Sep 1, 2008

Tired old buddy.

Max was just a puppy when my parents found him under their deck fourteen years ago. He lucked out, big time. It's possible my mom's nest was feeling a bit empty, because she faithfully took him to obedience training and agility classes, and he was such a smart, gentle dude that eventually he worked as a Certified Therapy Dog. He's retired now, but he's not resting on his laurels. As head of the canine security detail, he dutifully checks the perimeter of the compound morning and night. He walks with my father each morning to the mailbox at the end of the driveway to get the paper and carries it to my mom in the house. (They don't get a paper every day, so on off days my dad brings out an old paper so Max has something to deliver.) But he can no longer jump on the bed or climb stairs or get into my dad's truck. It seems as if he aged so suddenly in the last year, but that's probably because I don't see him often. Which is my loss, because there's something so special about him that when we're canoodling, I'm almost always reminded what it's all about: love.

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