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.