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.