come to know and love him. We'd walk in and everybody would start cooing. "Max Minor is here. Oh, Max, you're such a good boy!" And he would eat it up. Wiggling up to the ladies, grinnin' and skinnin' with the guys. Max was so well-behaved, he was the model dog at daycare. He could hang outside of the holding cage between outdoor runs because he was so well-mannered. He loved showboating and flirting with the girl dogs, giving them just enough attention to fall for him before breaking their hearts and walking away. He knew instinctively when it was Friday and he would beat me getting out the door. It was a welcome retreat for both of us because I got to take care of personal business while he was maxing and relaxing.

All that changed a couple of years ago. Max just lost his desire to go to daycare. When I would pick him up, the staff would report on his unusual behavior. Instead of playing with the other dogs, Max would just lay around all day, snoozing. Well, everybody knew that wasn't like Max. At first, I thought he might not be feeling well, but the minute he got home, he was instantly energized. I couldn't get him to sit still. It finally occurred to me, after one final solemn visit, that he just wasn't into daycare anymore. Perhaps more to the point, he decided he would rather stay home with me.

Recently, me and Max escaped our routine for a jaunt to the hinterlands. I needed a break from the hustle and bustle of city life and, Max, well he just likes going wherever I go. Besides, country life gives him the chance to sharpen his wits and hone his hunting skills. He loves going one-on-one with nature.

Our friend graciously welcomed us to stay a couple of days, despite the unpleasantness of my dog's sheddies. I try brushing them away, but he just manufactures more. It's a loosing battle. I am resigned to living with fur residue. I realize it's really kind of anyone to allow him to sleep over.

No matter where he goes, Max has the uncanny ability to find a tennis ball. I used to wonder how it was that he would always have a ball in his mouth when he came to visit. Tennis balls don't grow on trees. I never seem to find them. So how is it that this little dog can always find a ball?

It's because he expects to. Max believes that balls are available to him in abundance. He keeps his nose to the ground, eyes scanning the landscape for that little green fuzzy sphere. You'd be amazed how many tennis balls there are laying around. Once he has gotten his use of it, he leaves it there for the next dog who comes along, knowing he'll find another one when he needs it.

And true to form, Max once again uncovered his joy. We were on a spur of the serpentine walking trails that snake through Peachtree City, where miles and miles of trails run through dozens of planned communities linking them all together. Max was sniffing out the wild life when he caught wind of something. He took off like a bullet into the thickets chasing the scent of something we couldn't see. He finally emerged, grinning from ear to ear, with a tennis ball in his mouth.

As much as he loved his visit, there's nothing Max loves more than his own territory. He starts to squeal with anticipation as we pull into the driveway. He can't wait to get out to patrol his fence, where a pesky possum hangs out and torments him every night. It's his evening gig, manning the fence in the back of our property, daring the possum and the kittie cats and whatever creatures of the night to come out and face him. Nothing can get past Max.

Okay. It's high time I told you the story of how Max came into my life. All things considered, our fortuitous encounter could not have come at a more opportune time.

In the late summer of 2001, a little wayward dog showed up in the neighborhood. For weeks, this feisty canine was a familiar presence, enough so that many of the neighbors had given him a name, and many of us left food around for him, just in case. He became known as Shorty, Rin-Tin-Tin and Li'l Charlie. Many days, he would appear in my backyard when I would come and go, oftentimes with his trusty tennis ball in his mouth. Sometimes I'd stop to ask him who he belonged to. He looked healthy and well cared for, although he didn't have a tag or a collar. He would throw his little ball down at my feet. When I didn't respond (I didn't know what he wanted) he would keep dropping it like a gauntlet, and then look up at me with this impish grin, as if to say, "What you gonna do, lady?" I finally figured out enough to pick it up and throw it and he'd go get it and bring and back. That became our greeting ritual whenever we met outside my door.

At the time, taking on responsibility for a dog was the last thing on my mind. I had gone through a series of personal challenges during that stormy summer. A tree fell on my car, totaling it, and then lightening struck my A/C compressor which had to be replaced. All of this after I had stopped smoking just weeks before. I felt like Lloyd Bridges' character in the Airplane movie; it was just a bad time to give up smoking. They say tragedy comes in threes. When terrorists struck the country in a series of air strikes on 9/11, I was sure the world, if not my own little piece of it, was coming to an end.

The little dog disappeared for a few weeks, and I found myself worrying about him. Was he safe, where was he sleeping, had he been hit by a car? He walked the streets of the Old Fourth Ward like a bull fighter, daring anybody or anything to mess with him. I must confess I liked that bad boy quality. But still, I was concerned. And I missed seeing him. When he finally did show up again at my door, on October 15th, I decided to take him in. I took him to the vet that day, got a clean bill of health, and we began a tentative journey.

He was no more sure than I was that we were a good match. He liked his vagrant lifestyle and tried to hang on to it with all his might. But he kept coming back, or I would go out on search missions to retrieve him, or neighbors would return him when they sighted him. He hated the leash and fought every effort to control him. I was having second thoughts about the whole thing. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I was, at best, a reluctant caretaker. Just when I was ready to give up and just let him go back to the streets, we finally forged a bond. We had an unusually long fall that year; days on end of beautiful, mild weather. By the time those ideal days gave way to winter and the country began the process of healing, me and Max had become inseparable. He came to trust me and I succumbed to his wet nosed charm.

Our early routine called for two-a-day workouts. His high energy level demanded extreme measures. We set out every morning and then again in the evening for an hour long power walk. That's when he began to calm down and accept discipline.

That was more than eight years ago. It's Spring in Atlanta, the perfect time of year for our two-a-days. I thought about that when I stopped at one of his favorite neighborhood parks for a late workout with the ball this evening. When Max begins to tire out, he does this Pop-eye thing. He powers up on grass. You know how Pop-eye needs his spinach. Well Max furiously eats grass in an effort to buy him more energy. And it works. With the cool spring evening air and a soft cushion of green clovers under his feet, Max pushed himself to the limits of his capacity. He'll sleep like a baby tonight.

It's funny how we catalog our life experiences. We tend to frame our lives in befores and afters... before marriage, after a birth, before college, after death. When I think of my life "before and after Max", I have to say the time since he came along has defined me in a way I never expected.

Before Max, I was never responsible for the well-being of another living thing. I often concluded that I apparently was one of the rare species of women born without a nurturing gene. I enjoyed the freedom of no attachments... no kids, no pets, not even live plants. Max taught me that I can provide and protect, that a life can flourish under my care. He's proven I am more patient, more tolerant, more forgiving and yes, more loving than I knew.

Life before Max was pretty self-involved and self-indulgent. Since Max, my days are planned around his needs. He needs walks, two square meals a day, to go out regularly for potty breaks. There are monthly meds to keep track of, baths, and regular vet visits. The expense in time and money all seems worthwhile, just to hear the clickety-clack of those little hooves on the hardwood floors, the sweet snore of his snoozing, to see those expectant eyes at mealtime. "Ah, hurry up lady. I'm starving here!"

I find myself thinking more about the inevitable these days. I can now see the hands of time on his face. It makes me appreciate every day all the more. The things I'll miss most are the things I've grown to love... his wiggling butt when he's happy to see me, his low moan when I'm rubbing his belly, the cocky strut that makes him look like he owns the universe and we're simply renting his space. I think nature got it all wrong... crocodiles can live for 80 years; we only have a little time with our best friends.

An early morning appointment meant we got a late start on the walk today. He knows when I'm getting dressed to go somewhere without him, but he's learned to accept it. Those sad eyes watch me prepare to leave. The promise to make it up to him with a treat and nice, long walk upon my return always seems to sooth his disappointment. It was mid-morning before we finally got out to soak in the sun and fresh air of the neighborhood. It was his lucky day. He found a fresh tennis ball with lots of bounce and transported it in his mouth back home. He couldn't wait to give it a run.

Max has this ritual with new balls. Before he can play with it, he has to initiate it. It starts with pulling off some of the fuzz, scuffing it up with grass and dirt, and then rolling around on it for a while to fully claim it. He got in a few catches on an open lot, but it was the end of the walk so there wasn't a lot of energy left. Heading home, we approached the outstretched hands of a woman we passed sitting outside on the sidewalk who was clearly eager to pet him. In all the excitement of the find, he did something he rarely ever does. Usually the ladies man, he never misses a chance to flirt and get a good head rub. But today he started moving in her direction, only to give her the old fake out, and just kept on walking away. What a heart-breaker.

I am the momma-in-chief of the household, but I'm not the only one who imposes the rule of law. Sure, I'm the boss and what I say goes. But what we have here is more of a cooperative republic. I've got my rules, and Max has his.

For instance, I don't allow Max on the furniture. He sheds too much. I'm constantly vacuuming and dusting the floors, so I'd rather not have to de-fur the sofa. Now Max knows the rule, and he follows it. When I'm here. But when I'm gone, all bets are off. He's got this favorite chair that sits right by the window and, try as he might, he can't stay off of it.

The minute I return home, I can tell he's been on the chair. It's the way he approaches the door, with a hang-dog look of shame. "I'm sorry, mommy, I just couldn't help myself." Of course, even if he didn't confess, the signs are clearly there.... the seat is still warm from his little hot body curled up on it, hair balls piled up in the crevices.

I've tried everything to keep him off. I've blocked the chair with things, I've withheld treats. While there may be short-term change, it never lasts. No matter how many times I scold him, he just can't seem to resist the urge to perch on that chair. It's an addiction. So we've come to a tacit agreement that the chair is his, when I'm gone. I think it comforts him, so I give in.

He also makes you pay for leaving him alone. I call it the "Max tax". He forces you play with his favorite toy. How long you have to play is directly proportionate to how long you were gone; the longer you're away, the longer you have kick or throw Mr. Jack for him to retrieve. So it doesn't pay to stay gone too long.

Today's walk was interrupted by lots of human chatter. I kept running into people we've come to know on our daily travels. We would stop to talk for what must have seemed to him like forever. Fortunately, we were at one of his favorite parks, so he just amused himself with lots of sniffing and marking. Max can't reproduce because he's been neutered, but he's certainly immortalized himself in every bush, every tree, every blade of grass he encounters.

I'm a work-at-home mom. I started freelancing as a business writer after my marketing job was eliminated in 1999 and have enjoyed the freedom and flexibility it's afforded me. I've had some really good years but, lately, not so much. The economy wiped out my corporate clients, so I'm having to rebuild the business from scratch. Max is my only child.

Since my office has been at home the entire time I've known him, I've had lots of time available to work with shaping Max's behavior. His intelligence was evident early on, so I just learned to play to that strength. I also discovered his passions! We didn't use treats as a training tool, just positive reinforcement. For instance, Max loves freedom. He likes the ability to roam and sniff and run and explore at will. Since I thought it was cool to have a dog who could walk off leash, I started to gradually give him what he wanted. I set the boundaries, rewarded him with more freedom when he did well, and soon enough he was good to go. Now, he's the envy of all his little buddies because he can travel unencumbered. (unless of course we're asked to leash up by the doggie police)

If you had known Max early on, you would realize what a huge transformation this is. When I first took him in, about 8 1/2 years ago, he was wild as a buck. He had been on the streets as a stray for some time and resisted every effort to domesticate him. An open door was an invitation to bolt. He'd take off, roam the streets who knows where and show up at the door days later with that "sorry, please take me back" look. There were many times I'd throw up my hands in frustration, thinking this was way beyond my pay grade. But things finally started to turn around once I figured out his needs and how to meet them.

I'm asked all the time how I trained such a well-behaved dog. Since Max is my first pet as an adult, I had a steep learning curve. I did a lot of research to come up with solutions. Here's what I know for sure.

• Dogs need daily exercise. High energy dogs need extreme exertion. It opens the door to discipline. Look for clues from them about the activity they're designed for. Max showed up with a tennis ball in his mouth. He instinctively knew how to drain his energy.
• Find what motivates them, and use it judiciously.
  
• Set clear and consistent boundaries, and expect them to follow.
  
• Give them a job. Every dog needs a purpose.

Above all, give them oodles and oodles of love!

Ah, Spring! Deliciously warm weather, sparkling blue skies, rain-scrubbed air. Pollen notwithstanding, these are perfect dog-walking days. Today, we explored Piedmont Park, our city's sprawling urban playground for those who love the great outdoors. The earth is practically vibrating with signs of life. It's a great time for Max to strut his stuff.

He's a baller... tennis baller, that is. Max performs best when people stop to watch him do his thing. He's something of a cross between an outfielder, wide receiver and goalie. Guys especially like his athleticism. So whenever we're playing, he usually attracts an audience. Today was no exception. The first thing people ask is, how long did it take him to learn to do that? My response is always the same... he taught me. I'm the one who's getting better at it.

As Max has aged, he's slowed down a bit... not quite as quick, or precise, and he tires out sooner. What used to take at least an hour to exhaustion, now only takes about 30 minutes. Whatever he lacks in energy, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm. But even at his age, approximately nine years, he's got a lightening fast sprint to the ball, which he can catch on a bounce. He just snags it right out of the air. There's usually some daring acrobatics involved, then the proud strut back to home. I call it "Max-letics."

Fortunately, I discovered the perfect tool to help facilitate his game... it's called the chucker. It's designed especially to launch the ball deep, and there's no messy hands afterward. Today, we caught the attention of a young boy about eight years old who couldn't resist the call to play. He came over to watch and Max lured him in. He caught on to the throw pretty quickly, and before you know it, Max had him trained too.

There is nothing ordinary about it. From the first day we met, I sensed this relationship could be a life-changer. Here we are, eight years in, and it just thrills me more and more each day.

I have to admit it never occurred to me that anyone else might be interested in our escapades. As the years fly by, I've come to realize I need to capture these days for posterity. And so I'm making our experience available for others to share if they so choose. I can only say you're in for quite an adventure.


His name is Max. Not short for Maximilian or Maxwell. I struggled with the name for a while. At first he was Tyson, then the non-committal Baby Boy just for lack of any defining moniker. Finally, it occurred to me that he did everything to the extreme. He never strolls, he trots. He doesn't run, he races. He doesn't just sniff trees and bushes and flowers and shrubs, he savors the smells. From the very beginning, he's always lived life the way I long to.... to the max. He is the maximum dog, always intensely engaged in his life. I love that about him. That's why he's Max.


Every since Max walked into my life (I'll tell you that story later), we share a daily ritual. Of course, it isn't merely a walk around the block. That wouldn't be enough for Max. He needs a serious work-out. We power through the paths, parks and pavement of Midtown Atlanta for at least an hour every day. I call it my morning meditation. It's a time for me to connect with nature and with Max in a very intimate and profound way. I swear that I've come to experience our walks through Max's senses. We've bonded totally and completely, and each day brings some great revelation, either about life or about nature or about me. It's a real life classroom. And no matter the weather, no matter what else is going on in the world, it's always a treat.


Everyone thinks their dog is special. I get that. I agree they're all precious creatures whose sole purpose in life is to please their master. Max is exceptional. Dog owners will understand this. Some dogs are just, well, dogs. They're always in the moment, with no sense of awareness beyond that. But there are dogs who are wise beyond their species. Their eyes hold the key to their souls. When you look into their eyes, you sense that they've been here before. There's a wisdom of the ages behind them. Max is an old soul. He's really smart, learns things very quickly. He understands abstract concepts and acts on them. He has an innate intelligence that exceeds anything I could ever teach him.


For example, Max walks around puddles. I kid you not. Whenever he encounters a big puddle of water or mud, he veers left or right, whichever is most expedient, and then falls right back in line. Mind you, he never misses a beat in his stride. At home, he tip-toes around my nick-knacks. He wouldn't dare attempt to retrieve his favorite toy from the sofa, or from behind an accessory on the floor. He comes to get me to do it. Sometimes I like to escape the day's madness in a hot bath. He'll come sit by the tub, but turn his back in deference to my privacy. He's even learned to recognize himself in the mirror.


On today's walk, we met a dog that could have been his brother. We had stopped at one of his favorite neighborhood parks, when a lady came along with a dog that could have been Max, a couple of years ago. As it turns out, her dog Gordon was a Dachshund/terrier mix, much like Max, who is Dachshund/Jack Russell. They're short and long and kind of stocky, with the cutest face you'll ever see. They both had those expressive eyes. She was from Germany, and told me Gordon learned all his commands there. It was hilarious hearing her talk to him in German. He and Max got along famously, in that meet-a-new-dog kind of way. I got the feeling Max was a little spooked by looking at another dog that was his mirror image.


I've got great Max stories to tell. He's a fountain of material. His Max-apades have earned him celebrity status among my friends and neighbors. As one of my girlfriends refers to him, he's The Notorious M-A-X.