One of the prettiest places in my gardens is the one pictured above. It marks the final resting place of Max, our dog for 16 years. The forsythia is just now blooming. Max's "guys" keep a silent vigil over his stone, never to squeak again. April 2 marks the date that Max left us, but I think of it today, because it happened the date after we returned to Boise from Salt Lake City, after attending conference.
Max is a good dog. I miss him. He was my daytime pal, he always listened to me, and never talked back. In his earlier years, before he lost his hearing, he would always meet me at the door after hearing the garage door go up, tail wagging. Whenever I made scrambled eggs for breakfast, he would come wandering out to the kitchen, a little sleepy, but with his tail still wagging. How could he tell the difference between a tuna can, which would bring him running, and any other can? (Maybe it was the smell!) He didn't like thunderstorms, and would try to jump up into bed with us at the first crash. How could he tell the difference between Mackenzie and Malorie? (maybe it was the smell!) I have to vacuum the kitchen a lot more now that he's not around.
He was brave, and kept trying to be a good dog right up to the very end. I'm sure he's happy now, with his hearing intact, and vision clear!
2 comments:
But do you think in Heaven he is finally cuddly? I doubt it. It was his imperfections that made him so perfect.
I am willing to bet a lot of money that Mal teared up when she read this. Now it's time for a new dog!
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