Max had a loving heart. It was one of his few redeeming qualities.
A typical beagle, he wasn't what you would call a good dog.
From the day we brought him home at seven weeks old, we knew we were going to have our hands full. He stole anything that was unguarded -- shoes, underwear, TV remotes. He was especially fond of anything that had a battery and worked hard to get those items open. I once found our cordless phone -- after days of looking for it in the house -- outside under a tree. We quickly learned that anything not kept at least three feet off the floor would be demolished . . . or simply disappear.
He ate anything from pantyhose to dirt. Christmas trees were decorated without garland or tinsel (that decision was made right after I pulled a clump of it out of his butt). The bottom two feet of the tree was kept free of lights and ornaments.
He was obstinate and refused any training. I was determined to make him "sit" but never got more than a begrudging half-squat from him. Walks were an ordeal; he would pull hard on the leash, feet spread apart, body so close to the ground that he looked like a huge turtle, coughing and hacking his way down the street.
We took him to puppy school. He threw up in the car on the way there and back, and we gave it up after two trips. We invested in a training book and a DVD. We watched "The Dog Whisperer". No matter what method we tried, he never seemed to develop any respect for us.
We were crazy about him.
When I was home, we were never far apart. He would follow me from the bathroom to the bedroom to the kitchen. When I worked at the computer, he was always at my feet.
If I sat down to watch TV or read, he would immediately jump in my lap, covering my face and neck with his smelly kisses, then plop down, heaving a contented sigh. He loved to sit with me and would stay there as long as I let him.
We would often find him in the bed when we woke up in the morning. He'd lie tight against my back, sometimes resting his chin on my neck. Or he'd snuggle up against my chest. I'd keep still as long as I could, listening to his soft muffled snore. Those mornings became more precious as I began to realize our time together was growing short.
Cancer stole him from us after ten short years.
I'll always remember how much he aggravated me, and how he could get away with anything by looking up at me with those dark, soulful eyes. I'll remember our battles over housetraining, my efforts to improve his behavior, his refusal to give in no matter how much I coaxed or threatened. I'll remember all the missing socks, the stolen food, the chewed-up blankets. I'll remember the softness of his fur, his head tucked under my chin in those early morning hours. I'll remember his smell. I'll remember how he would give me a quick kiss on the nose as soon as he woke up.
Most of all, I'll remember how he loved me.
And what a wonderful gift he was.

Denise Tondreault Bizzaro
September 23, 2009
Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida