Eleven years ago today, I brought Max home from the shelter.
I don’t know how old he is, which saddens me. When we brought him home the vet said he was 1 or 2 years old. Which makes him 12 or 13 (eek). Maybe. He’s holding up well, with an occasional random bladder emptying here and there. He had a little health scare early in the year, but follow-up blood tests came back fine. He is stubborn and difficult at times. He will drop his ears and waggle his tail bashfully as little children pet him on our walks, and then he will come upstairs and tear through all of the paper in the office garbage can with the hope that he’ll find a greasy napkin or food wrapper.
He is my loyal hound and my fun-sized direwolf. He is never far from where I am. Even if I spend a lot of time at my computer, he’ll forgo the comfiness of the sofa in the living room and sleep under my desk. Max has forgiven me for dozens of bad haircuts, both his and mine. He’s a very patient older brother to Ollie, but relations between him and Charlie have cooled significantly since they both became elders. There is no meanness, just irritated growls that to me say, “Is that cat/dog sitting here AGAIN? Sheesh!” I think of them as a pair of grumpy old men.
Happy 11 years home with us, Fangy-beast, and here’s to 11 more!
PS: Back from the beach. I drove 6 hours home and yet everything I own is covered in sand.