I first met Max when he was a wee pup. One of two survivors of hard birth, along with his sister Dana, Max went from sickly to robust puppy health faster than expected and settled into life on the 3-dog dachshund farm my parents ran pretty quickly. He eventually fathered the fourth and last of the pack in Misha, who was a frequent companion on his adventures.
Max loved his family, walks around the block and chasing laser lights and shadows beyond all good sense. I have never met a dog as obsessed with light and shadow as Max was and we all loved him for it. We would worry, of course, when he showed no signs of quitting no matter how long the laser light stayed out and when he would sit for hours on the couch, starting at the floor, hoping a shadow or a laser light would appear so he could chase it. He was prone to wrapping himself in the blankets provided around the house and then poking his nose out when he suspected the outside world might merit his attention. He was companionable, if not overly affectionate, which I always have respect for in an animal, human or otherwise. My favorite memory of him is the time he ran into the house during a dinner party, jumped up on someone's lap and got so excited he immediately stared peeing on one of my mom's friends. I still vividly remember the image of my father holding a still-peeing max at arm's length so he could take him back outside. That was a good dinner party.
Max had over a decade of good living before he lost his father earlier this year to old-age, which in this case was a degenerative neurological disease of some sort that eventually robbed him of the use of his back legs. Sadly, Max did not survive his father for much longer. Max had been fussing quite a bit over his kennel in the last few months, and was prone to wandering a bit aimlessly late at night for whatever reason. Chasing ghosts, or shadows or simply puttering around.
My brother was always closest to Max, and spent much more time with him than I ever did, which is why I'm glad he was there on Max's last day. He got home early, and noticed Max was having trouble even supporting his weight on his front legs to use the yard. And unable to walk in a straight line or move about. He would stop and whine because his legs weren't working well enough to get him anywhere. So my brother picked him up and held him for a couple hours until my parents got home and could go to the vet with him.
This was Max's second visit to the vet that week. On the previous visit the vet had seen his back was in pain, but wanted to give him medicine before making any big decisions. That night, the vet agreed his condition had deteriorated badly and unless we had several thousand dollars to spend on expensive diagnosis/surgery/treatment (we do not), it was best to put him to sleep.
That night my brother held Max and he and my mother gave him affection until it was time and then continued to hold him until he went still. It's a short life, but Max fought for it from the beginning and went out with all the love and affection a dog could hope for.
I'm grateful to my brother for being there for him and I'm grateful to have known such an compellingly neurotic dog.
Rest in peace Max.
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