When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me
Stand By Me
Ben E. King

Max was my best friend.

We first met when I was 21, over Christmas break of my junior year of college. Over the next 12 1/2 years he was always there, his hard, ice-blue left eye taking me in, looking for any cracks or fissures, his head, as often as not, cocking to one side or the other as he wound up his once-over. Inspection complete, and if I'd passed muster, Max would tilt his ears back, stick about the pointiest nose on the planet straight up into the air, throw open his mouth and proclaim, from way down deep, "RRROOOWWRRRROOOOOORRR!"

I always liked to think Max picked me. When I went to meet the pups in his litter on that fateful day in December of '95 I remember being absolutely knocked over by this wrigglin', wrastlin' pile of fur and yips that turned out to be about eight different Siberian Husky puppies all rolling around in an outdoor pen in the backwoods of western Massachusetts. And yeah, it was cold. But these were Huskies, and the sky was that beautiful blue you can only get in the winter in New England, and the whole scene about broke my heart.

Most of the pups continued whatever game of kill the carrier it was they were so engrossed in when I entered the pen. I was happy to just sit, feeling the warmth in my body slowly leak through my jeans into the frozen ground, and take them in for a while. To say Max burst out of that frozen scrum to come see me, all Golden Retriever-slobbery, would be inaccurate, and not at all a testament to his slightly more dignified air. But he did sort of tumble out of that teeming pile, coming to rest, for the most part, on his rear, looking around and clearly trying to work out in his brain just how the heck he'd gotten from there to here. And then that Ripken-blue eye, looking out from under his one still-flopped-over ear, found me, his head cocked, and he roly-poly'd his way over to see just exactly what I thought I was doing there. That was it. Done deal. Max came home with me.

On the way home, he yakked all over the back of my parents' car, a beloved Mercedes that I later totaled. Youth...

Over the next five or six years, all spent in the Midwest, Max and I grew up together. His flopped-over ear straightened up, I got my life relatively pulled together, and we spent some incredible time with some wonderful people, friends to this day, friends who had just as much to do with raising a pup as I did, friends who never grumbled too loudly when a shoe or a sock would go missing, friends who grew to love Max almost as much as I, friends who used to derive great enjoyment in pointing out that the reason Max was such a picky eater was because he was working to balance out the impact I was having on the food supply. Ha ha. With friends like these...

They were also the friends who helped out whenever Max wanted to play his favorite game, what my family started calling, none too creatively mind you, "Catch the Dog!" Born from a long line of sled-pulling stock, the only thing Max liked better than winter was the opportunity to run, unfettered, over ridiculous amounts of ground for seemingly limitless periods of time. Whether or not you were game for the idea was of little consequence to Max. An open, unguarded door was all he would need.

"I'm ... just ... going ... to ... walk ... over here ... AND SPRINT OUT THE DOOR AND DOWN THE STREET AND YOU CAN COME IF YOU WANT I AM GONE!!! RRROOOWWRRRROOOOOORR!!!"

And another game of Chase the Dog would commence. He once completely outclassed a Harley-Davidson golf cart on the Northport Point Golf Course in Northport, MI. It was one of those classic carts, three-wheeled, dark green, and completely lacking any kind of regulator on the gas. Trust me when I say it hauled. Max completely smoked the thing.

He always knew where his pursuers were when we played Catch the Dog, and he always seemed to have just a little bit more in the tank than you did. He hated to blow your doors off right out of the gate, seemed to prefer to keep your heart in it for a while, would let you get close, painfully close, he's-so-close-I-can-almost-touch-him close, and then he'd turn that heartbreakingly-blue eye back over his shoulder, his tongue would hang a little lower, his lips would curl up into his best smile, and he'd hit warp speed.

Poof! He'd be about a bazillion feet ahead of you before you knew what the heck had happened.

He got left outside once during a thunderstorm when he was young. I left him outside once during a thunderstorm when he was young. It was awful, and by the time I realized what I'd done and raced home to get him inside the storm had lashed its way through and Max gave me a look like "What the !#$@!% was that all about?!" Thunderstorms were ever-after a source of consternation for Max and whenever one would roll through he would always take the danger seriously, walking around the house, sticking his nose in your hand, letting you give him a pet, maybe leaning up against you until you felt better, before making his way on to whoever else might need his attention.

Max loved people, any friends or family that came to the house and he never once forgot a person he'd met at some point, long ago, in his puppyhood. Little kids were especially fond of Max and seemed to get over his startlingly lupine appearance much faster than their parents did.

Christmas was one of his favorite times every year. Friends and family were around all the time, a couple good long car-rides were almost always guaranteed, and more and more over the past few years, he got to play Chase the Dog with little kids indoors. And they were small enough that every once in a while, he could turn around and chase them! Nothing made him happier. Shrieks of two-year-olds' laughter followed by a good, old-fashioned RRROOOWWRRRROOOOOORRR!!! always meant that Christmas was in full swing.

People were always startled to find out how old he was, mostly because he was fond of acting a fool right up into his old age. When you'd give people a number they usually thought you were talking in months, not years. Maybe because of that, he seemed to age in an instant towards the end, developing serious trouble after suffering seizures brought on by a possible stroke. He pulled through it, but was never quite the same. That attitude never quite righted itself, his singing never sounded quite so sweet, and his spark dimmed down to almost nothing.

Max left the party on Tuesday, April 1st, of this year. It was the worst April Fool's day ever. It was the right thing to do and the right time to do it.

But doing the right thing never hurt so much.

I know he's up there, somewhere, looking back over his shoulder with his tongue lolling out, laughing, waiting. Waiting for one last, one cosmic, just one more, game of Catch the Dog…

Love you, bud

cuda24@yahoo.com