Elihu Entertainment

Although we didn’t know Max’s exact birthdate, we calculated that it must be mid-September.  Since Katie’s birthday was September 19^th, she graciously suggested that Max could share her special day.  Katie (and Max’s) birthday party was to be an afternoon event for family and friends.  It was also going to provide a test run for our newest puppet show, The Birthday Bug.  This was an early and very primitive version of the show, which involved a number of Pelham marionettes along with a large, robotic Birthday Bug puppet that Hugh had made.  The Birthday Bug sported a light bulb in its torso, so that it could illuminate the words, Happy Birthday, at the end of the show.  It was the first of Hugh’s trick puppets, and the forerunner of the wonderful Elvis marionette that lit up with LEDs for a much more sophisticated show many years later.

Three days before the party, Max and I went for a long ramble through the woods.  He was extremely well behaved, so I hoped that his recent rebellion was over.  His tendency for histrionics was still evident, though, when he trod on a stone, cried bitterly and held up his paw for inspection.  How he loved to get sympathy!   Once we returned home, he sat and watched curiously while I did last minute craft jobs for the show.  Then I went shopping to buy party supplies and food.  I also bought a present for Max, and Katie wrapped this while Max supervised.  He was very interested to see his squeaky toy being encased in wrapping paper.

The party was to be held on the Saturday, even though Katie’s (and Max’s) birthday was on Sunday.  Two days before the party, Katie, predictably, became overexcited and started acting up.  Unfortunately, Max began to suffer from party-itis too.  He also kept disappearing upstairs to inspect his present.  The day before the party was particularly hectic.  We had to set a treasure hunt, organize games, and move the puppet theatre into the playroom.  The girls’ friend, Marcella, came over to help blow up balloons, hang streamers and make the cake.  Once the cake was baked and decorated, we scraped the icing off the kitchen walls, set the lights for the show, and called it a night.  When we went upstairs to go to bed, Max, a fierce wolf scowl on his face, was guarding his present which had been placed out of reach on top of a filing cabinet.  What a job I had getting him to leave it and settle down for the night.

On the day of the party, Katie bounced onto our bed at a disgusting hour and demanded her presents.  Max was excited to see her open them; it was as if he knew he was going to get his parcel too.  When it was presented to him, he ripped it open without any assistance, played with his toy and sampled his cookies.  Now that he had been able to open his present, he was all twinkles and tail wags.  Come party time, he was as wild eyed with excitement as any of the children, so much so that I had to shut him in the den with my father during the more boisterous games.  However, he was well behaved once we brought him back out, and we were in convulsions watching him during the Memory game.  He lay on the carpet amid all the other little bodies, stared at the tray, and wore a frown of concentration that seemed to say: “If I could only write, I could win this game.”  Everything the children did, he wanted to do too.  It was another case of Monkey see, Monkey do.  Later, he sat in the audience and watched the puppet show.  He saw all the children off at the end of the party and came along for the ride when I drove my parents to the Skytrain station.  When we returned, he flopped in the corner of our bedroom and drifted off into a deep sleep.  He was a very tired dog, but his wolf face was smiling again.  What was he plotting in his dreams?  Mentally, I paraphrased A.A. Milne:  “Now I am one, I have just begun!”  But for a beginner, he’d certainly had an eventful first year.

Max had no excuse for his fits of temperament.  He had a dog’s life to envy: Kind owners, lots of outings, a female canine entourage that indulged his male chauvinist ways.  But then, it was probably all this attention that encouraged his tendency to be a little ham.  What a show he put on if he was hurt.  After one of our walks, Edna found a cut on Max’s foot.  I took him home and doctored it, but he hobbled around all day looking very pathetic.  He was also naughty and kept pulling his bandage off.  He was still limping the next day, so I drove him to the woods for a short walk, and what a pitiable show he made, holding his paw up to elicit sympathy every few steps.  The cut healed quickly, but a few days later, Max trod on a chip in the woods and hurt his paw again.  How he hopped and howled!  Edna and I mixed mirth with our sympathy.  Max was turning out to be a real Sarah Bernhardt.

The hamminess I could tolerate.  Max was really very funny at times.  However, with the onset of fall, came further rebellion.  It was changeable and uncomfortable weather, and possibly the muggy atmosphere affected Max’s spirits, but whatever was prompting him, he began to challenge me again.  After a day from hell, where I was troubleshooting with naughty dog, naughty children and a barrel of problems related to our puppet recording, I decided enough was enough.  Family conference for the kids, tech list for Hugh, and more school for Max.  I called Gary Gibson and set up another appointment. 

Max was extremely naughty when Gary arrived.  He bit him within the first five minutes.  Gary was very concerned about this tendency to nippiness.  We finally decided that there were two causes for the speed with which Max used his mouth.  One was the fact that he was scared of big men.  He had become a fear biter, and we suspected this was a product of his treatment in his first home.  However, as an alpha male, Max also believed he had the right to put other creatures, canine or human, in their place, and a nip was his way of doing that.  Whatever the causes, it was obvious that I had lots of work ahead.

On the bright side, Gary was delighted with Max’s training.  He was pleased to see how cleverly Max picked up on what he was supposed to do, and how enthusiastic he was when he mastered a task.  Gary encouraged me to invent more games for Max, and I promised to put my thinking cap on.   Very soon, I conceived our first new trick.  I had started doing a daily aerobics routine, using the Body Moves TV show as my personal trainer.  The next day, the final exercise of the episode was set to Offenbach’s  exhilarating Can Can music.  This planted an idea in my mind.  Gary had taught Max to shake a paw, so I decided he could just as easily learn to shake both paws.  Very quickly, he picked up my signals, and in no time, was raising first his left, and then his right paw, one after the other.  At first he looked at me as if I was dumb, making him repeat the process over and over, but when I started to sing the music in time to his actions, his eyes twinkled with delight.  It really was the cutest thing to watch, but my artistic sense wasn’t satisfied.  The act needed a climax for the last dum de dum de dum of the song.  Envisioning how Can Can dancers always finished by throwing up their skirts and bending with their backsides in the air, I decided that Max simply had to learn to bow.  This was going to be complicated, I thought.  But no, it wasn’t.  It was a breeze.  The moment I bowed to Max, he bowed right back.

When Hugh and the girls came home, they were in convulsions watching Max go through his routine.  As I la’d my way through the music, he threw up his paws in perfect time, and bounced into a beautiful bow on the closing phrase.  Dancing eyes, dancing paws!  What a clever dog, and didn’t he know it.  The next day, we tried demonstrating the trick for Edna and Brandy.  Funnily enough, Max seemed almost embarrassed to perform in public and kept looking over his shoulder to see if anyone else was watching.  However, once Edna lavished him with praise, he got over his stage fright and there was no holding him back. 

Without realizing it, I had just created the beginning of Max’s future job.

Next:  Max has a birthday party.

Thursday, September 9 in 1993 was a hot and uncomfortable day.  It was also another significant day in Max’s life, although we did not find out why until years later.   We set off for our morning walk as usual, dropping Katie at school, then continuing on to Edna’s house.  Edna was dog-sitting Misty, so Max set off for the woods in a happy frame of mind, leading his pack, and leaving it to Brandy to keep Misty in line.  The trails of the George Derby Woods provided a welcome retreat from the sun, but it was still very warm, and by the time we were close to the end of our route, the dogs were feeling the heat.  When we reached the bridge near the end of the trail, they loped down to the creek to paddle and have a drink.  Edna and I leaned on the railing and watched the dogs cooling off in the deep pool that always formed at the side of the stream.

Suddenly I sensed eyes on me and I glanced up.  There was Max, staring at me from the other side of the bridge.  I blinked, did a double take, and then looked back down to the creek.  No, Max was still there, lying in his favourite puddle.  I looked up again.  The duplicate Max remained at the edge of the bridge, warily eying me back.  I looked more closely and saw that, alike as they were, the second Max was a fraction smaller and its fur looked a little softer.  The Max clone also had a very sweet expression.  It was a female.  As I continued to admire the newcomer, a couple arrived at the bridge and informed me that their dog was called Samantha.  When Max heard the voices, he came bounding up to see what was going on.  He seemed delighted to meet his lookalike, and she in turn appeared to like him.  So from that moment on, Samantha was added to Max’s entourage of lady friends, along with Brandy, Neisha, Misty and Kelsey.

Over the years, Max met Sam on many occasions.  We noticed that he tended to bully her, for she was very sweet but rather timid.  Sam’s owners were charming people.  We never knew them by name.  Like the other dog walkers, they were known as Sam’s Mum and Dad, just as they labelled us by Max and Brandy’s names, and they never stopped to chat for long since they were out for their morning exercise.  Therefore, Max and Sam would greet each other, have a brief interchange, and then move on.  However, many years after their first meeting, when both dogs were getting old, tragedy struck Sam’s owners.  The husband in this lovely couple was killed in a car crash in the Fraser Canyon.

A couple of weeks after we heard the sad news, Edna and I met the wife when she was out taking Sam for her walk.  We stopped to commiserate, and from that point on, whenever we saw Sam and her owner, we always talked for a while.  The dogs, being less rambunctious now, would mosey around the side of the trails, and sometimes, flop down and lay side-by-side like three elderly friends enjoying the air outside the rest home.  One day, we were laughing about our first sighting of Sam, and how I’d confused her with Max.  We commented on the interesting fact that the champagne tone in their fur had deepened and acquired an almost orange tinge as they grew older, so that the resemblance that had been there in their youth had continued on into old age.  Sam’s owner told us what an adorable fluffy puppy Sam had been and related how she and her husband had adopted Sam from the New Westminster pound in 1992.  “That’s a coincidence,” I said.  “Max’s first family got him from the New West pound too.”

Suddenly, the light went on.  I asked what month Sam had been born, knowing instinctively that the answer would be September, for Max had been four months old when we adopted him at the start of February in 1993.  Edna tuned in right away too.  She and I stared at each other in amazement.  We looked back at Max and Sam, companionably flopped at the side of the path, brother and sister sitting harmoniously together.  What dummies we felt.  It had taken us their entire lifetimes to figure it out.

From that moment on, Sam became Sister Sam, and we chuckled as we remembered Max’s early bullying.  He was merely being a typical older brother.  Sadly, Sam developed cancer only a few months after we had realized they were from the same litter, and she died the following year; however, we were always glad to know that Max, the problem dog who might not have made it past puppydom, not only had a lifelong friend in Brandy, but also, throughout his lifetime, remained in contact with his sister.  For a dog with an attitude, he was certainly blessed with a lot of special relationships.

Next:  Rebel Without a Cause.

Max’s first day home included a walk with me, Hugh and Katie; Edna and her grandsons, Justin and Josh; and last, but definitely not least, Brandy.  However, hotshot Max didn’t so much as say ‘Woof’ to Brandy, but simply tried to mount her.  No finesse at all.  Time in cowboy country had not improved his manners.  What was interesting about the walk, though, was that Max abandoned me and Edna, and forged ahead with Hugh.  The macho genes were kicking in again.  Boys were the leaders; girls stayed at the rear.  That was one of the reasons why Max loved it when Edna’s visiting dogs came with us.  They were all females and he got to test his governance skills.  We tended to stay on the bush trails in the summer months as there were fewer walkers there, and Max would lead his ladies up and down the ravines and play Chase-me-Charlie with them around the bushes.  To our amusement, the dogs discovered that they liked salmonberries and would daintily purse their lips and pick them off the bushes when they felt like a mid-walk snack.  However, the girls would never try to share Max’s bush.  The king always had first dibs on what was available.

Max was becoming deeply bonded to Edna as well as her dogs.  He was also possessive about her.  If she bent to pat another dog, he would paw at her leg and demand that she gave him equal time. Edna was the only person outside the family that I could ever leave him with.  On the day we took the children to the PNE, Edna dog-sat Max all day.  He was thrilled to see us when we picked him up, but he had had a wonderful day.  A smiling Edna reported that Max and Brandy had played until they dropped, but even after they flopped on the grass, they talked to each other.  Oh, to be able to understand dog-speak!

The holiday might have been over, but Max still had lots of stimulation.  With Hugh home for the summer, Max enjoyed outings to many different locations.  We started to walk him at the Fraser Foreshore where he could run on the dykes and swim in the ditches.  The boat rides from Ioco also helped him develop his swimming skills.  He became as powerful in the water as he was on shore.  He’d leap off the Optimist and swim a long way from the boat, and one day, he made it all the way to shore and back again.  At that point, we moved the boat further out into the inlet.  The last thing we wanted was to lose Max up the mountain.

Lighthouse Park was another favourite destination, especially if we went by boat.  Hugh would drop me and the girls at Caulfield, and we’d hike down to visit my parents while he went fishing.  One day, we arrived at my parents’ house to find another visiting dog.  Zach was pleased to see Max, but Max was jealous and looked offended to see another canine with his grandparents. My mother smiled and said: “Wag your tail, Max!” whereupon my father turned and said, “What?”  Naturally, this resulted in an eruption of giggles from the girls.  At Five o’clock, we walked back to Caulfield, where Hugh was waiting with the Optimist.  Then home we went, with a stop for pizza at Dundarave Pier.  On the journey back to Ioco, we were eating our pizza and admiring a huge cruise ship that was coming under Lionsgate Bridge.  Little did we realize the size of the waves it would produce, and as it went by, we were swamped.  Max and I were soaked, much to the girls’ delight.  Hugh managed to keep a straight face and rigged me out in oilskins from the cabin, so at least I didn’t freeze on the trip home.  Poor Max wasn’t happy, though.  We rubbed him down, but we couldn’t get him completely dry.  I had a damp, bedraggled dog trying to snuggle up to me for warmth all the way back.  It was dark when we reached Ioco, and by the time we drove home, Max was so tired he could barely keep his head up.

All this activity should have made for a contented dog.  However, as the summer went on, Max’s behavior was still problematic.  He couldn’t seem to settle down after the holiday, and he challenged every attempt to re-establish the work we had done before we went away.  One day, after a training session, he ripped up our green garden table and then coughed and hiccupped all day because he’d swallowed bits of plastic.  That summer was a busy time, too.  Not only did we have a rebellious dog, but we were also dealing with the start of pre-teen ups and downs with the girls.  We were preparing new shows for Halloween, and Caroline was getting ready to start high school.  A municipal election was coming up in the fall, and because I’d run for Council on previous occasions, I was getting calls from reporters and pressure from potential candidates who wanted me to throw my hat into the ring.  However, I was busy with my husband, my girls, my dog and my shows, and that was quite enough of a challenge for me.  In fact, at that point in time, Max was enough of a challenge for me, and a difficult one at that.

Still, it was time for our next session with Gary Gibson, so help was on the way.  When Gary arrived for the lesson, Max looked extremely put out.  He was unimpressed with the whole concept of school.  But in spite of his surly attitude at the start, the training session went well because Max actually liked doing tricks.  The sense of achievement made him feel good about himself, and whenever he did something right, his eyes would sparkle.  However, having gone through the session like a trouper, Max bit Gary on the ankle when the lesson was winding down.  He just had to show that he was king.  Gary put him in his place yet again, and by the time he left, we were set up with bitter apples, pamphlets galore, more training tips and a very tired dog who was worn out from the effort of all that thinking.  Gary declared Max one of the most challenging dogs he’d ever come across, and warned us that we would probably never achieve absolute obedience.  There would always be a degree of negotiation.  He also informed us that Max needed a job.  Obviously Pets and Friends was out, but he urged us to think about ways we could make Max feel more useful.

As the weeks rolled on, I persevered, and gradually, Max became more obedient. He walked well on the leash, and he performed his tricks enthusiastically.  His long downs became a pleasant time when I read and enjoyed my cup of coffee, while he napped.  For Hugh, who was not at home as often and had less interaction with our pet, it was a different story.  Max, we soon realized, was not a dog that could be trained, and then follow commands for anyone who issued them.  With this dog, it was a question of leadership, and every individual had to prove themselves worthy of being his commander.  Max had accepted me as leader, but now he began to challenge Hugh.  When Hugh put him in a Long Down, Max would throw a tantrum, and it took all Hugh’s might, plus the sturdy sofa leg, to keep him down.  Gary Gibson had declared Max “More Dog than Most”.  He had also told us we would learn more about dogs from Max than from any other dog we were likely to have.  We were beginning to understand why.

 Next:  Dead Ringer?

We took Max out for one last run around Treasure Island before setting off for Horse Lake.  Max waited patiently in the wagon while we stopped for breakfast and shopped en route.  He was itching for action once we reached the resort, but he still had to be patient while we settled in.  The cabin we’d ordered had been double-booked, and our replacement turned out to be a chalet containing two beds with a divider between and a long rod for curtains across the front.  There was also a ghastly smell of propane which Max didn’t like at all.  However, this dissipated once the owner came round to fix the gas stove, and the girls stopped making rude remarks about the accommodations once they realized there were lots of other children about. 

We soon realized that, unlike Lac La Hache, this resort was a busy locale and there was no way Max would have the latitude to run about.  During our first session with Gary Gibson, he had told us how to train Max to come.  This involved using a long line attached to his collar and letting him roam about until we called, “Come!”  At that point, we had to jerk the line and pull him in if he didn’t come of his own volition.  We had not had time to practise this before leaving for our holiday, but we decided this was a good time to start.  Fortunately Hugh had some garden gloves on hand, because the routine with the rope was a guaranteed way to lacerate the palms if they were not protected.  Max was suspicious of this new restriction, but once he realized he could trot and sniff, he accepted it, and we managed a walk, and even a swim in the weedy lake, without incident. 

The following day, Hugh went off early to go fishing, but returned soon as the lake was covered with fog.  He and I made breakfast: then, as the sun came out, we took Max for a hike on his long line.  When we returned, the girls were playing with their new friends, so we took Max out in the boat.  We explored to the end of the lake and part way down the river, which was full of reeds and weeds.  It was very windy, but Max loved the interesting smells that were borne on the breeze.  After lunch, we swam off the communal party boat, a flat wooden structure that was tied to the main dock.  Max swam too, going after his tennis ball and bucking the waves like a battleship – heavy, sturdy and straight.  The day was going well and Max appeared to be settling in. 

After dinner, Hugh went fishing and the girls were playing with their friends, so I took Max for a walk.  What a calamity!   Just as I put him on his long line, he saw a cat.  He charged, but I didn’t notice, for one of the girls’ friends—a boy named David—had approached to speak to me and my attention was on him.  Consequently, Max ran the full length of his line without me seeing what was happening, and when it went taut, he jet-propelled me several feet through the air.  I crashed down like a felled rhinoceros and lay spayed on the ground.  On impact, the line flew out of my hand, and Max joyfully loped off after the cat.  My stomach and head hurt so badly I couldn’t move.  David sprinted after Max while I lay in the dirt and slowly recovered.  When I finally managed to drag myself upright, I saw David triumphantly returning with a wild-eyed, ecstatically happy Max in tow.  Later, I nursed my aching limbs as we sat around the campfire and watched the lightning flashing at the far end of the lake.  Max slept at our feet, toes twitching and a smile on his wolf-like face.  Probably dreaming of that wretched cat.

Anti-inflammatories got me through the night, but the next day, I was sore.  It was a busy day, since our original cabin was now vacant and we had to pack our things and move.  Once we were there, it was pleasant, though, because the chalet was right on the lake.

We all went for a swim after lunch, doing laps between the private dock of our cabin and the party boat.  We found Max a stick and let him swim with us as the party boat was a contained area and we thought he couldn’t escape.  However, Smarty-paws finally figured out that if he swam further, he could climb out at the dock and race for freedom.  This he did, after which he charged around the resort, chased all the cats, and flatly refused to come when called.  Finally, in desperation, Hugh had a brainwave.  He opened the hatch of the wagon, got into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition.  To our relief and surprise, Max came thundering back, hopped into our car and sat there like the best boy in the class.  Needless to say, after that, he was swimming as well as walking on his long line.

Deciding that Max was going wild from too much excitement, we gave him a time out.  We left him in the cabin and drove to Lac Des Roches, where we had dinner in a quaint restaurant with movie memorabilia on the walls and a charming proprietor who looked like Timothy Dalton.  The next afternoon, Max had another spell of solitude.    Hugh went fishing and I drove Katie to Northwood Lodge where we’d booked a two-hour trail ride.  Even without Max, this turned out to be quite an adventure.  Accompanying us was a family of four from Coquitlam.  There were two teenage daughters: one of them was quiet and calm; the other was loud and made no bones about the fact that she was nervous.  When we had climbed high up the trail and were trekking through heavy bush, the mother’s horse was stung by a bee.  The horse started to shiver and stamp, causing the other mounts to prance as well.  The noisy-nervy sister started to shriek when her horse sidled into a tree, her screaming scared all the horses, and her sister’s horse bolted into the bush and threw her.  Katie, bless her, stayed  calm and obeyed my instructions to soothe her horse.  We managed to hold the trail boss’s horse, too, while she went back to check on the sister who had been tossed into the undergrowth.  Fortunately, the girl was all right and the rest of the ride proceeded without incident. 

At the end of the ride, Katie and I said reluctant farewells to our horses and headed back to the resort.  While the girls took their friends out in the boat, Hugh and I enjoyed mugs of coffee at the water’s edge.  I started to tell him of our adventures, but we became sidetracked by the action on the far side of the lake.  It appeared that Max wasn’t the only rebel at Horse Lake.  Thinking they were out of sight, the kids had gone ashore and were heading up the mountain.  Hugh got out the binoculars and followed their progress, and they were not happy to find us waiting on the dock when they returned.  Max may have been sprung from solitary, but the girls took his place and spent the next hour on timeout in the cabin.   It appeared we needed long lines for all the junior members of the family.

The next day, the girls were playing with their friends again, so Hugh and I took the boat to the far side of the lake.  Our intention was to tire Max out with a mammoth hike up to the meadow, along the logging road and back via the cattle trails and the shoreline.  The trek was a marathon and we had to negotiate several ravines along the way.  Everywhere, we saw the handiwork of bears and beavers, though fortunately, we didn’t meet any of them.  Max’s nose was going nonstop and his eyes were glittering with excitement.  If he hadn’t been on his long line, he would have answered the call of the wild. 

Once we got back to the boat, it was hot, and, as no one was around, I decided to go for a dip in my undies and tank top.  Hugh went one better.  His undies happened to be his last clean pair and he didn’t want to get them wet, so he chose to have a skinny dip, figuring he could use the boat as a shield to get in and out of the water.  So off he stripped and in he slunk, decorously covered by the boat.  At that moment, some boaters started to come across the lake, but Hugh was not concerned because our boat screened him from their view.  However, Max, puffing excitedly on the shore, decided to leap into the boat, thus propelling it forward, and I was treated to the hilarious spectacle of Hugh in his nothings swearing at the dog and streaking after the boat trying to regain his cover.  I laughed so hard I cried.  Max and I were both in the doghouse on the ride back to camp. 

The long hike had been a good strategy, because Max was tired enough to settle down for the trip home the next day.  He seemed very excited when we pulled into our driveway and he was happy to be able to go out and lay in his own backyard.  He’d enjoyed his adventures, but it was time to be domestic dog again.  He ambled in and out throughout the afternoon, contentedly watching, as we slugged through the unpacking, did piles of laundry and dealt with the overblown garden veggies.  In between naps, he played with his toys; then wolfed down his dinner and headed up to bed.  I followed two hours later, exhausted from the labours of the day.  Max was already blissfully asleep, whiffling contentedly in the corner of our bedroom.  As I dragged my aching limbs into bed, a thought crossed my mind:  Whoever said it was a dog’s life didn’t know what they were talking about.

Max wasn’t sure about his first holiday.  In spite of the fact that we were up at five, he missed his morning walk.  Bewildered, he watched us load the car, after which we all piled in and set off for Lillouet via the Squamish-Whistler route.  Our old Ford never had quite enough ear room for Max when he stood or sat up, and given that he was sharing the back of the wagon with bags and boxes, it couldn’t have been the most comfortable trip.  I always prepared a mystery game with travel clues for the girls, so Max was also bombarded with shouts of triumph from Caroline and Katie as they spotted key signposts along the way.  Finally, Max got his walk when we stopped at Squamish and we let him go for a run on the field of the high school where I did my practicum many years ago.  What memories that brought back!  After breakfast at McDonalds, we set off again and drove to Nairn Falls where we hiked a long trail to the falls.  By now, Max was beginning to perk up.  The forced rides in the back of the wagon were being offset by the benefit of extra runs, and what’s more, the new walks were full of new smells, not to mention new adventures.  On the way back, I caught my foot in a root, sprawled headlong and began to roll down the bank towards the racing river.  Fortunately, a log stopped my progress, but my family looked as shaken as I was.  Not Max, however.  He seemed quite entertained by my acrobatics.   I swear the wagging tail was saying, “Do that again!”

We drove the rest of the way in one go, but once we’d had time to settle in our motel and cool off with the air conditioning, we went to Seton Lake for a swim.  Here, we found a host of friendly First Nations locals bobbing in the water, which was glacier blue and very cold.  We all braved the water, though not for long.  It was too cold, even for Max.  After a return to the motel for hot baths and clean up, we ordered pizza for dinner, after which we went gold panning in the river and took a drive up the mountain before coming back for the night.  Max was exhausted, but very happy.  A full day of action with his family.  A dog couldn’t ask for more.

Max may have been tired, but he was very restless sleeping in strange surroundings.  It certainly wasn’t a great night with the air-conditioning roaring and Max alternately snoring or crashing about in his food bowl.  Hugh and I got up just before seven and walked up to the local school field.  It was fenced so we were able to let Max scamper about.  He raced back and forth, little legs flying, happy to be running again.  Once he’d burned off his surplus energy, we went back for breakfast, then set off for Lac La Hache.  By now we were driving through heavy rain, and we had a near calamity when we stopped for a break at a gravel pit.  Hugh insisted that Max could have a run there, but the moment his leash was unclipped, Max ran straight out onto the highway and was just missed by a truck!   After that, I set the rules on off-leash locations.  I had no intention of Max’s first holiday being his last. 

After a lunch stop at 100 mile house, where we enjoyed strong, hot coffee, good burgers, and a friendly waitress who oozed country-style hospitality, we drove straight through to our motel at Lac la Hache.  The room had an attractive view of the lake and there was a huge resort area for us to amble about in.  After dinner, the rain had stopped so we went for a boat ride.  Max had never been in the outboard before, but he was very blasé about it.  Obviously, his experience with the Optimist had convinced him that he had mastered boats of every type.  He hopped in right away, put his nose into the wind, and smiled his wolf smile the whole time we roared around the lake.  The next day, he had a wonderful time.  On our tour of the lake the previous evening, we had discovered two uninhabited islands with trails around the perimeter.  What a perfect opportunity for Max to run, but not get away from us.  After breakfast, we took the boat out to the larger of the two islands.  Max raced back and forth, reveling in the exciting new smells, while we hiked the circumference.  The wind blew up during our walk so it was a rough ride back, but Max didn’t seem to care.  

That afternoon, however, Max was less than thrilled, because he had to stay at the motel while the rest of us drove up to Timothy Lake for a trail ride.  This was my first time on a horse.  As a child, I had ridden donkeys at the seaside, and even elephants and camels in the London Zoo, but never a horse.  I was a little nervous, but our friendly guide gave me a good-natured beast called Two Bits who was amiable and obedient.  Two Bits stepped over logs with the same one-foot-at-a-time care I use myself, so we got along very well.  In spite of the fact that I felt the need of an elephant hoist to get me on and off my mount, I enjoyed the experience.  Once back at Lac la Hache, we went swimming, and Max forgave us for deserting him.  The reality was that the quiet time had been good for him.  He’d been getting increasingly wild-eyed with all the country smells and changes in routine.  It might be holiday time, but we didn’t want to undo everything we’d begun to accomplish through his training sessions, and short periods of isolation were needed to calm him down.

The rest of the week passed happily.  Hugh fished while the girls and I swam; we took long boat rides to explore the lake; we roasted marshmallows; and last, but not least, we took Max for numerous walks around Treasure Island.  We christened it that because Max found so many old bones and odd sticks littered about the trail, all of which he carried proudly throughout the walk and hid in carefully selected hidey holes when we refused to let him bring them back in the boat.  We were all quite sorry when it was time to move on to our next stop.  As we walked around the resort on our last evening, we looked across the lake to Treasure Island and resolved to take Max back there next year.  But in the meantime, there was another week to our holiday, and who knows what new adventures lay ahead.

Next:  Rebellion at Horse Lake.

In early July, Max had a very social day:  first a visit to Dr. Zinger to get heartworm pills; and then to the SPCA to meet Carson Wilson, who was head of the Burnaby shelter at the time.  Carson liked Max.  He reassured me that I had a good dog, but acknowledged that Max wasn’t going to be easy to control.  We had a long chat about dogs and dog parks while Max, having decided that he liked Carson too, napped peacefully at our feet.  Before we left, Carson gave me the date of the next free training session which was set for the upcoming weekend.  He also informed me that it was due to be filmed by the local cable network.  Max was about to experience school and become a TV star all in one fell swoop!

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, come Saturday, cablevision was on strike, so Max didn’t get to be a star after all.  However, the trainer proved to be a gem.  His name was Gary Gibson, and he and his wife, Kathy, worked together.  They had formed Canine Corrections, which was a training program that operated out of the women’s prison at the Fraser Foreshore.  Kathy worked with the inmates and taught them how to train problem dogs and rehabilitate them back into the community.  Kathy and Gary had also worked with the Pets and Friends program, and acted as consultants for SPCA shelters all over the Lower Mainland.  They now run a company called Custom Canine, and anyone who has a problem dog to train would be well advised to contact them.

I may have been impressed by the visiting trainer, but Max wasn’t.  He took one look at Gary, who was a big man, and promptly cocked a leg, narrowly missing Hugh in the process.  Gary eyed Max back sternly and told us that the act had been deliberate.  Our darling boy was displaying defiance and dominance.  Max proceeded to look the other way and pretend Gary didn’t exist.  Gary was amazing though.  He ignored the ‘attitude’ and proceeded to demonstrate some training techniques.  Max wasn’t overly impressed, but cooperated reasonably well in spite of wanting to play class clown and visit all the other dogs.  Gary also continued to work with the other dogs, and gave several of their owners leads about obedience-school programs.   However, when I asked Gary if he could recommend a program for us, he told us that Max would get kicked out of obedience school the first day.  How humiliating, especially with all those good dogs and good-dog owners standing around grinning.  Still, Max was not a write-off.  Gary and Kathy had their own training program for problem dogs.  It entailed two visits to the dog’s home where they taught the owners how to work with the pet on their own territory.  After that, we’d be on our own for a few months, and then they would come back for a follow-up session to see how we were doing.  The price was extremely reasonable and we were thrilled to accept.  Gary gave us some practical tips to get us started; then we arranged our first lesson for Monday and took Max home.

I decided to start training with Max that evening.  The key, according to Gary, was to show Max who was boss, and the first step was The Long Down.  This entailed the owner getting comfortable with a book and a coffee since the procedure involved sitting still for half an hour.  Max was to be leashed and made to lie down.  Then I was to put my foot on the leash, right near his collar, so that he could not get up until I gave him the release word, which was okay.  Gary warned me that Max would rebel and I’d never be able to hold him, so I was to wrap the leash around the sofa leg, which would fool Max into thinking I was the immovable object that was holding him in place.  This, I understood, was to make Max believed he belonged to a powerful Supermom.  As Gary had predicted, Max tried to challenge me, but he wasn’t as difficult as I had anticipated.  He wriggled for a while, and then settled down peacefully for a nap.  Good, I thought.  This is going to be a breeze.

Come Monday morning, Max was naughty again and ran off during his walk.  By the time we retrieved him, Hugh was furious, so Max and I ended up abjectly walking home alone.  So much for learning from The Long Down.  Worse was to come.  When Gary came for the first session in the afternoon, Max looked horrified to see the bossy man from the shelter entering his home and promptly nipped him.  The scowl on his wolf mask showed he had no intention whatsoever of co-operating this time around.  However, Gary persevered.  In an amazingly short time, he taught Max his first trick— how to play dead.  Gary would say the words, ‘Bang, You’re Dead’, and move a pointing finger towards Max’s face; and Max would promptly flop down, roll over and show his tummy.  Once Gary had demonstrated this a couple of times, it was our turn to try.  To our delight, we discovered that the pointing finger worked.  It was just like that scene in Croc Dundee!  What was even better, Max seemed to find it great fun to do the trick.   Progress at last.

Next, we went outside, and Gary taught us how to walk Max on the leash.  Hugh and I had endured an ongoing struggle, trying to make Max heel, but as Gary explained, force was not necessary.  Gary took Max’s leash and started down the sidewalk.  As soon as Max got ahead of him, he turned, giving a slight jerk on the leash, and went back the other way.  After three or four changes of direction, Max got the message and began to walk beside him.  Gary handed me the leash and told me to try, so off we went, striding along the pavement and reversing every time Max forged ahead.  It was amazing.  In no time at all, there was the dog that had pulled me behind him like a sleigh, trotting sedately to heel and looking happy about it too. 

The next lesson was using the home to teach Max the pack order.   I was interested to hear that Gary would not work with people who did not allow their dogs inside the house.  His entire system depended on constant interaction between man and pet.  Gary looked around our house and said, “I bet Max races to beat you out through the doors or up the stairs.”  We nodded and admitted that was so.  Gary nodded.  Then he explained that we should always start for the door we didn’t intend to use, and then turn and go through the other one, so that Max ended up being behind us.  Gary showed us how to go up the stairs so that Max couldn’t get ahead of us.  By the time he had finished, we realized that even the smallest domestic duty could be used as a training exercise.  Gary’s final piece of advice, which I was pleased to hear, was to let Max sleep in our bedroom, for the reasons I explained in an earlier episode.  Hugh conceded, even though he wasn’t thrilled with the idea.  Still, Max, unlike Beanie, was a good sleeper and didn’t snore, so he wasn’t likely to disturb us in the night.  We saw Gary off, feeling much better about the situation.  However, we were given a stern warning that this was not going to be a piece of cake, and that Max would go through several stages of rebellion.  Gary also told us that Max would have to be neutered before he reached the age of two or we would have the mutt-from-hell on our hands, and Gary wouldn’t be working with him.  One nip was enough.

We spent the rest of the afternoon reversing back and forth around the house while Max tried to second guess our every move.  The evening was fun, because my actress friend, Virginia Reh, was visiting from Toronto, and she came over for dinner.   Gini, who is very charming and vivacious, won Max over in no time.  After dinner, Katie organized Max to perform a mini-gymkhana on the lawn while we sat on the deck with our drinks, viewing the pageant like Medieval royalty at the jousts.   Katie did very well as ringmaster, and Max managed some nice jumps in spite of his short legs.  He was happy to let off steam after his arduous first day at school.

The next day, Max reversed and heeled like a show dog all the way to the woods.  Once on the trails, we tried some more of Gary’s tricks.  The object, we’d been told, was to keep Max off balance by being unpredictable.  That way, he’d have to pay attention and would be more reluctant to take off in case he lost us.  Dutifully, we changed our route to keep Max on his toes, and periodically, we hid behind trees to make him look for us.  This worked nicely for a while.  However, it wasn’t long before Max figured out the new tactics and got bored.  Then it was back into dog-on-the-lookout-for-action mode.  However, we were making progress, and at least we had some guidelines to follow.

Poor old Max’s op day came soon.  We walked him, and then, feeling horribly guilty, took him to the vet. I hated leaving him there, but knew it had to be done.  We went back and picked him up at six, minus his cute little black balls.  The poor fellow was very groggy, and he threw up as soon as we got him home.  He clearly felt wretched and lay in the garden all evening.  I managed to get him upstairs at bedtime and tucked him up on the top deck where he settled down for the night.  He was still a sad little guy the following morning, but he perked up by the afternoon.  By the weekend, he was much better.  He watched happily while Hugh opened his birthday presents and wolfed down his food with his former enthusiasm.  After breakfast, we took him to the Foreshore for a leash walk.  He wanted to run but we couldn’t let him because of his stitches.  However, he trotted beside us, sniffing the smells and wagging his tail at the other dogs.  Our cheeky, cheery fellow was back again.  A few more days before the stitches came out, and then it would be time for Max to go on his very first trip.  After all, he’d started school, so like any other student, he was entitled to a holiday.

Next:  Max goes on holiday.

Max’s behavior didn’t improve over the next few weeks, so I was very glad I had arranged an assessment at the SPCA.  He was showing more dominance all the time, whining if he had to wait for his walk, and demanding his dinner by staring me in the eye and licking his lips.  He had begun trying to mount Brandy instead of playing with her nicely, although he would give up when she turned on him and told him off.  He also was taking to nipping Katie if she annoyed him, and since she wouldn’t leave him alone, this was a big worry.  His possessiveness over food was becoming an issue too.  He was thrilled when there was a thump on the porch and it turned out to be Dr. Ballard samples, but instead of eating all the kibbles, he would take the odd one and try to bury it in a corner.  He actually ended up with a bald patch on his nose from all that rubbing against the carpet!  Then, when I bought him a giant cookie from Tisol, he worshipped it for some time before he decided to eat it.  Knowing how he snapped at Brandy if she tried to get his cookies, I didn’t want him having hidey-holes full of treats for some unwary person to stumble over and trigger an incident.  I needed to be as vigilant as a Green Beret in the jungle.  Where were the traps?  Who was initiating an action?  No wonder I was a nervous wreck!

Max’s pack attitude was also becoming firmly entrenched, and with it, a heightened degree of aggression.  Our good friends, Josie and Dennis came to visit one day along with their dogs, Bobo and Sally, both of whom were females.  Max was very excited to have these visitors, and it was love at first sight.  After lunch we went for a walk with the dogs.  Max was in clover, with his entourage of two pretty and doting females.  However, when other dogs appeared on the trail, it was another story.  He became snappish and aggressive.  Bobo and Sally were his personal harem, and he was ready to fight off any other males that tried to invade his territory.    And, unfortunately, male dogs were not the only triggers that set him off.  I was also having to be selective about the people I introduced Max to.  I could not allow anyone to pat him unless the atmosphere was relaxed and I could see that he wanted to be friends.  His early experiences had made him fearful of big men, and unless they had a laid-back manner, he perceived them as the enemy.  However, he could be as affectionate as a puppy as long as he didn’t feel threatened.  On one of our excursions to the Arts Centre, he made friends with Dennis Nokoney, the affable administrator who had been hired as Burnaby’s Arts Director.  Max behaved perfectly when introduced to Dennis, and then waited patiently while we reminisced about Artscape and what progress had been made since the festival.  He could be good when he wanted to be, but I had to read his mood and act accordingly.

Although Max presented a challenge when there were other people and pets around, he was a great companion when he was home with me.  The weather was warm when we were preparing for our first paid puppet-show gig, so I worked downstairs in the glass room below the deck.  While I painted scenery, Max was happy to lie on the cool cement at my feet.  He didn’t seem bothered that, occasionally, I managed to paint bits of his fur as well.  He’d amble in and out, sometimes going to play with the tether ball that Hugh had rigged in the garden, sometimes just finding a spot in the shade.  Max was quite interested in the puppets, and, to our relief, didn’t seem to consider them chew toys.  One day, Nick, our friendly technician, called to ask if Max could eat 12 cans of dog food by Saturday.   Nick had found the perfect tins for our lights, but was reluctant to waste the dog food.  Max dutifully switched from healthy kibbles to canned food for a week, the lights were made, and the show went on to great success.  We received our very first honorarium, which the girls were delighted to share.  Max was not yet Max, the Ho Hum Husky, but he had made his first contribution to the puppet company.

The approach of summer brought Max a new skill.  With the hot weather upon us, Max started to become more adventurous about going in the water.  Katie was taking tap classes at the Burnaby Arts Centre, so Max had regular walks around Deer Lake, where he loved to bound through the long grass and paddle in the streams.  On the far shore of the lake, I would stop and throw sticks into the water.  The first time I did this, Max leaped in with such enthusiasm that he sank his stick.  Then he turned and dog-paddled furiously for shore, riding very low in the water and looking utterly panic-stricken.  He still hadn’t mastered keeping his nose above the waterline and he inhaled a lot of lake on those early attempts.  Gradually, though, he gained confidence and began to like the water.  Finally, when we never thought he’d manage to swim properly, he figured out how to keep his head up and breathe as he swam.  After that, you couldn’t hold him back.  He would glide around the lake like a stately battleship, head up, paws dog-paddling with the steady rhythm of a paddlewheel, and tail daintily poised just above the waterline.  Not that he was always that sedate.  We took the girls down to the park one evening so that they could see Max swim.  As I walked through the bush on the far side of the lake, the girls raced ahead with Max.  Suddenly I heard a loud quack followed by a noisy splash.  Max had found a more exciting incentive than wood for his dip.  He came up soaked and covered in mud, but I swear there was a big grin on his wolf-like face.

A change in the household rules came about with the hot weather, and although I didn’t realize it at the time, it was a change that was going to help with Max’s training.  Hugh had insisted that Max sleep downstairs, even though I had wanted to have him in the bedroom with us.  But with the advent of the excruciating heat, Hugh broke down and let Max sleep upstairs on the deck that adjoined our bedroom.  Since we were leaving the door open to keep our room cool, I was amused to see that Max was always curled up at the foot of the bed by morning.  After the hot spell, the precedent had been set.  Subsequent diary entries say:  “Max sleeping upstairs again as it’s very hot,” or, “Max tucked up beside our bed at night.  He’s getting naughty about sneaking up at bedtime, which is fine with me.  We’ll get Hugh trained yet.”  Gradually, the habit was set, and when we finally began formal training, I was tickled pink to be told that, yes, Max should sleep in our bedroom, because this demonstrated the perfect lesson as to who was boss.  The people were in the bed, but the dog was on the floor!  Without realizing it, I was actually doing something right.  Things were starting to look up.

Next:  School Starts!

Walking with Edna was not only fun, it was also a wonderful education in pack behavior.  Although the base group on these walks consisted of Edna, Brandy, Max and me, it was often augmented by other humans and pets.  On professional days, Katie would get dragged along with me, and Edna’s grandsons would come with her.  We used to jokingly refer to these walks as forced marches, although once they were out with us, the children thoroughly enjoyed seeing the dogs play.  It was certainly entertaining watching Max and Brandy.   On one long ramble in the woods after a particularly heavy rainfall, the dogs were having a wonderful time, racing through creeks and splashing through puddles.  However, they didn’t realize how extensive the flooding was, and when they bounded through one puddle that was usually six inches deep, they got quite a shock.  They sank in over their heads and came up looking very surprised.  Naturally, the children thought this was hilarious.

Edna would also occasionally dog-sit other family pets, so sometimes we would have Neisha or Misty along.  Neisha belonged to Edna’s mother.  She was a small black terrier cross— cross being the operative word.  She had no time for Max and his high jinks, and would plod along, ignoring him and sporting a don’t-mess-with-me expression.  Neisha was not overly enamored of walks in bad weather, and her body language on rainy days signified, “Is this journey really necessary?”  She was a funny little dog, and very appealing in her determinedly standoffish way.  Misty, who belonged to Edna’s daughter, was a different story.  A black Bouvier cross, she was good-natured and timid.  She wanted to be liked by the other dogs and loved to play with them, but she always held back and behaved in a self-effacing manner.  Misty was quite content to be the omega female.  There was no way she was going to challenge any of the others for a higher position within the group.  Then, in addition to these visiting canines, there were the dogs we met regularly on the trail, such as Kelsey, a yellow shepherd cross, whose owner would occasionally join up and walk with us.

At first, Edna and I didn’t realize that Max and Brandy were forming a pack.  However, it soon became apparent that the dogs saw themselves in this light.  The base pack consisted of the two of them with their owners (which included Hugh and Edna’s husband, Dick), but the extended pack included the children and the visiting dogs too.   The dogs created the pack order within the canine contingent.  Max, the alpha male, was the leader, and Brandy, the beta female, was his lieutenant.  To Edna’s amazement, Brandy, the good girl who had never shown signs of aggression, would do Max’s dirty work for him, forcing the other dogs to stay at the back of the line, while Max breezily trotted ahead like the king of the castle.  Woe betide other females who tried to make friends with Max.  When Kelsey caught Max’s eye and attempted to play with him, Brandy darted in and told her off royally.  Max seemed to enjoy having the ladies fight over him.  He stood back demurely and watched as if to say, “Did I cause that?” 

Brandy didn’t ever seem too concerned about Neisha, but Neisha posed no threat since she plodded along with an attitude that exuded contempt for the goofy white male with the pointed ears.  Misty was a different story.  She was an affable dog who wanted to be friends, and we were amazed to see how Brandy, who played with her happily when it was just the two of them, would nip at her hind legs and force her to go to the rear when the three dogs were together.  However, once Misty accepted the pack order, the three dogs would perform hilarious loops on the trails, playing Round and Round the Mulberry Bush until they all flopped down panting and exhausted.  How they could tell who was the leader once they kept circling the same tree was beyond us, but I suppose, by some sort of dog psychology, they had it figured out.

The only time Max showed aggression within the pack was over food.  Like an alpha male wolf, he considered it his right to eat first, and eat as much as he wanted, after which the rest of the pack could have what was left.  This meant that Edna and I had to be very careful how we distributed the cookies.  We always made the dogs sit well apart, because if a cookie bounced on the ground between them and Brandy went to pick it up, Max swooped in and snapped at her.  She might be his special girl, but she had to know her place.

Max wanted desperately to be the leader, but he was also very anxious to socialize with other dogs.  He’d run up to them, and Edna and I used to swear he was saying, “Hi, I’m Max.  I’m the king.  Who are you?”  With friendly dogs, or even other males that just wanted to roughhouse, this was not a problem, but idiot that he was, Max was quite ready to challenge the fiercest of the species.  This was a real concern, because his desire to scrap was purely a test to see who was leader and he conceded defeat very quickly if the other dog put him in his place.  We used to joke that he fought by the Queensbury Rules.  He’d start a fight, but the moment another dog flattened him, he lay there, tummy up and paws flapping in the air.  If he could speak, he’d have been saying, “Ok, you win.”  On the one hand, it was nice to know he wasn’t a vicious dog, but on the other hand, given the number of pitt bulls and rottwiellers around, this behavior pattern could very easily get him hurt.  On one of our walks, Max picked up a scent and kept running ahead of us.  Finally tired of his naughty antics, I was about to leash him, when a couple with a pitbull, a rottweiler and a shepherd came round the corner.  Max, oblivious to the fact that he was outclassed and outnumbered, put his head down and started to growl.   Fortunately I was able to grab him before he leaped in and got chewed up, but it was an alarming moment.

After that, we started to explore the lower trails in the Derby Woods and looked for alternate walks where we were less likely to run into other people.  The nice weather always brought out the seasonal walkers, not to mention the pound trucks, so we had to be more wary during the summer months.   We tried walking along the Brunette River, but met too many people to let the dogs loose.  We also met riders on horseback and Max didn’t like them at all.  I wanted to find places to let him run, but it was becoming more difficult, as he was being increasingly naughty about coming when called.  He would get wind of an exciting scent in the woods and take off, and no matter how we hollered, he wouldn’t return until he decided he was ready.  Once again, I realized that I was failing at training him properly.  After yet another incident where he went AWOL, I went to Tisol and bought a dog whistle.  Not that this would solve Max’s behavior problems, but at least I wouldn’t ruin my vocal cords trying to get him back.

My inability to control Max was causing me a lot of worry.  One of my diary entries indicated I had had a “Terrible night culminating in an awful dream that Max had fallen down a ravine.”  I knew I needed to get a handle on the situation, and I knew I needed help.  Remembering how helpful Carson Wilson had been when dealing with Lucky, I decided to give him a call.  Sure enough, Carson passed on some useful tips.  He also told me that the SPCA was going to host some assessment sessions with a qualified trainer in the summer.  He said he would let me know when these were to be and I could bring Max down to get advice on what sort of program we needed to get him in line.  We also arranged for me to bring Max down to the shelter so that Carson could meet him and size him up.  I thanked Carson profusely and rung off, feeling relieved to have at least taken the first step.

What a challenge Max was, and what a strange mixture:  affectionately compliant and willfully contrary; fearfully timid and determinedly aggressive; boisterously humorous and just plain cross.    If someone made him feel threatened, his wolf mask would set in an angry scowl and no amount of soothing talk would make him relax.  Yet with the right people, he was the most trusting and amiable little chap.  I remember taking him to the vet for treatment of an infection, and he trotted off with Dr. Zinger without so much as a whimper.  When we picked him up later that day, he was so drowsy that he almost fell over when he tried to lift his leg.  Still, I gather, in spite of his bleariness, that he had tried to socialize with the dog in the next cage.  I can just imagine it, too:  “Hi there, do you want to be friends.  It’s OK as long as you know I’m boss.”  Max desperately wanted friends, both human and canine, but he had such a hard time learning how to get along.  This was only partly due to his difficult start in life.  The other reason was that he wanted so badly to be leader of the pack.

Next:  No Bad Dogs?   Hmmm…..

Looking back on Max’s early months in our household, I often wonder that he turned out as well as he did.    Some of those early diary entries sound like utter bedlam.  April was particularly fraught, though the chaos was understandable, given the start to the month.  Second Street School had an outbreak of nits during the first week, and both our girls managed to get them, bring them home and pass them on to me.  Hugh, of course, likes to point out that, unlike the rest of us, he was nit-free.  Sample entries for the month:

Friday, April 9:  Easter marathon.  Ran the proverbial Chinese laundry all day while delousing everyone’s hair.  Hugh vacuumed non-stop in between stuffing the turkey and helping me with dinner.  We warned our guests but they decided to come anyway.  My mother’s comment on arrival was, “Oh, my dear, if you got those when I was young, you were considered absolutely beyond the pale.  I still remember Nitty Nora.”  Everyone was very witty at our expense.  Max was cross because he missed his walk, so when our guests arrived, we handed him to them, along with his leash, and told them to take him for a quick hop around the block.  Started on the sherry mid-morning to cope with the pandemonium, so we were borderline catatonic by bedtime, but at least we didn’t itch.

Sunday, April 11:  Max enjoyed Easter Sunday.  He did a Good-Boy hunt while the girls did their Easter-egg hunt.  Once he found all his Good Boys, we gave him a new chew toy.  He became fiercely possessive about it and worked at it all day.  He was still chewing hardily when we came back from church.  Finished the rest of the laundry in the afternoon.  Max every bit as busy as the washing machine, which was still chugging away well into the evening.   Max gnawed his toy right up until bedtime and I had to remove it before he’d go to sleep.

Saturday, April 14:  Hugh took Caroline to skating and I tried to sleep in.  When he returned, I was looking forward to tea in bed.  Instead, I heard a crash and a lot of swearing.  Katie came up to inform me that Max, in the process of exuberantly greeting Daddy, had got his foot caught in the phone cord, knocked it down and broken it. 

Monday, April 19:  Came home from my singing lesson to hear the girls announce they’d seen a mouse in the kitchen.  When we traced its bolt hole to a bottom drawer, I found mouse droppings all over my tablecloths, plus dog food that the little critters had dragged in.  Given Max’s adventure with the mole the previous week, I figured that he might prove to be good at nabbing rodents.  However, the girls informed me that Max had seen the mouse and looked the other way.  Apparently he only likes dead ones.  I saw the girls off for school, closed the drawer and had lunch.  Then, when Hugh got home we tackled the mess.  As I vacuumed, the mouse came out of hiding and did a few more laps of the kitchen.  While I shrieked for help, Max looked on inquisitively, watching the mouse run back and forth and making no attempt to catch it.  However, he seemed vastly entertained watching us try to corral it.

Friday, April 23:  Out for a swim at Pauline’s in the morning.  Left a note for the girls with their lunch.  When I got home, I saw that Katie had added a creatively spelled postscript:  “Caroline gave Max a hole waffle.”   That evening, we went to the Whittakers for dinner.  Max was delighted to see Tootsie again, but blotted his copybook by trotting into the rec-room and cocking his leg on a bar stool.  Needless to say, he spent the rest of the visit in the car.

The leg-lifting incident was actually a warning of things to come.  Generally, Max was a perfect gentleman in that regard, but occasionally he would lapse, such as the occasion of Caroline’s birthday party at Ioco.  When I was setting clues for a treasure hunt in the area around the boat club, Max mistook my leg for a signpost.  Everyone thought this was hilarious.  However, as our trainer, Gary Gibson, later explained to us, these incidents were not accidental; they were a sign of dominance.  This was his way of showing defiance; he was telling us we weren’t his boss.

Of course, Max wasn’t the only creature in the family who challenged authority.  Another diary entry described a day when Katie was playing with the girls next door.  Anna and Emily had come to visit, and Katie had taken them down to the basement to play dress-ups.  After a while, all three trooped back next door, and when I went downstairs, I found a big mess in our basement.  I went out onto the deck and looked over the fence to call them back, but I couldn’t see Katie anywhere.  However, Emily was there with a little girl I didn’t recognize, so I asked them to send Katie home.  To my amazement, the little stranger started to quiz me as to why Katie had to come home.   I was galled by her impudence, but explained that Katie had cleaning up to do.  To my further disbelief, she started asking more questions.  I was about to tell her exactly what I thought of rude little children who didn’t know their place, when suddenly I realized there was something familiar about the precocious monster.  Looking closely, I saw it was Kate herself, disguised by a riot of colourful paraphernalia from the dress-up box.  Yes, Max had some pretty good examples to follow.

In hindsight, though, in spite of all the high jinks, April and May contained the seeds for the beginnings of a sad period in our lives.  However, we did not realize the significance until many years later.  That spring, my parents had returned from a lengthy trip to Australia.  Soon afterwards, my mother developed a blood clot in her leg.  At the time, it was a concern, but did not seem life-threatening.  It simply resulted in us making lots of extra trips to West Vancouver, where Katie, seeing Nana as a captive audience, would sprawl across the bed with her Barbie dolls and play happily for the entire visit.  Max, too, liked the comings and goings as they usually resulted in extra walks in Lighthouse Park.  Although the thrombosis appeared to heal over the next few weeks, it sadly proved to be the beginning of the mini-strokes that ultimately caused my mother’s dementia.  At the time, though, she was still such a bright and lively lady, always there to listen to my scripts or soundtracks and ready to discuss ways to improve them.  The girls loved their Nana dearly, and so did Max.  Inevitably, once he’d had his walk with my father, he would mosey in to visit Nana, a pattern that continued throughout his lifetime and one constant that never changed, even after my mother became dependent on us for care.

But not knowing what lay ahead, we had lots of fun amid the chaos of those months.  There were boisterous games of baseball with Max joining in enthusiastically and ineptly; squishy rides to skating with a carload of girls and Max taking turns riding on everyone’s laps; Father’s day, when I served Hugh breakfast in bed and found him, Kate, Caroline and Max all tucked up together watching the westerns and war movies he’d received as gifts; and school picnics in the park where Max helped at clean-up time by eating all the scraps under the tables.  All this and walks with Brandy too!  There was no question that Max was enjoying life.  Like Gerald Durrell, he had many tales to tell of the odd assortment of bipeds and quadrupeds that inhabited his home.  My family and other animals personified!

 Next:  Leader of the Pack!