Seasons come and seasons go, but love never dies.

Max and I are trying to adjust to a new season in our lives, one without Mom.

Gwendolyn Edith Minor passed away on August 3, 2011 in her home, surrounded by her loving family. Even now, it's hard to write those words. Mom, dead; really? She's not there anymore and we're trying to figure out life without her.

For me, it is a huge void. Mom moved in to the house next door in 2004. So long ago, yet it seems like just yesterday. Her first few years were filled with getting her settled in to a new home, after more than 50 years in our birth home in Shreveport, La. She fell in love with her new Atlanta life; her new home, new neighbors, new church, new experiences. While she held on to the memories of a life well-lived in another place and time, she embraced the new one with enthusiasm.

She also fell in love with her grand-dog.

Never one for dogs in the house, my Mom grew to love Max. She said so, just weeks before she lost the ability to speak. She said, "I love that dog almost as much as you do." If by chance I came over without him, the first thing out of her mouth, "Where is Max? I've got something for him."

He loved her, too. She was the person who fed him chicken every night under the table. She was the reliable presence, always there, even when his mommy was away. He would keep her company when I went out, or traveled out of town. Upon walking through the door, he made a b-line, down the hall, straight to the back of the house, where he would sniff her out. He could usually find her in her bedroom. During the last weeks of her life, spent mostly in bed, he was her constant companion.

After the morning walk, after breakfast, Max headed for the door to go to work. His new job, therapy dog to an ailing "Grammy." Back to her room, he would sit by her bedside, or lay down under the bed. It got to the point he didn't even want to go on the walk in the mornings. "Never mind, lady, just let me go see about my Grammy." There he kept vigil all day, until I forced him to come home at night, only to repeat the routine the next day. Max Minor, reporting for duty. What a good and faithful boy he was.

In the end, nothing Max could do, or the doctors, or his uncles, or his mommy, could keep her here any longer. God called her home.

For a few days, Max was inconsolable. Wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep. He laid around in a hapless heap, pining for his Grammy. Just like usual, he headed straight to her room. But she's not there. Where is she? She's always here. Oh well, we'll come back tomorrow to see if she's returned.

While we revamp our routines, Max and I are rediscovering old joys. Long walks in the park; leisurely days in the country. He's almost back to his old self. Time heals all wounds. Or so they say.

Now that the weather has broken, I've been kicking the tires on these old vehicles we inhabit. I figure between me and Max, we've logged thousands of miles together, possibly tens of thousands of miles, over the years on our feet. Counting his four legs and my two, we've pounded a lot of pavement. We both love to walk. It's what our bond is built on.

I've walked for exercise for most of my adult life. Wherever I've lived, I've found a scenic, safe, walkable path that helped me to work off frustrations as well as pounds. Most of the time I walked alone. Having Max turned an old, familiar routine into a daily ritual, with newfound purpose. Walking centers us, makes us more focused and grounded. We form a rhythm that just propels us forward. We just walk all of our cares away! Sometimes we find ourselves miles away from home with more walking as the only way back. Max never falters; he is a tried and true companion. I think it keeps us both young.

Seasonal allergies notwithstanding, there's no better time of year for walking than Spring. Temperatures are ideal, not too hot or cold. I marvel at being caught in these delightful downpours of "dogwood showers" on our jaunts. It's when the blooms from colorful dogwood trees rain down in a wistful sprinkle. In fact, all the air is humming with signs of life, a virtual vibrational shift in the universe, signaling a new beginning. So palpably heavy is it, that you can feel its gritty weight!

Meandering through Midtown, Max is enthralled with everything growing. He sees it, sniffs it, even sticks out his tongue to taste it. Then, he gives it the old heave-ho lift and tinkle. While in a park the other day, he couldn't refrain from stalking the goose's nest, who hissed at him as she laid her daily eggs.

I, on the other hand, marveled at the sheer force of life. It's as if all of nature has awakened from a long, dark nap to celebrate Spring's arrival. Blooms starting to sprout from barren tree limbs, birds and crickets cackling loudly, brightly colored flowers dressing up the landscape, turtles doing sun salutations on makeshift lilly pads in the pond. Each day is a revelation. And we've got many miles to go before we sleep.

Hallelujah! Spring has finally arrived.

Winter hasn't quite given up the ghost yet. It's locked in a fierce tug-o-war with Spring, still reluctant to let go of its stranglehold on our lives. We know it will eventually loose the battle and we'll be free from it's icy grip. It just can't happen soon enough. Meanwhile, we take solace in the sure signs of change... white blooms on dogwood trees, colorful flowers that brighten the landscape, weeds sprouting through brown sod, birds singing merrily as they flutter hither and yon preparing their springtime nests. The most welcome sign of all... the sun. Sometimes shrouded by fluffy clouds, sometimes accompanied by chilly winds, there is, nonetheless, that unmistakable presence. Bright. Cheery. Warmth! Yeah!

I've enjoyed the gift of good health most of my life. But I discovered a malady in my twenties that I just couldn't shake this year. While I thrived in summer, I had always known a sort of melancholy in winter that lingered despite my best efforts. I felt a deep sadness that had no apparent cause. Oddly enough, the revelation came while sitting in the doctor's office waiting to be seen for a routine check-up. There in the pages of a woman's magazine was an article that perfectly described my symptoms. Sad, listless, tired. I couldn't shake this sense of gloom. Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD, as it was called, was the diagnosis with a cure. Light, especially the kind that mimics the sun, helps to restore brain hormones depleted by winter's darkness. When I talked with my doctor about it, she said not to worry. Get a sunlamp and sit under it several hours a day. That remedy had always worked when winter was brief and gone but, this year, the tried and true was tested in new ways. I had a hard time finding enough light to get me through the long, dark days of this first winter of the new decade. And I wasn't alone; many of my friends complained that they, too, were battling the doldrums.

Now that the sun is making more frequent appearances, we're on the move again. Me and Max have reclaimed Freedom Parkway, our most often traveled trail. The one that brought us together on common ground and gave us the liberty to be our most authentic selves. With the familiarity of the trail, Max found that he could entrust me with his well-being. "This lady can't be too bad; she exercises with me everyday! I think I'll keep her." I, on the other hand, realized that I didn't mind the responsibility. No, that in fact, I relished it. "This dog grounds me and gives my life purpose," I acknowledged. "I think I'll keep him."

Even Max's mood seems brightened as we share our daily ritual. He's become the social dog, greeting new buddies with wags and sniffs, instead of his usual indifference or, worse, a snap. Our winter SAD is fading, and we're singing a new tune... we're so GLAD to have another sunny day.

We're trudging through winter like zombies weighted down in leaden boots. While we're not digging out from epic snowfall like some parts of the country, we're swimming in what seems like an endless stream of rain. Cold. Wet. Dreary days. So much rain the grounds are soaked. Pools of standing water where grass used to be. We're not talking Seattle like showers. These are downpouring deluges. Looking for the bright side, one of my neighbors predicted a very green spring. He's probably right, for whatever survives the drowning.

The all too rare sunny day is cause for jubilant celebration. Break out the sunglasses, we're going for a walk! Max and me were so excited to have sun on Super Bowl Sunday, we headed out to soak up this solstice for the soul. A nice long leisurely stroll recalibrated our bio-rhythms and put us back in touch with nature. I let Max lead the way since he seemed to have a destination in mind. The trek took us on a circuitous route through all his favorite haunts... a string of neighborhood parks; some, public gathering spots with lakes and benches inviting human visitors... others, more remote, hidden jewels that promise exotic sights and smells perfect for curious little canines. No doubt all the rain had washed away most of Max's carefully placed markings, so he went about the tedious task of laying down new ones, tucking his smell into the deepest recesses of shrubbery and bush. I gave him free rein, while I pondered more weighty matters.

The Bible says there is a time and season for all things. We just lost another dear friend. I credit George with leading me to the wonderfully historic area where we live. As true urban pioneers, he and his wife dared to venture into the Old Fourth Ward more than twenty years ago when most folks were running in the other direction... to the suburbs. They carved a beautiful life together, filled with a shared love of community economic development, art and travel, friends and family. He invited me to come out to look at the new homes being developed in the Martin Luther King Historic District and I fell in love. I moved into my home in Spring 1998, and have watched the neighborhood blossom into a thriving, bustling district with a mix of single family homes, townhomes, condos, lofts, restaurants, shops, boutiques, clubs. George's imprint is all over the place.

Three years after I moved in, Max showed up on my doorstep.

As Max and me traversed the network of connecting parks, I was thinking about George and his passion for life. In many ways, he lived the life I would love. A brilliant attorney, George worked hard, but played even harder. Whatever he did, he did it with real gusto. He was an avid athlete who would ride his bicycle from our downtown Atlanta neighborhood to Stone Mountain, about 30 miles one way, and back on week-ends. Sometimes, he would fit in a tennis match with friends before the return trip. He loved nothing more than his wife and girls. Married 27 years, he often talked about how his love for Mtamanika expanded over the years. He was more in love with her every day. A couple of years ago, they toured the Lourve with an art critic in tow. Theirs was a match of equals.

Heading back home with Max, I became acutely aware of George's presence and his impact on my life. Even in the darkest season, there is light. Thank God for sunshine!

By now, it's apparent that lil' Buddy is no longer with us. With all the demands I was facing, I couldn't keep him indefinitely and so we let him go with another gentleman who graciously agreed to accept Buddy into his family. Max, oddly enough, seemed a little down after Buddy left. I think he had become accustomed to sharing space with Buddy. He may not have readily shown it, but he had bonded with his pack mate. Of course, Max soon came to his senses and returned to the exalted status as "the only".

Turned out Buddy was a closet freak! He was all timid when I was around, but the minute he was alone, Buddy turned mannish. For months after he left, every time I washed a load of clothes, I would find a pair of underwear destroyed. Panties of every color and style with the crotch chewed completely through! I had never seen anything like it. Then I learned that some dogs are attracted to human pheromones. Seems that Buddy consoled himself when I was away with the smell of my drawers. Max is not destructive in anyway, so this came as a complete surprise to me. I can leave clothes lying around for days and Max would never touch them.

Lately I've been thinking maybe it's time we brought another dog into the mix. We could use some younger energy around here. Alas, Max and I have become so synchronized in our existence that I question whether another dog would fit in. We have our daily routine down pat. An hour of exercise in the morning and he's good for the rest of the day. On the days when the weather is ugly, Max can wait until there's a break in the clouds. He doesn't even mind sleeping in when I need a little extra shut-eye.

Max goes to work when I do, keeping watch on the street while I earn our keep. He comes up to the office around 6 o'clock to let me know it's time to take a break and prepare his dinner. In the evening, he dashes out to the fence out back to hunt down the possums and squirrels, take potties, and returns to scratch on the door. Then he's ready for evening treats. Max is my road dog, riding shotgun in the back seat when I'm out running errands. He barges in to Mom's house when I go to check on her and runs straight to her bedroom to let her know we're there, always in contemplation of his reward. She never fails to show her love with a little chicken favor. I never have to worry about him going beyond the boundaries of our property, or into the street; he always stays within hollering distance.

I ask myself, how would another dog fit into our tightly knit lives? The same way Buddy did, I guess. I'll just keep a closer watch on the panties next time.

Winter's stark landscape has an eerily beautiful quality, like the haunting cries of crows. Trees stand naked against blistering winds, without a leaf to warm them. All of nature's hidden secrets are revealed. Despite the season's harsh temperatures this year, the sun shines brightly most days. It's amazing how a little sun goes a long way to warm a desolate soul.

My Daily Word offered a reminder this week of the sun's omni-presence. Whether it's in plain view or shrouded by clouds, the sun is always there. Just as God's love shines brightly through every storm in our lives. The sun even shines on Haiti, where unspeakable devastation struck this week. I pray the light of a caring world rallying to the rescue will help ease the pain of such horrendous loss.

Walking with Max this week has been a treacherous affair. Glassy sheets of ice covered streets and sidewalks. Freedom Parkway, our usual walking trail, was a skating rink of slippery shadows. The ponds at our usual neighborhood parks were frozen solid. Today, as temperatures warmed into the 50's, a thin sheet of ice still covered the water, the ducks and turtles tip-toeing their way across. The glow of a radiant sun cast the wintry scene in a bright and cheery light.

Max doesn't care about the weather. Hot, cold, wet, dry... he takes it as it comes. Max makes the most of each day. He dives into his walks with the same gusto as the day before, the same enthusiasm as the first time. Always stopping to sample the smell du jour nature is dishing up, Max reminds me that the sun is always shining, and that we must find ways to feed our souls everyday... because tomorrow is promised to no one.

I have the best dog in the world! Hands down... no contest... Max takes the trophy. I know everyone thinks theirs is the superior pet. Fine, I won't try to disavow you of that notion. Every pet is special. But does your dog meditate? Yes, meditate. Max does. He joined me this morning in a ten minute session of quiet breathing to contemplate the day.

I call 2009 the "Year of tremendous loss"... loss of income, security, relationships, health, innocence, affection, yes, even life... all the things I'd come to know and count on were challenged. The year started with the loss of an esteemed colleague who died suddenly and seemingly unnecessarily at the tender age of 50. At a memorial gathering of family, friends and colleagues, I learned he was an aspiring jazz guitarist, and a doting Uncle. I only knew him as a talented photographer dedicated to his craft and his clients. Things took a downward turn from there. I count it a victory to have survived 2009, still alive, but not unscathed by all that fell away. Meditation has become a coping mechanism to keep me grounded and focused in the moment.

My week-end rituals now begin with preparing Mom's breakfast, and then lining up something for her lunch and dinner. It's the new order of things since her health crisis. Her vision loss makes it necessary to have someone assist with daily routines. That pushes everything back, including walks with Max and the morning meditation. Max can sometimes get anxious waiting to get his day started.

As I settled in with the disc that guides me into my mantra, Max quietly took a seat in the sun streaming through the window. I closed my eyes to begin, and ten minutes later when the chime rang, I looked up to find Max unmoved, in the same position, sitting quietly, looking blissful.

Now you'd have to know Max to fully appreciate the moment. Max is not a sit still kind of dog; he's in constant motion. Give him a ball or Mr. Jack, he can entertain himself indefinitely. He just goes from room to room, running up and down the stairs playing. When he does stop for more than a minute, it's to fall fast asleep. So to find him poised in the seated position, back straight and head upright in the classic meditation position, eyes gazing off into the distance... was an absolute revelation. I live for these moments. Told you he's the best dog in the world!

There's a rhythm to writing that must be practiced regularly for maximum effect. Failing to exercise your instrument is to risk loosing your tune. Let's just say I've been whistlin' Dixie, when Wynton Marsalis is more to my taste. But I'm determined to change my tune and get back into the swing of it.

Me and Max have struggled this week with subterranean temperatures. Atlanta is experiencing unusually cold winter weather; the kind that sent people from Northern regions flocking to Atlanta to get away from. For nearly a week, we've been shivering well below the freezing mark and Friday ushered in an arctic chill of snow and ice. Atlantans have been greeted by weather days that even a good Alaskan would find frigid and, indeed, news reports informed us that our teen temperatures dipped below those of Alaska on the Fahrenheit scale. What a dubious distinction!

Needless to say, it's not good walking weather. Neither woman nor woogah should have to brave these conditions! But brave them we did. After the initial shock of paws to rock solid pavement, Max adapted rather quickly to the inhumane conditions. The only noticeable difference being an added pep in his step. He moved more briskly than usual, like skipping across burning coals. The ground is so cold it must feel icy hot to the touch. But Max is a real trooper. He's like the mailman; nothing can keep him from his appointed rounds.

He must have sensed the danger of the first snow's icy conditions. As we tried to make our way down our little neighborhood street, ducking and dodging icy patches lurking in shady spots beneath a light dusting of snow, Max suddenly turned around and headed back to our house. He picked up one of his tennis balls left out in the yard for me to throw so he could get a little exercise. I lobbed it his way, and it hit the ground with a leaden thud! No bounce, just rock solid. Thwack! Max rolled it around in the snow for a while, pushing it with his paws and snout, before giving up. Oh well, tomorrow's another day.

Wow! My first post of the new year. 2009 has bid us adieu and 2010 beckons with new possibilities. Forgive me, folks, it's been way too long since my last post. In the famous words of Ricky Ricardo, it seems I have "some 'splainin to do."

Lots has happened since my last post. Some of you are aware that Mom's health took a rather dramatic downward turn last year (around the time of my last post) and caring for her and her affairs has taken priority. She needs assistance managing most of her daily routines now and for a long time it was left mostly to me to fill the bill. A home care aid now serves her during the week, but regular doctors' visits and week-end meal preparation still fall under my purview. My brothers have been princes about stepping in to take over managing her finances and helping with the frequent trips to the doctor. Everyone does what they can do to help out; it's just that I'm the daughter and I live in close proximity. The good news is that her condition has stabilized and, God willing, at 83 years of age, it looks like she'll be with us for a while longer.

Needless to say, all of the caretaking left me with little time for leisurely writing. It's been all I can do to manage the work stuff which, I might add, began to pick up towards the end of the year. Max has been a trooper throughout all of the upheavals to his schedule. He's adapted to whatever change has been thrown at him with barely any protest. Well, maybe a little at first, but he came around quickly. It turns out he's become part of Mom's therapy; she always brightens up when he's around.

With any luck, I might very well find favor and fortune in the first year of the new decade. I pray we all do.

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.