Elihu Entertainment

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!

When we were young, my brother and I read Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons and yearned to be like the adventurous children in the novel. However, as Londoners, our boating excursions were restricted to whatever was available during our annual two-week holiday at the seaside. Our experience consisted of sedate trips on pedlos, an inept expedition on a kayak inspired by the movie, Cockleshell Heroes, and one memorable occasion when a WWII duck offered rides for trippers. It wasn’t until we came to Canada that we finally discovered the joy of sailing.

Nevertheless, our voyage to Canada on the Empress of Britain provided us with a demonstration of the power of the sea, for we crossed the Atlantic in one-point-less-than-hurricane-force winds. I was violently seasick most of the time, and it was little comfort to be told that even the most seasoned members of the crew were ill on the crossing. For two days, we were instructed to stay below, and when finally allowed up top, we found a network of ropes to hold onto as we navigated the decks. The waves loomed over us like mountains. One minute, we would be struggling up a steep slope, and the next, we’d be skidding downhill, with all the deck chairs bouncing and sliding beside us. Some unwise programmer chose The Admirable Crichton for the afternoon movie, and as the shipwreck played out on screen, the curtains swayed back and forth like pendulums.  Every few minutes, another viewer would lurch out of a seat and stumble from the theatre. When we finally arrived at Montreal three days late, everyone agreed that it was an adventure to remember. However, in spite of the fact that we’d experienced an Atlantic storm, we were still novices when it came to water travel.

My husband’s youth was much more exciting. Boats are part of Hugh’s family tradition, and he can trace his family tree all the way back to Admiral Hood. Hugh’s grandfather was part-owner of the Harbinger, a clipper ship that sailed between England and Australia in the late 1800s.  Hugh’s father joined the British-India Steam Navigation Company as an officer-cadet at the age of sixteen. Later, Hugh Senior built two sailboats, the Lucky Chance and the Adamastor, the latter of which undertook one voyage that is a story in itself. In retirement, Hugh Senior preferred fishing to sailing, and traded the Adamastor in for the Optimist, a twenty-foot fiberglass clinker runabout that was perfect for setting his prawn traps around Pender Harbour.

Our daughters had the Swallows and Amazons childhood that my brother and I had longed for, for they grew up with boats.  Not only did they take trips on ‘Grandpa’s boat’, but they also enjoyed rides on the outboard Hugh used for lake fishing.  There were many excursions to Nelson Island for picnics, where the girls had to swim ashore as the dinghy was too small to hold more than two people.  Caroline and Katie also loved the smaller islands where they found shipwrecks and derelict cottages to explore.

The girls enjoyed clambering over the Adamastor when its new owner sailed it into Pender Harbour.  They also had lots of fun on the inflatable dinghy, Sunfish II, although there was one never-to-be-forgotten occasion when Hugh convinced me that I could manage river rafting on the Bonaparte River.  I tried taking Caroline for a ride down the rapids, lost control, and dumped us both  in the shallow, churning water.  Not an experience I remember fondly.  My girls were much better sailors than I was.  I was definitely more suited to being a passenger on the slow, but steady Optimist.

By the time Max came to live with us, Hugh’s parents had passed on and ‘Grandpa’s Boat’ had become our boat.  Max first laid eyes (if not paws) on the Optimist at Caulfield Cove. The boat had been moored on the Sunshine Coast, but Hugh decided to bring it down to Ioco. He bussed up to Pender Harbour, spent the night there, and set off on the Optimist early the next morning. This was the pre-cellphone era, so when I finally heard from him, he was calling on his single side-band ship-to-shore radio via Nanaimo and the sound was ghastly. However, I received the key information that the weather was OK and that I should bring the girls to Caulfield Cove by noon. The girls were excited, because the plan was for them to travel back with Hugh on the boat. We set off for West Vancouver, where we picked up my father, then drove to Caulfield to watch for the Optimist. Hugh, magnificently punctual, pulled into the dock on the dot of twelve. Max was most perplexed to see his daddy arriving via the ocean and he was highly suspicious of the floating object that had brought him there. All attempts to get Max to board were met with resistance. Finally, we gave up and Hugh came ashore for a picnic lunch. Max was much happier once his people were on shore and the food had appeared. He was even happier when some more dogs appeared on the dock, although he retreated to sulk when one of them bit him on the nose.

Once it was time for the sailors to set off, Max became anxious again. Seeing the girls follow Hugh onto the boat elicited whining and whimpers. When the boat set out to sea, Max became even more agitated. Dad and I took him into Lighthouse Park and ran him around the ten-minute trail, but he still kept looking back, his wolf mask set in a worried frown. His restless mood continued throughout the afternoon. I took Dad home, stayed for coffee, gave Max another walk, and drove home to await a call from the sailors. Max watched me guardedly the whole time. When it was time to drive out to Ioco, he was so tired that I had to coax him out the door. All that fretting had worn him out. When we reached the boat club, Hugh and the girls had already arrived and the Optimist looked cute tucked up in its new berth. Max was thrilled to see his people again, though he still regarded the boat with a wary eye. However, once we were all in the car and heading home, I noticed that he flopped down and slept peacefully. He could finally relax. His pack was all together again.

It wasn’t until June that Max had his first boat ride. He was quite happy on the drive to Ioco. He’d had his morning walk, and was content to go for a car ride with the family. However, once we reached Ioco and went down to the docks, the panicked expression reappeared. Horrors! There was the contraption that had kidnapped his people. Poor Max was scared. He cowered on the dock and flatly refused to go on board. Commands were futile. Tugging on his leash failed to move him. Finally, Hugh simply picked him up and dumped him on board. Then I held on to him so he couldn’t escape while we got underway.

By this time, I anticipated the trip becoming a nightmare, but it took all of five minutes before Landlubber Dog turned into Dog Ahoy. He settled in the stern well with his nose to the wind. He grew very excited every time a seabird skimmed past. He became outright jubilant when we went up Indian Arm and docked at Twin Islands. What a bonus! His new mode of transportation had brought him new trails to be explored. However, his sense of whoopee did not last long. There were several other dogs on the island, and Max, feeling like a hotshot because he’d mastered a new experience, was thoroughly misbehaved.  He ended up leashed, and was forced to sit beside me on the rock while the girls swam and played.   As usual, he perked up when the picnic appeared, and when it was time to leave, he hopped back onto the Optimist, took his place in the stern well, and puffed happily all the way home.

From that point on, Max became a seasoned sailor. He watched the Optimist come out of the water for its annual barnacle removal; guardedly surveyed the winch that lowered it back when the hull was clean; then, once the boat was back in the water, roared down the slope and jumped on board. He was determined to have his ride, even though it was only from the marine ways to the dock. We soon discovered, though, that Max only liked the boat if it was in motion. He wasn’t very happy when Hugh stopped to fish by the old power station. Max had inherited my queasy stomach, and he had to try really hard not to get seasick when the boat was bobbing up and down in one spot. But as long as the Optimist was taking him from A to B, he adored being a boat dog.

That summer, Max had a wonderful time. Trips up Indian Arm and picnics on Twin Islands were favourite adventures. He splashed at the water’s edge while we swam. He made friends with the RCMP officers who patrolled the area. He saw seals on the floats by Wigwam Inn, which perplexed him at first, but seemed to delight him when he realized that they could bark like dogs. During the week, the islands were deserted, so he had the freedom to run and romp to his heart’s content. However, when we went ashore at the top of the Arm, we had to leash him as we were afraid we’d lose him up the mountain. Max’s wolf genes kicked in whenever he was surrounded by wilderness. He was a dog that strongly felt the call of the wild, even though he did not have the ability to survive on his own. Those voyages on the Optimist provided a lot of excitement for a young dog. One of my diary entries from a day on the boat reads, “Home by five. Little Max wiped out.”

Yes, Max loved the Optimist. I loved it too, and have many happy memories of the dear old tub. It looked like a child’s bathtub toy. It didn’t go more than seven knots, which made for a serene ride, and it proved to be what Hugh called a ‘fishy’ boat. I was very sad when Hugh sold it in order to buy a faster boat that he could use for salmon fishing. However, the Optimist continues to feature in my Beary books, and Bertram Beary will never be allowed to sell it. The Optimist is now berthed on Nelson Island, and we wave to it whenever we go by in the new boat. Every time I see it, I imagine two pointed ears sticking up out of the stern well. Dear old Max.  Dog Ahoy!

Next:  My Family and Other Animals

Spring break brought Max’s first experience of school holidays.  He enjoyed it; I did not.  The first day, I came home from grocery shopping to find a mob of little girls roaring around the garden with Max in hot pursuit.  How cute, I thought.  How nice that they’re having fun.  Leaving them to enjoy their games, I took advantage of some time to work on the sets for the puppet show.  In the meantime, the girls’ antics including encouraging Max on the bed, letting him run through the flower garden, and making him play Mr. Dressup.  After dinner, I did some more painting, not tuning in to the fact that Max and his entourage had been getting progressively more hyper throughout the day.  When they roared in to see what I was doing, Katie dumped my paint water all over the kitchen and Max simultaneously did a runny pooh all down the hall carpet.  End of set-painting for that day.

The next morning, we awoke to another hall streaked with runny pooh.  I scrubbed and scraped for an hour, then took Max to the vet for a checkup.  General consensus:  kids-at-home = kids-having-snacks = kids-sharing-snacks-with-Max.  We came home with pills for Max’s tummy and instructions for the girls to stop sharing their loot with the dog.  However, the girls were not the only ones home and stirring things up during the holidays.  Hugh was off school too, busily catching up on gardening and never remembering to close gates and doors as he went in and out.  Result, a major panic in late afternoon when we suddenly realized that Max was nowhere to be found.  A frantic search around the neighbourhood ensued, but finally Hugh and Caroline tracked him down.  He was up the lane, having decided to visit two dogs that we walked by every morning when we started our daily outing.

After that, I wised up, abandoned the marionette projects and concentrated on activities that involved Max and the girls under my supervision.  We took some long rambles with the girls’ friends.  The woods below the George Derby Centre stretched all the way past Cariboo road and down to the Brunette River, which gave Max a wonderful run and provided the girls with fabulously imaginative adventure walks.  Deer Lake offered an exhilarating hike too, especially as rainfall had flooded the area and made sections impassible, so that we had to loop back and forth to ford the streams.  Max discovered the joy of chasing ducks through water that came right up to his armpits.

Home activities were fun as well.  Max and I played audience, while the girls organized a Barbie fashion show.  Katie and I trained Max to come to a whistle, although he was more interested in chewing on the rope that we attached to his collar in order to yard him in.  The vet had OK’d Good Boy canine chocolate drops for training treats, so after a while, Max realized that the treats tasted better than the rope, and he began to figure out that coming when called wasn’t such a bad idea.  We also introduced him to his first squeaky toys.  At first, he was hesitant about taking his loot.  He seemed overwhelmed.  However once he realized the toys were his, he was blissfully happy for the rest of the evening, chomping, squeaking and tossing to his heart’s content.  However, I could not watch him every minute of the day, and the Max-gets-snacks problem still went on when I wasn’t looking.  Sure enough, the following weekend, we awoke to another giant pooh.  I cleaned it up and took him for a walk in case there was more to come.  Then off to the vets for more pills.

It was a relief the following Tuesday when everyone went back to school.  However, Max scared the crossing guard out of her wits.  When she blew her whistle, he leapt up into the air and puffed at her enthusiastically.  I explained that he’d come to her whistle and was expecting a Good Boy.  Kate giggled all the way across the road.  However, Max soon forgot about the Good Boys, because dropping the girls at school meant we were back to walking with Edna and Brandy.  At soon as we reached Edna’s, Max heard Brandy barking inside the house, and he sat down and wagged his tail as if to say, “I’m not moving until she comes out.”  When she emerged, it was kisses galore!  The two had a great post-holiday reunion.  It was so nice to get back to the regular routine.  No more worrying about open gates, or rivers on the carpet after overdoses of popcorn and jellybeans.

As we walked, I told Edna about the trials and tribulations of the holiday and expressed relief over the fact that I no longer had to worry about the after-effects of junk food on Max’s digestive tract.  Edna listened sympathetically, but as we reached the last stretch of the walk and approached the end of the trail, she shrieked and pointed behind me.  I spun round and followed her gaze.  Max was sitting at the side of the path, his smiley best-boy-in-the-class face shining with pride under his pointed ears.  From his clenched jaw, a dead mole hung by its tail.

I looked at him sternly and told him to leave it.  He stared back innocently.  The mole remained where it was.  I offered him a Good Boy, which normally would guarantee he’d open his mouth.  He refused the trade, turning his head away from the treat.  Pendulum-like, the mole swung with him.  I tried physically to separate Max’s jaws.  It was as effective as trying to open a vice with a toothpick.

Finally, in desperation, I stared Max straight in the eye and bellowed, “Drop it!”  Max stared right back, and promptly dropped it—right down his gullet!  Then, pleased as Punch, he burped, ducked out of my reach and trotted back to play with Brandy.

To this day, Edna still reminisces about Max and the mole.  Somehow, the incident summed up his personality to perfection.  It was the first of many confrontations, but Max was happy.  He knew the score.  Max – 1; Owner – 0.  Obviously, I still had a lot to learn.

Next:  Dog Ahoy!

When our daughters, Caroline and Katie, were four and one respectively, my mother gave me a diary for Christmas. With the gift came the instruction: “You have to write down all the funny things that the children say. Otherwise, you’ll forget.” For the next twelve years, a new diary arrived every Christmas, and dutifully, I wrote up the family activities at the end of each day. How wise my mother was, and what a treasure these entries have proved to be. Every so often, I drag one of the books out and have the family in convulsions over things the girls said or did when they were young. Some of the entries are things we remember, but often as not, they are things we have completely forgotten, once again proving that Mother knows best. And, of course, the diaries have proved invaluable for the dog blog, since Max’s earliest years are all on record. What is proving particularly fascinating, though, is that, with the power of hindsight, the early entries pack a lot more significance and make me realize how bad we were at understanding our new pet.

The truth was that Max’s alpha-male genes were starting to kick in, but we weren’t picking up the signs. To us, our kindly treatment of him was simply a natural way to behave with a household pet; to Max, it was interpreted to mean he was king of the household and we were his subjects.  He liked to play rough, too.  Balls and sticks were soon in shreds, and less than four weeks after Max came to live with us, we saw the first sign of aggression. Max had had a busy day. His morning walk had been short, which annoyed him. Later, Hugh and I dropped Caroline at the skating rink, and since Katie was playing with a friend, we went on to do some grocery shopping. Throughout all this, Max waited in the car, but he was visibly put out at the changes in routine. Once we were home and had unloaded the bags of food, the combination of Max’s sulks and our guilty consciences made us take him to the park, where he promptly decided it was his prerogative to let off steam. He became thoroughly naughty and boisterous, and when another dog tired of his wham-bam style of play and growled at him, Max flattened the dog and growled back in spades. Oh well, we thought. Boys will be boys.

Lesson not learned: Boys may be boys, but when they’re bad boys, rewarding the misbehavior doesn’t make them any better.

I was still determined to socialize Max with other people, and persevered with my efforts every time an opportunity presented itself. I introduced Max to my “I’d rather be sailing” mailman who decided he had David Bowie eyes. Instead of lunching with my friend, Pauline Clitheroe, after our weekly swim, I invited her back to our house so that she could meet Max.  Pauline was a glamorous and clever friend from my teaching days.  She was godmother to both of our girls, and had been well loved by George and Beanie.  Pauline was an excellent teacher who stood no nonsense in class, and it was fun to see how Max took to her immediately, but behaved like a perfect little gentleman, shaking both paws and sitting nicely, as if he knew he was not allowed to be a class clown.  Of course, with the children, his goofy side came to the fore, and when the girls had friends to play, I let him roar around the garden with them and join in the fun. He seemed to be coping well with canine-human interactions of every variety.

Soon came the day of my parents’ golden wedding anniversary. My father, typically, insisted that nothing special needed to happen to mark the occasion. However, we all felt that Mum deserved a gold medal for her fifty years of servitude, so we set off to surprise them with home-made cards, champagne, chocs, cashews and champagne glasses. The event turned into quite the party, because Katie’s godparents, Carla and Ron, appeared almost the moment we arrived; then my brother and his wife dropped in. Max was very well behaved, though we had to leash him when the food appeared or he would have demolished the plate of scones that my mother placed on the coffee table. Carla and Ron were much-loved family friends, but they were definitely not the Squire-Western-cuddling-with-his-dogs types like my father.  Ron, who was a tall man with an imposing expression, declared Max a handsome dog, but one who needed to know his place. Throughout the visit, Ron would look sternly at Max and throw a command his way. Max seemed quite indifferent to this and merely looked the other way.  After a while, he moseyed off to lie in the corner and went to sleep. I, misguidedly, interpreted this to mean he felt so secure within the family circle that he could handle visitors of every type, even those who didn’t gush over him and tell him how cute he was. My, but I was wrong, as we were to find out later.

Lesson not learned: When he looks the other way, beware.

The next few weeks were incredibly busy. We had decided to turn our marionette hobby into a performing company. Elwoodettes Marionettes was about to be born. However, taking on gigs for money was a far cry from doing shows on a volunteer basis. For one thing, instead of writing lyrics to established songs, I now had to compose the music for our shows. Babes in the Wood had to be adapted for a small team of puppeteers, and new shows were in the process of being created. There were sets to paint, scripts to write, and most challenging of all, soundtracks to be recorded. This all had to be fitted in around the girls extra-curricular classes in musical theatre, tap, skating and gymnastics, not to mention Caroline’s figure skating tests and competitions. I was still taking singing lessons, too, from the wonderful Luigi Wood, and we were all active with Vagabond Players, volunteering with front of house. Hugh was extremely busy, teaching full-time and making puppets when he came home from school.  Max and I were walking regularly with Edna and Brandy, and on occasional weekends, we were also babysitting Spike, the resident gerbil, from Katie’s elementary-school class.  How we kept Max from eating Spike, I cannot imagine, but we did manage to return him safely to the Grade 3 class on Monday mornings, so we must have had a system that worked.

I look back on that time and wonder how we did it. We were going flat out all the time, and the odd diary entry shows that everyone was feeling the pressure. Although we would be using a friend’s sound studio for the music recordings, we were recording dialogue at home, with, what I realize now, was very primitive equipment. At one point, during a long and arduous evening, a phone call disrupted a take. Caroline answered politely, but Katie, frustrated, roared over to the phone and bellowed, “Go Away!” into the receiver. Caroline cheerily reported that the real estate agent on the other end said, “All right,” and hung up. All this activity meant that Max was ignored for long stretches of time, especially when we began the studio sessions with our old friend, Gary Kehoe, or Black Bart as he was called on his country and western CD’s. Gary, who wrote and sang the hockey song that is played at Canuck games, was great fun to work with, and it was his introduction to the world of recording that inspired me to start thinking about setting up a studio of our own. But back to Max. Our first recording session with Gary turned out to be a very long day. Max wiggled with joy when we all returned home and behaved with perfect manners all through the following week. I failed to correctly interpret his return to good-as-gold mode, but in retrospect, I realize that it was the lack of attention and stimulation that turned him back from a wild-eyed tough guy into our ho-hum husky.

Lesson not learned:  A bit of neglect and quiet time helped put Max in his place. Too much attention and security wasn’t good for an alpha male.

Katie was taking tap lessons at the Shadbolt Centre for the Arts that year, so while she was in class, I would walk Max round Deer Lake. One day, we met two boisterous water dogs who swam in the creek and came out to shake, whereupon bone-dry Max who had watched from the bank, shook vigorously as well. As the other dog owner said, “Monkey see, monkey do!”  When we’d all finished laughing, Max roared on ahead, miscalculated a jump and fell in the lake. Then he got to shake for real, but the expression on his face showed he was not impressed. The following day, he was around water again. Caroline had a skating competition in Coquitlam, so we got up early and took Katie and Max along for the ride. Once Caroline was settled at the rink, Katie and I walked Max along the bank of a surging river in the adjacent park. Max was nervous of the water, and I wondered if he was remembering falling in the lake the previous day. However, after Katie and I had watched Caroline’s competition, we went back to the car to get Max and repeated the walk with Caroline. This time round, Max displayed no nerves at all. He bounded along, causing me to be afraid that he’d land in the river and pull me in after him.  He even tried to climb a tree while pursuing a squirrel.

Lesson not learned: With Max, familiarity bred contempt. Once he’d tackled a new experience without a problem, he assumed he was invincible.

Yes, we definitely misread a lot of Max’s signals. Twenty years and a lot of professional help later, I can see the significance of the behavior described in those diary entries, but then, as everyone knows, hindsight is always 20-20.

Next: Spring Break and Veterinarian Bills – Could there be a connection?