The Open Gate

Last weekend I was heading to the office just after Wes and the kids left to run some errands.  As I'm walking out the door I was frustrated to see this:

My first instinct was to cuss my husband for his forgetfulness.  My second thought, of course, was "crap, where's Max."  Then I remembered that the big guy could not have escaped into the street because he wasn't with us anymore.

We made the decision to have Max put down on the Monday after we returned from vacation.  He'd been steadily losing weight over the past few months, and had not eaten in several days.  He was with Allen and Peggy, Wes's parents, which was a mixed blessing.  While we knew he had been well cared for and loved in his last couple of weeks while we were away on vacation, not being there when he passed out of this world was hard, especially on Wes.

Max was Wes's dog from day one.  He and I never saw eye to eye (except when he reared up on his hind legs and then we were, quite literally, eye to eye).  He tortured Munson, the most perfect dawg in the world (who, I am quite sure, was highly irritated when Max showed up a couple of weeks ago).  He shed like crazy.  He ate outdoor furniture.  He ate indoor furniture.  He "retrieved" possum carcasses for me.  He brought me a dead rat.  He refused to listen to my commands no matter how deep I made my voice.  Like I said, he was Wes's dog.

But after Munson died, Max and I came to an understanding.  If he would simmer down a little, I would rub his ears.  If I would remember to bring the outdoor cushions inside, he wouldn't eat them.  As he got older, we became friends.  While he had generally ignored Ellie after she was born, he and Harry really got along well.  I have the picture to prove it.

I'll admit it, I miss him.  I wish I had to close the gate.  I wish I had to holler for him down the driveway as he chased after some poor vermin.  We will get another dog.  That dog won't outweigh me.  But I will never have another dog that I can dance with.  Did I mention that?  Max was an excellent dancer.  He also learned to treat the furniture with respect, sort of:

Play well, Maxwell.  You were a damn good dawg.