Elihu Entertainment

In 2004, Max gained added novelty to his life when we started using our Pender Harbour cottage as a summer/weekend retreat. Our first tenants had been great, but work had taken them elsewhere, and there were problems with their replacements. These were serious enough that we had to issue an eviction notice, so rather than rent again, we decided to fix the place up so that all the family could enjoy it. Hugh had just retired from teaching, so cottage renovation became his first retirement project.

Max took to his new home-away-from-home like the proverbial duck to water. There was a fair-sized garden, and Hugh built a fence around the property, so Max had a big lawn to run on and a wild grassy slope to explore. He had cottage toys and town toys; he had treats and his own bowls in each location; best of all, he had a whole new set of walks to enjoy.

He loved the marine park, where he was able to run on the trails, but he also liked his extender-leash walks around the lagoon or up the road to the lake.  In town, Max had his morning walk, and the rest of the day was usually spent at home. However, at Pender Harbour, he would enjoy a long morning walk, and then have two or three more outings. I did most of my writing at the cottage, so had to get up and stretch my legs after a couple of hours at the computer. Max reaped the benefit as my break always included a stroll around the pub path and the lagoon.

There were several hiking trails that we could drive to from the cottage. Ruby Lake was bordered by a narrow, but accessible path, and the Lion’s Club park had a loop through the woods that was a great adventure walk for dogs. The longest hike was at the Skookumchuck Narrows Provincial Park. This walk provided Max with a good run—though he had to be leashed once we reached the rocks on the far side of the park. We kept him well back from the cliff while we watched the raging whirlpools below.

Max adapted well to the laid-back ambiance in Garden Bay. There was a disparate but congenial assortment of characters living in the area, and rich and poor alike seemed to like dogs. There were a lot of local dogs, but there was also an abundance of four-footed visitors during the summer months. The Royal Vancouver Yacht club had an outpost in the bay, so there was a frequent parade of boaters exercising their dogs around the lagoon. Unlike in town, where Max tended to be feisty, at the cottage he seemed to accept all these other canines as being part of the scenery.

Max soon became familiar with the locations that provided treats. He enjoyed ice-cream cones from Laverne’s fish and chip shop, which was next door to our cottage, or soft cones from John Henry’s Store if Laverne’s was closed. Shopping excursions by boat to the other side of the harbour usually included a hot-dog break at the stand by the IGA. Max also figured out quickly which of the locals kept treats in their pockets. Bribery worked every time if people wanted to make Max their friend.

On one occasion, when we had been in town for the winter months, Max really made us laugh on our arrival at the cottage. He had received his usual batch of new toys for Christmas, and forgetting that he already had a squeaky Kermit frog at Pender Harbour, we had bought him another one to be that year’s ‘cottage toy’.

When we arrived, I realized our mistake because the old green Kermit lay in the middle of the living-room rug, along with a variety of other cottage toys. However, I took the new toy out of the bag and gave it to Max anyway. He looked a little puzzled as I gave him the frog. Then, frowning as if concentrating took a huge effort, he took the toy over to the rug, dropped it to one side, then picked up the old Kermit toy and placed it side by side with the new one. Max was one smart dog, for all his naughty ways.

Usually, it was just me and Hugh present on these holidays, but sometimes the girls would drive up to join us too. When Caroline came with her children, we had to be vigilant. Max had never been overly tolerant of little people so the children were issued with strict instructions that they could talk to Max but were not to pat him. If I was busy and unable to properly supervise, Max would be banished to our bedroom. However, one morning when two-year-old Veronica was still asleep on the living-room sofa-bed with her little bare feet sticking out from under the quilt, Max showed a surprisingly benevolent side. He ambled out of the bedroom, sniffed the tiny feet and deposited a gentle lick on Veronica’s toes.

Max spent many happy holidays at the cottage. He was always excited when it was time to set off, and settled in, blissfully content, when we arrived. He particularly liked our cottage deck, where he could sit above the road and view all the action as trippers and boat dogs paraded around the lagoon. He sat king-like, viewing his subjects, happy in his superior position with the 180 degree view. Was it the advancement of age, or simply the laid-back Coast ethos that made him a much more mellow fellow? Who knows, but whatever the reason, Max loved being a cottage dog.

In addition to being a local celebrity, Max gained some other bonuses in later life. Soon after we built the suite for my mother, we also sold Lisa, our old motorhome and acquired a newer one, suitably christened Arvy. Since Katie still lived at home and Mum’s caregivers were willing to put in more time, Hugh and I decided to try out Arvy with a trip to the Kootenays. Naturally, Max came along too.

Max thoroughly enjoyed the trip, sitting sedately between the two front seats when on the road, and snuggling up on his blanket when we tucked down at night. He seemed content to have walks on his extender leash at the various rest stops and RV sites, and didn’t appear at all bothered that he wasn’t getting to run off-leash. The sheer novelty of all those new smells and fellow travel-dogs was ample compensation for the loss of freedom.

Max found the RV sites generally entertaining. There was enough distance between us and the other campers that he didn’t feel threatened, yet there were always other dogs to glower at (if male) or flirt with (if female). Max also adapted happily to the campsite meals. He would eat his dinner outside, glaring suspiciously towards any other camp dogs in the vicinity or whiffling his nose in the air if other camp meals wafted enticing scents his way.

The Kootenays were glorious. The scenery was spectacular, with soaring mountains, vast stretches of water and quaint little towns. Max waited patiently and comfortably in Arvy when Hugh and I visited non-dog-friendly sites such as the paddle-wheeler at Kaslo. However, most of the time, Max could share in our fun.

Whenever we stopped at a lake, Max went swimming. However, since the scent of wildlife followed us at every stop, Max’s swims always had to be on the end of his long line or on his extender leash. Not that Max seemed to mind. We just had to make sure we didn’t throw the stick out too far. Knowing Max, he would have towed one of us into the water.

On one occasion, Hugh decided to rent a boat so we could explore one of the lakes, so naturally Max came along. He had adapted to boating early in his life, and was quite happy to leap into the rented boat and roar around the lake with us, checking the small islands and coves as we went. Everything was a grand adventure.

There were treats along the way too. Each day we made a coffee stop for us and an ice-cream stop for Max. Whatever we decided to do, Max eagerly took part. He rode on ferries, hiked on trails, ate heartily at our campsites, and generally had a wonderful time.

On the return trip, we stopped in Merritt, and this was one visit that Max didn’t enjoy. He liked the walk along the Coldwater River, but that night, there was a ferocious wind storm with gusts that buffeted Arvy back and forth. Max was very anxious at the rocking and bucking. He also picked up my anxiety, for the RV site was surrounded by trees and I was worried about the possibility of one of them coming down on our motorhome. Hugh, in typical fashion, pooh-poohed my fears and went to sleep, but in the morning, he admitted that I’d had cause for concern. When we went for the morning walk by the river, we were climbing over tree trunks all the way.

Still, other than that one night, the trip was a big success. Max also benefitted from the fact that there were no children along to divert us with kid-friendly activities. He was the centre of attention, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy this changed family dynamic. We suspected that he considered this the best holiday he’d ever had. From then on, there was no question that he was Arvy dog. Any time that camper door was opened, Max was in there waiting for a ride.

Well before my father died, the girls had grown up sufficiently that they were far too ‘cool’ for puppets. Hugh became my co-puppeteer as well as craftsman and technician and the team was reduced to the three of us: Hugh, me and Max. Caroline, however, married at eighteen and rapidly produced three children, so it was not long before Max and the puppets had a new adoring audience in the form of our grandchildren. Naturally, Max’s new fans liked coming to the shows since they were allowed to come backstage and play with the puppets after the final curtain.

During these years, Max became quite the celebrity dog. The local cable company did several features on him with his puppets, and twice CBC came to the theatre to film clips for the news. The local papers covered the Christmas shows every year, sending photographers who often wanted to include Max in the pictures alongside the puppets and puppeteers.

The Max puppet was such an attraction I was even asked to be part of a celebrity cooking feature in the local paper. Dutifully I churned out my seafood crepes and posed with them for the photographer, but I was in no doubt that the celebrity they were really interested in was the little wooden one on my shoulder!

However, on one notable occasion when CBC was coming to film an excerpt, we thought it would be fun to have Brandy along for the photo session. What a disaster that was! Max was so distracted by having his girlfriend present that he forgot all his tricks and was thoroughly misbehaved. The cameraman dutifully took some clips of the naughty pair, but he was obviously not impressed. We were not surprised when the final airing showed lots of puppets but no dogs. Max learned the lesson that other temperamental actors have discovered the hard way. If you have an attitude, you end up on the cutting-room floor.

We realized that Max, the Ho Hum Husky had become a local celebrity when we began taking the puppet into the Hyack parades. Vagabond Players often had a troupe walking in the parade or riding on a float, so Hugh and I would walk on either side of the group, each one of us holding a puppet. In the spring, I would work the Max puppet and Hugh would take Brandy. For the Christmas parade, it would be Max and Rudolph. Whatever the season, every so often we’d hear a voice from the crowd cry out, “There’s Max! Hi Max!”

This familiarity with the puppet began to show up at the theatre performances too. Every so often, the Max puppet would be applauded on his entrance like some big star on Broadway. What made that puppet so popular? It was certainly the efforts of three people that brought the character to life: Hugh, with his wonderful craftsmanship that created such an appealing marionette; myself, of course, with my scripts that put words in the puppet’s mouth; and Dwayne Campbell, our actor friend, who interpreted those scripts so perfectly in giving Max his voice.

However, the fact that Max was based on a real dog provided the extra magic. Children loved to hear stories about the real Max after the shows, and when Max, the flesh-and-blood husky, performed his tricks or took his bow, the oohs and aahs were enough to give any dog a swelled head. No wonder Max considered himself a star. Even today, children at the puppet shows are delighted to hear that Max was a real dog …. and yes, he really did eat a Christmas tree light bulb!

Max’s personality made its way into my other arts activities too. My play, Renovations, included several references to a feisty dog named Boris who was always locked up in some other room so that he didn’t chew up the workmen. In my mystery books, Max appears as MacPuff, Bertram Beary ‘s well-loved, misbehaved mutt.

However, it was the Vagabond Players puppet shows that gave Max his fame in our local community. Because he was so popular, I found a way to incorporate his character into all the shows, even if they were traditional stories. In Aladdin, Max appeared as Hum Ho, the princess’s bodyguard; in King John’s Christmas, he was Sir Max, the Ho Hum, saving Santa from a dastardly plot thought up by Bad King John and his pet dragon.

Max used to love going to the Bernie Legge Theatre. The minute we arrived to set up, he would run to the apron of the stage and take a bow. Of course, he knew that he would get a cookie, whether the audience was there or not. Then he would settle down on his blanket in the stage-manager’s corner and sleep there contentedly while we performed the shows. However, he always woke up in time for his bow. We were convinced that our clever dog could recognize a final chorus, no matter what show was being performed.

Those years were good ones. We worked very hard, some Christmas seasons performing as many as eighteen shows at the Bernie Legge Theatre, followed by another dozen or so at the Burnaby Village Museum. However, our house was always decorated early and we would go home after performances and sit by the tree, enjoying Spanish coffees and Christmas treats, listening to carols and lapping up the festive atmosphere. Max would be at our feet, tired from the excitement of his outing at the theatre, but blissfully content. If friends had attended the shows, they would come back for drinks and snacks, and that was how we did our Christmas socializing for we were far too tired and busy to get out to parties. It was a routine I look back on with pleasure: Good company, the memory of children’s smiling faces, the joy of Christmas festivity, the knowledge of a job well done.

These days, whenever I watch the Knowledge Network’s ‘Dogs with Jobs’ program, I always remember how happy Max was when we came home from a show. Much as he was loved and cared for, Max needed challenges and discipline too. Being a dog with a job had been in large measure the reason our difficult adopted pet had found contentment. Those post-show Christmas interludes demonstrated just how well the lesson had been learned.

After my father died, we had to arrange care for my mother since her dementia had progressed to the point that she was not able to look after herself. We built a suite at the back of our house, and by the end of the year, we had moved her in with us. There she remained for more than seven years until she died. These years were fairly stressful ones for us, needless to say. However, my father had left sufficient money that we were able to have caregivers in for five mornings a week, so gradually, we learned to cope with the new situation.

The big winner, of course, in this new setup was Max. Suddenly, he had a doting Nana ever present, plus a variety of amiable ladies who came in most days to provide the necessary care. Naturally, they also learned quickly that the route to Max’s heart was to provide extra treats for him. So it came about that Max, for the rest of his life, was never home alone. If his owners were out, he could resort to the caregivers for entertainment.

Needless to say, given Max’s nature, the caregivers had to be given strict instructions on the dos and don’ts of our temperamental pets. Max and Minx were never to be in the same area unattended, Max was restricted to the two top floors, and most particularly, Max was not to be allowed in with Nana while she was eating. In spite of Max’s early propensity for digesting things like dead mice and work socks, he had a sensitive stomach and would deposit large piles of barf on the carpet if given anything but the plainest scraps of human food. Since Nana had a preference for pastas with sauces, her dinners were definitely off limits. Given her dementia, she could not understand why her furry friend was not allowed treats. “Oh, isn’t he sweet,” she would say, while tossing dollops of creamy noodles his way.

Our caregivers were generally on the ball and supervised meticulously. However, one evening when Hugh and I were out for a much needed date night, the lady in charge left the room while my mother was eating and failed to close the door. When she returned, she found that my mother had not only put her plate down on the carpet, but was rolling her hand around in the pasta encouraging Max to finish the leftovers. Since the dog was hardly able to distinguish the difference between the pasta and the fingers in the middle of it, he’d also managed to give my mother a goodly bite on the hand. Our caregiver assured us that it wasn’t serious and that she’d cleaned it up, but one look from us and we could see right away that a couple of stitches were in order. Ninety-plus-year-old skin is pretty fragile and it doesn’t take much to tear it.

So my date night ended with me taking my mother down to emergency and sitting for over an hour in the packed waiting room. People who have no experience of dementia could not realize what torture this was. My mother, sweet as she was, would think nothing of making child-like observations about other people in the room. “My, isn’t she fat!” is a typical example. She would also repeat the same phrase over and over, since she would forget what she had said two minutes after she had spoken. That night, the issue became the absence of her handbag. My mother was rather like the Queen. The handbag was always present. However, given the situation that night, I had made sure her bag was safely left at home. What a mistake that was. Every two minutes, my mother asked me where her handbag was. Every two minutes, I reassured her that it was safe at home. By the time we had sat there for forty minutes, the entire waiting room had become like a Greek chorus. Everyone chanted along with me: “Not to worry, it’s safe at home.” Unlike a Greek chorus, all the waiting patients had big grins on their faces. To add to my humiliation, when we finally saw the doctor and I explained how my mother had been bitten, he roared with laughter and was clearly ready to dine out on the story. Hugh was also grinning ear to ear when we got home and Max, the perpetrator of the piece, was already tucked up asleep. Definitely a date night to put a rosy flush in my cheeks. Too bad it was the result of raised blood pressure.

Still, somehow we survived with our mad household. For a dog with limited people and canine skills, Max had certainly broadened his social circle. Dogs to the side of him, a resident cat, an amiably dotty grandmother, a parade of jolly caregivers, visitors at the luncheons I threw for my mother. Thinking back to how skittish and difficult he was when we acquired him, it just went to show what progress he had made. Finally, Max had really learned how to be a Ho Hum Husky.

Because Max and Minx fell in hate at first sight, there was no question of Minx becoming an indoor cat. Fortunately, given her history, she was used to fending for herself, so each morning she would eat her breakfast, then go out to patrol the block and make her rounds. There were many old houses in the area, and every year a couple of them would be demolished. Whenever this happened, Minx became a cat with a mission. She would set out, determined to round up the dispossessed mice. We used to refer to her as the neighbourhood policeman. She would return to nap in Katie’s room in the afternoon, often bringing gifts to the window and being most put out when made to discard them before entering. However, Katie’s room became Minx’s sanctuary as a gate in the stairwell prevented Max from getting down to the lower floor.

Naturally, Max and Minx had to share the garden, but fortunately we had a wide front garden and a gated and fenced back garden with a trellis dividing off the rear section. Max was able to enjoy the large grassy area in the back in safety and security. Minx claimed the front garden and the rear section beyond the trellis, and would either stroll along the high brick wall between the two or neatly slip through the side fences to the neighbours’ gardens and go back and forth through their lots. This, of course, only worked if Sheamus and Max F were not outside in their own gardens, but she seemed to developed radar for which dogs were out when. Her skill in negotiating these three large canines in time earned her the epithet, The Grey Shadow.

Minx also used her fences to tease Max unmercifully. Seeing Max lying in the garden, she would bob under the gate by the trellis, take a leisurely sniff in the flower bed, always keeping one eye watching for when Max gave in to temptation and charged. Then, at the very last moment, she would slip back under the gate, leaving her arch foe panting in fury on the other side. After a couple of years, Max gave up trying to catch her, although he never stopped being jealous of the new acquisition.

On one occasion, Hugh and I were enjoying coffee in the garden. Max was at our feet, lying between our chairs. Suddenly Minx bobbed into view by the trellis. Max made a great show of pretending not to see her. If he couldn’t eat her, he preferred to ignore her. However, Minx continued to sit at the other end of the garden, and after a few minutes, I made the mistake of calling “hello” to her. Instantly Max’s face was transformed. If a white husky could turn green, he would have done so at that moment. He might have learned to tolerate the cat’s presence, but he had no intention of allowing his mistress to talk to the animal. He charged down the garden at such speed we were amazed he was able to brake at the gate. Minx, by then, was gloating on the other side. Poor Max! Such indignity to be outfoxed by the invader to his home.

To our relief, at some point in their lifetime, Minx and Max seemed to declare a truce. They didn’t like each other, but they left each other alone. Each Christmas Day, they looked a little mulish, but they accepted that we all inhabited the same room for present-opening, albeit, in their case, at opposite ends of the room. And occasionally, we even caught a glimpse of collaboration, like the time a big moggy came through the fence and chased Minx across our garden. Max happened to be outside, and as Minx streaked the length of the yard and whizzed out the front gate, Max bounded between her and the visitor, treeing the intruder mid-garden. It was almost as if he and Minx had planned it, so who knows what really went on between those two sets of furry pointed ears.

The ongoing feud between Minx and Max was trying at times, but it inspired several new puppet shows. Hugh made a grey Manx puppet, I wrote some new scripts, one of which included a theme song for Minx, and the dog-and-cat rivalry was transferred to the stage. Rehearsals could sometimes be tricky, for Max liked to hang out under the theatre as we worked, but occasionally, Minx would amble into the area, hop onto the stage to join the puppets, or go hide in the stacks of revolves in the scene shop, and we would have to call a halt while we restored order out of the chaos that ensued. It was also interesting to note that, whenever Minx came to check out the marionettes, it was always the Max puppet that she whacked on the nose.

Still, those two rivals were both much loved members of our household, and in their puppet forms, they co-starred in several shows. Max and Minx always played themselves or their pet ancestors. In shows with modern settings like The Christmas Spirit or The Cinderella Caper, they belonged to a character named Jim McCluskie, but were often in the care of Tilly and her boyfriend, Pete. The Cinderella Caper was the first show for Minx, and as it was a show about putting on a show, she also got to play Thuggerpaws, the stepmother’s cat.

In The Sorcerer Princess, Max and Minx were palace pets in the court of Mad King George and had a wonderful adventure rescuing Santa from the machinations of a villainous bat. The Highwayman’s Christmas starred Max as MaxHeath and was originally produced before Minx’s arrival, but years later it was expanded into a bigger show with a long first scene that included not only parts for Minx the Manx, but also roles for our three grandchildren.

However, it was Max’s final show that provided the best showcase for the two puppets. This was The Christmas Present of Christmas Past, where Max, along with Santa and a variety of other characters, was transported back to Ancient Rome. Minx had a double role, playing herself in the modern scenes and ‘I Clawdia’, the empress’s cat in the Roman scenes. Just as Dwayne Campbell provided the perfect voice for Max, the Ho Hum Husky, Minx also acquired a perfect voice from Isabel Mendenhall, a wonderful local actress who ironically had played opposite Dwayne many times in stage plays. The interaction between the two was as charming on the puppet stage as it had been in the live productions. So like it or not, Max the Ho Hum Husky was linked permanently with Minx the Manx, on stage and off. He just had to learn to co-habit with that darned cat.

Max was very sad at the loss of my father. He had no idea why this special human had disappeared from his life, and it was one of the saddest moments when, for the first time after Dad’s death, we took Max to my parents’ house, for he searched every room and corner of the garden looking for his namesake.

It was hardly surprising that Max, the dog was so bonded with Max, the human. Dogs had always been a part of my father’s life, but he was old by the time his last dog died, so he had not wanted to get a new pet of his own. Therefore, Max filled a gap in his life during his old age.

My father’s love of dogs, along with his love of his bank book, is noted on a unique gravestone in the tiny Pender Harbour cemetery where his ashes are buried alongside my mother’s. Mum is commemorated with engraved roses and a poem touching on her charm and grace. Dad’s gravestone sports a German shepherd in one corner and a dollar sign in the other. It also contains a quotation from my play, Renovations, which only people in the family circle would understand. However, I suspect Dad would have been highly entertained by the fact that strangers who wander through the pretty country graveyard would see the gravestone and puzzle over the significance of the inscription. Like Max, the dog, Max the human was quite a character.

Max, the dog, was not a happy camper in the period after my father died. To add to the sorrow of Dad’s demise, Max also had to suffer the indignity of some new arrivals around the home. Minx the Manx was now firmly entrenched in the household, so there were frequent battles when Max cornered Minx and received a claw in his nose for his pains. A pesky cat was definitely no substitute for an adoring grandfather.

As if this wasn’t enough, new tenants appeared next door along with a large and beautiful dog named Sheamus. On the day they moved in, I was painting scenery in the garage below our deck. I had the door open to reduce the fumes, and Max was enclosed on the upper deck since I didn’t want him running out onto the road. As I continued with my painting, I was vaguely aware that there was activity in the driveway next door. Jody and Trevor were in the process of moving in. Suddenly, I had company. The large, shaggy and exuberantly friendly Sheamus had bounded in to introduce himself. As I patted the newcomer and told his owners how beautiful he was, I heard the clicking of paws and huffing and puffing overhead. Max was not impressed.

Although I expected some scuffles on either side of the fence when the two dogs were out in their yards, Max and Sheamus seemed to declare some sort of truce. As long as they kept to their own gardens, there didn’t seem to be a problem. I suspect that Sheamus attempted to be friendly and was snubbed by Max, who would have ignored him on principle for daring to make friends with his mistress. However, one day when Jody and I inadvertently left for our walks at the same time, the two dogs forged through their side-by-side gates, found themselves adjacent to each other, woofed loudly and veered joyously towards each other, finally given the chance for a scrap. If Jody and I hadn’t hauled on the leashes and back-pedalled at speed, doggy mayhem would have ensued.

No sooner had Sheamus moved in on one side of our garden, the neighbours on the other side also acquired a dog. This was a large black German shepherd, and to add insult to injury, he was also called Max. His owner informed us that their Max had trained to be a police dog but had ultimately been rejected for being temperamentally unsuited. The moment Hugh heard that the newcomer had failed police school, he christened him Max F, and so we distinguished him from our own Max from then on. Poor Max. He was so irked to have large male dogs on either side of him, especially since his mistress always talked to them when she was in the garden.

However, just as he had with Sheamus, Max proceeded to ignore Max F—until the day we returned from our walk and Max F was outside with his owners. We stopped to talk and I made the mistake of saying hello to Max F. My Max’s eyes narrowed and glittered, jealousy emanating from his pupils like laser beams, and the next thing I knew, Max F was flattened in the road. This was no mean feat considering that our Max, with his short stubby legs, only came up to the big shepherd’s midriff. I hauled Max off and took him inside, but his eyes continued to glitter, this time with delight. Two dogs and a cat invading his territory, but finally he had been given the chance to put one of the newcomers in his place. Once again, Max had proved he was leader of the pack.