Elihu Entertainment

The next few weeks were taken up with preparations for our new and revised Babes in the Woods production. It was good to be busy, since I was very worried about my singing teacher, Luigi Wood. He had collapsed and been hospitalized, and as the weeks continued with no lessons and no word of improvement, I became deeply concerned. However, soon he was allowed visitors, and when Hugh and I went into St. Paul’s hospital, Luigi looked frail but was pleased to see us and seemed to be rallying.

Max was also rallying and he was enjoying his walks again, able to run and play with Brandy. He wore his harness in the snow and loved leaping about while the children had snowball fights. He enjoyed weekend Foreshore Park walks, and on weekdays, trotted around Queens Park, sniffing new smells, while we waited for Caroline to finish her skating lessons. However, his good humour evaporated come the Saturday when we took him to the vet for a final check of his foot. Being the weekend, the place was dog city. Big dogs, little dogs and puppies galore filled the waiting room. Max was overwhelmed and sat quietly in his corner, watching as the other dogs were called in turn. Every time Dr. Zinger appeared in the doorway and called out a name, Max looked anxious at first, and then relieved that the call wasn’t for him; however, when Max’s turn came, instead of looking at the file and calling a name, Dr. Zinger peered round the waiting room, spotted Max quivering in his corner, flashed a broad grin and simply beckoned our naughty dog. I expected Max to shy away, but to our amazement, he got to his feet, slunk into the examination room and then leaped onto the table all by himself. Was he trying to demonstrate that he was fine and didn’t need to be there, or simply expressing his desire to get it over with as soon as possible? Whatever the reason, we were all most impressed.

The month continued with a fever of show preparation. For a couple of weeks, all I did was cut out costumes for the new puppets and sew all day. When the costumes were done, it was time to create practice tapes for the recording artists: Bob Werner, Brian Leonard and Mike Scannell. To create the  tapes, I had to sing and record all the parts, no matter what the register; then mix the tracks and dub copies, complete with annotated notes. Once these were delivered to the singers, it was time to work on the sets.

Amid all this creative activity, we did find time to admire the work of another creative artist. Jim Keary, whom I’d met during a production of H.M.S. Pinafore, had started making collage prints with theatrical and musical themes. We attended his show at the New Westminster Art Gallery and were so enchanted with his work that we came home with two prints. This began a long and enjoyable relationship over many years as we attended Jim’s shows and added to our collection. His lovely opera collages are all around our dining room today, a wonderful reminder of a lovely person who is greatly missed today by me and many of my theatrical friends.

Once my vocalists had been given a couple of weeks to learn their parts, the recording sessions began, followed by weeks of mixing and editing. Hugh was busy too, creating two beautiful talking trees for the Babes production along with a new travelling theatre, one that was more lightweight and better equipped for our sets. To give the proscenium an old-world look, he use spackle to create depth and the result was truly charming. Luckily, we had no idea that we would lose this theatre thirteen years later when our trailer was to be stolen and never recovered, but at that time, we were full of enthusiasm for the project and had nothing but positive thoughts about our puppet venture. However, in spite of our upbeat mood, my world was about to take a devastating turn. One evening, I received a call to tell me that Luigi had had a sudden downturn and was in intensive care.  Within the week, my beloved music teacher had died. He was such a kind and wonderful man, much loved by all his pupils, and his death left a huge gap in many, many lives. A couple of weeks later, his memorial service was held. Not surprisingly, the music was glorious, for the church was filled with all the singers that he had trained. It was a fitting tribute for such a fine teacher.

Losing Luigi made my days very bleak in the subsequent weeks, and, as so often is the way of the world, other events were imminent that would bring hard times to our  family. My father’s health was about to take another downturn, and another crisis was looming that would cause several years of grief. Those were the years that Max, for all the ups and downs he instigated, proved to be a wonderful friend. When any member of our family, felt low, he would be there, tucked up at our feet or placing his head in our laps, soothing our nerves, forcing a smile and providing the unconditional love that only pets can give. Our Ho Hum Husky became a source of smiles when laughter was rare and proved truly worthy of the title, Man’s Best Friend.

Throughout January and February, the weather was cold and frosty, and, as it often is at that time of year, most of the family was sick. Caroline had a particularly nasty dose of flu, and Hugh was laid up with a stress fracture in his foot. Katie and I both succumbed to bugs, one of Hugh’s nephews had a lymphoma, my father’s health was failing, and my mother was having trouble coping. On top of all this, there was a spate of bad news. Bill Lewarne, the girls’ ‘Jellybean mayor’ died of a heart attack, and my beloved singing teacher, Luigi Wood, fell ill and had to be hospitalized.

Max, not to be outdone, managed to be invalided out again, first catching his eye on something sharp during a run in the woods, and later, more seriously, re-injuring his bad foot. During our morning walk, he ripped the high pad on his front paw. He valiantly licked his foot all the way home, but once I examined the pad, I realized it was beyond my skill to fix the injury. Max had nearly sliced the pad off, so another trip to the vet was called for. Max was not at all happy once he realized he was to be left there, but he had to be put under and stitched up properly. However, later that afternoon, when I went to pick him up, he trotted out, wiggle, wiggle, wobble, wobble, perfectly happy as he followed Dr. Zinger and his assistant into the reception area.  He was very impatient while I settled the bill, and clearly anxious to go home. Once there, he settled down happily, enjoying all the fussing he received from Hugh and the girls as they arrived home.

The next few weeks were labour-intensive, since Max was not an easy invalid. The day after his surgery, he managed to tread in a puddle as we walked round the block, and I had to spend twenty minutes blow-drying his bandage. That afternoon, I had theatre tickets for a matinee, and when I got home, Max greeted me with a big smile-face and a pile of gauze. He’d entertained himself in my absence by chewing off his bandage. Hugh and I carefully rewound the dressing, and the following day, I covered Max’s foot in saran wrap before going for the morning walk. This worked like a charm, although it made for prolonged preparation before each walk. Max accepted the extra attention in typical lordly fashion, quite happy to have his owner grovelling at his feet attending to his needs. He was not so happy when it was time to go back to the vet to have his foot checked. When we entered the office, the receptionist greeted us with: “Oh, I’ve heard about Max! Has he eaten any light bulbs lately?” Max quivered with fright while his bandage was being changed, but became very perky once he realized that nothing else was going to happen to him. He accepted a cookie and a pat from Dr. Zinger and positively bounced out onto the pavement. His good humour increased when he realized that we were going for a walk in Queen’s Park before picking Caroline up from skating. He sniffed all the rabbit holes and behaved graciously to the other dogs, and was quite on his best behaviour. Relief brought out the best in Max.

The next day, however, he lapsed again and led Katie a chase about the garden when she went out to leash him before school. She came in fuming, with a sheepish Max in tow, and informed me that I could tell the vet that there was nothing wrong with Max’s foot. Later that morning, I left Max home while I went out to do some errands—and returned to find he’d chewed off his bandage yet again. This meant I had to re-wrap his foot and take him along with me whenever I went out for the rest of the week. On the weekend, it was back to the vet yet again to be told that the stitches had to stay in for another week.

By mid-February, the snow arrived, sufficiently heavily that school was cancelled on the fifteenth of the month.  Hugh happily went back to bed with his cup of tea, but our comfort was short lived as Katie took Max out to play and somehow he slipped and ripped his pad open again. So while the girls went tobogganing with their friends, Hugh and I had to brave the weather and take Max up to Dr. Zinger to be re-operated on. The result was another massive bill and several more weeks before Max could run again. And given the snowy weather, it also meant that his paw would have to be triple-wrapped before every outing. But was Max unhappy? Not a bit. When we went back to collect him that afternoon, he heard our voices in the reception area and sang his little heart out. Then, having got all the other dogs howling, he bounded out, not in the least bit groggy, accepted his pats and cookies, and looked at the other waiting dogs as if to say, “No sweat, this vet stuff. I’m a pro. I’m Max, the Ho Hum Husky!”

Everyone was exhausted after the New Year’s party, but Max, who’d slept upstairs throughout most of the festivities, was wide awake and raring to go for his morning walk. Mum and Dad were heading home that day, so Hugh and I dropped them at the station and then took Max to the Foreshore Park, where his nose started to bleed and we had to take off his muzzle. Needless to say, he was very pleased with himself, so it was another victory for naughty Max, which was just what we didn’t need.

Max loathed his muzzle and he would duck and dodge, doing whatever he could to prevent me putting it on, even though it was the prelude to the off-leash section of his walk. As time went on, he became even more bothered by it. I hated making him wear it but dreaded him getting into trouble if something triggered his aggressiveness. I tried letting him run with Brandy in the bush trails first, and only putting the muzzle on when we reached the top trail; this helped a bit as he had burned off a lot of energy and had enjoyed some fun playing with Brandy. However, the day came that he hid when it was time to leave for our morning walk, and I realized that it simply wasn’t going to work.

We decided to try the promise collar again, but this time, to go to the SPCA and get Gary Gibson to help us fit it. When we arrived, Gary informed us that we had bought the wrong type, so were sent away with instructions to exchange it and to try a Velcro muzzle instead. On a positive note, Gary did manage to make contact with Max without getting bitten so it was a successful visit in that regard. From Max’s point of view, it was also a successful visit because it meant another visit to Tisol and more treats to compensate for the muzzle fitting. Once he was fitted with his Velcro muzzle, we tried it out on his morning walk. I was concerned that it would hamper his breathing, given that it had far less leeway for jaw movement than the cage muzzle. However, Max seemed not to mind. He came to his whistle when called and surprised us all with his angelic behaviour.

The next day, he was back to normal. Now that the dreaded cage had been discarded, he was a happy dog again. He came roaring down the hall when it was time for his walk, in his enthusiasm, managing to have a head-on collision with me as I bent to put on his leash. Since Max had a head like a boulder, I saw stars for the next five minutes. Once in the park, he took off after another dog, chasing it up the hill at high speed. Having caught it, he roared about, happily playing with his quarry, then thundered back, tongue hanging out the end of his muzzle. He screeched to a halt, leaped into a puddle and drank thirstily. So much for my concern that the muzzle would hamper his breathing.

However, it was a few weeks later that he really demonstrated how little he was hampered by the muzzle. Edna and I had walked the dogs through the lower George Derby Land trails, and when we came back to the top trail, I left Max off leash but put his muzzle on.  Shortly afterwards, we ran into Kelsey and her owner.  To our surprise, Kelsey growled at our dogs, but we soon saw the reason why.  Kelsey had a large bone.  Her owner explained that there was a camper in the nearby field and that Kelsey had pinched the bone from the dog that was tied up outside the trailer.  Edna and I moved on, and sure enough, as we rounded the corner, we saw an old beater of a trailer in the middle of the field. We couldn’t see a dog, but I thought I’d better leash Max in case it suddenly appeared.

However, at the very moment I reached for Max, he picked up the scent and darted forward.  In the same instant, a large dog appeared in front of the trailer. As I sprinted after Max, I saw that the dog had spotted us approaching. He was almost a Max look-alike, though as we drew nearer, I could see he was more Malamute than husky, and much larger than Max.  He was also attached to the trailer by a sturdy chain. Max thundered forward and then skidded to a stop.  He appeared to be sizing up the situation.  If I could have put a thought bubble over his head, I swear it would have said:  “I may be muzzled, but he’s tied up!”  I raced forward and reached out for Max’s collar, but before I could catch hold, Max loped over to the Malamute.  As I stood there, with baited breath, wondering what was going to happen next, they began playing head-over-head to see who was going to be top dog.  Max, with his short stubby legs, practically had to stand on tiptoe to do this, but he seemed determined to assert himself in spite of the Mally’s superior size and impressive jaw, not to mention the fact that his own jaw was wrapped in a Velcro muzzle.

At that moment, a man emerged from the trailer, but before he could rein in his Malamute, the two dogs started to fight.  It was amazing.  In spite of their restraints, they went at it hammer and tongs.  The Mally could bite, but he couldn’t manoeuvre, and Max couldn’t bite, but he could hop about and do body checks.  Seeing that the Mally’s owner was not going to make a move, I plowed in and pulled Max out of the fray, whereupon he made one last lunge, forward and down, before I managed to yard him back.  Having got my breath, I raised my eyes and saw that the other dog’s owner looked stunned as he stared at my dog.  I looked down, and realized the cause of the man’s amazement.  Hanging by a thread of meat out of the end of Max’s muzzle was a humungous bone – clearly the object of the fight.  Goodness knows how Max managed to grab it with a jaw wrapped in Velcro.  He must have pursed his lips up like a twenties vamp in order to grab it, but grab it he did.

Since the poor Malamute had already lost one bone that day to Kelsey, I was determined to return this one, though the glint in Max’s eye dared me to take it away.  However, after a few vigorous shakes of Max’s collar, the meat broke and the bone dropped.  I kicked it back to the dog and we went on our way. I was exhausted, but Edna was in convulsions. As for Max, he looked very pleased with himself and trotted beside me like a little racehorse. Velcroed but not vanquished. Muzzled, but most definitely not moderated. Max had conquered the muzzle.

It was obvious what Max’s New Year’s resolution had to be: I must not bite! However, it was also obvious that he needed help achieving that goal. On Boxing Day, our shopping expedition was to buy a promise collar for him, which tightened around the muzzle if he pulled ahead. However, when we took him for a walk at the Foreshore and tried it out, the little stinker managed to get it off in no time. Home for a lengthy talk with trainer, Gary Gibson, the result of which was that Max had to wear a muzzle when out and about.

The next day, we went to Tisol to fit him for a muzzle and a harness. The muzzle was a large cage variety which allowed him lots of room and breathing space, rather than the wrap-around Velcro variety. Max wasn’t at all happy about the procedure, but the girls were in the store were very nice with him and he was at least co-operative.  However, we discovered that he also had the potential to be a shoplifter since the whole time we were there, he was attempting to pilfer the snacks off the shelves.  Once we’d finished choosing his gear, we allowed him to take one package of treats and we added it to the bill.  We let him trot out of the store with his goodies in his mouth, so he was happy again and forgave us the indignity of the earlier fitting. This mood only lasted until we were home, though, since we went out to meet Edna and tested Max’s muzzle during the walk.  Max worked non-stop to get the muzzle off but finally gave up and, instead, used it like a battering ram and had fun sideswiping Brandy.

A few days later, Max was beginning to wear a bald spot on his nose from chafing at the muzzle.  Mind you, he was behaving a lot better, so maybe Gary’s strategy to make him understand who was boss seemed to be working. The rest of the day was taken up with preparation for our Die Fledermaus, the sequel, a very funny ten-minute show set to the overture of Die Fledermaus. This had been prepared for our New Year’s Eve party, not as a gig for hire, although years later, when the Burnaby Village Museum initiated free admissions over Christmas and needed short shows to accommodate the swelling crowds, I redid the soundtrack and we began using it as a public show. To this day, it is a great hit with the people that come by and see it.

However, that year it was performed strictly for fun, with me and the children doing all the roles. Mum and Dad joined us for the party, and what fun it was. A great crowd of friends, family and neighbours took part. The show went well, the buffet was delicious, and a good time was had by all. Max, needless to say, spent most of the evening in solitary confinement in our bedroom, but like a king holding court, he had sporadic visits from various members of his inner circle, not to mention the odd treat snuck upstairs by the kids.

Since Mum and Dad were staying over and sleeping in our room, Hugh and I crawled into the bunk beds in the guest room at 2:00am, watched by a rather puzzled Max who’d been brought down to sleep with us. He couldn’t figure out why we were not in our own room, or why there were assorted children sleeping on sofas and air mattresses in every corner of the house. However, he settled down happily once he saw that we were going to sleep. Max had seen out the old year with no further incidents and made it into the new. My goal was to ensure that he was protected from making mistakes in the future. The New Year held challenges for us both.

Once the excitement of the shows was over, Max became sulky again. There were just too many family outings that didn’t include him. The week leading up to Christmas was one event after another: two open houses, a matinee at the Playhouse where the girls and I were convulsed by a wonderful production of Charley’s Aunt, a visit to Stanley Park for a ride on the Christmas train, our anniversary dinner at the William Tell, where, although we had a great chat with Mr. Dobeli talking about our respective dogs and comparing notes on their antics, Max was still left at home to sulk. At least he got to accompany us when we made a meals-on-wheels visit to Mum and Dad to deliver presents and pick holly.  Max thoroughly enjoyed the holly cutting with his namesake, but I was sad to realize that my father was gradually losing the battle with his illness. Still, he soldiered on, insisting on taking Max around the crescent for their usual walk. The two were deeply bonded, and I knew Max was going to be very sad when Dad passed on.

In spite of our busy schedule, Max still had his daily walks with Edna and Brandy. He loved the crisp, cold air, but his antsy mood showed up in his behavior. One day, Hugh came with us for a walk down to the Brunette River. The river was running so fast that Max was afraid to go in, but Brandy made a couple of forays into the water to reclaim the sticks that Hugh had thrown. Macho Max was clearly put out to be shown up by his girlfriend, and later, when Hugh was playing with him, he started to nip again. Sigh! One certainly couldn’t roughhouse with this dog. Home for yet another long down.

Max was much happier on his next walk. By now it was two days before Christmas and we came home with a ton of loot from Edna and Brandy.  Max was very excited to see his presents going under the tree. Fortunately, our old house had glass-paned doors on the living room, so we were able to close off the area. However, I noticed an increase in the number of nose prints on the glass once the gifts started to pile up. In between worshipping the tree, Max watched me clean silver, put up holly, wrap gifts, and busy myself in the kitchen making Christmas treats, the latter activity definitely being his favourite.

Christmas Eve was lovely. After some last minute shopping, we took Max for a long ramble in the park. Our friends, the Dahlos, came to visit in the afternoon, and that was delightful because they understood that Max was not a pattable and followed the directive to just say, “Hi Max,” and ignore him from that point on. Caroline was visiting Andre that afternoon, but Katie acted as hostess, passing round the trays of goodies, and Max, after weeks of iffy behaviour, was suddenly transformed into best-boy-in-the-class mode. In the evening, we took the girls to the early carol service at St. Albans; then came home to sit around the tree and anticipate the morrow.

But oh, what a morrow it turned out to be. The day started well, with all the usual fun of present-opening. Hugh and I put the turkey on early; then I beavered away getting everything else ready for Christmas dinner while the girls played with their loot. Mum and Dad arrived by noon, so we had a lovely visit throughout the afternoon. However, like all Christmas Days when one hosts a turkey dinner, it was a busy one for me. Carla and Ron arrived shortly before dinner, so I reminded them of the don’t-pat-Max rule, since Ron took the attitude that he got on well with dogs but made a habit of staring them down. By the time I served up, all the adults were extremely merry. Dinner went well, with Max continuing to behave himself, even though Ron had looked his way several times and received a baleful stare in return.

Not wanting to take any chances, I made Max come to the kitchen with me while I cleaned up. Finally, the chaos in the kitchen was brought under control and the dishwasher was on. I decided a quick bathroom break was in order, and then I’d be ready to party. Max had snuck back into the hall, so I went to fetch him and take him upstairs. Foolishly I let Hugh and Dad persuade me that they could watch him for two minutes, so I reissued the ‘don’t touch’ directive and went to the loo. Within a minute, there was a knock on the bathroom door and I heard Hugh’s voice informing me that Max had bitten Ron. So much for peace and goodwill! I was ready to brain every one of them. The moment my back was turned, they’d all decided that Max was just fine, Mummy was simply paranoid and Ron was free to ruffle Max’s ears to his heart’s content. That was the end of the party for that Christmas Day.

The moral of that story, according to my well-lubricated-with Christmas-cheer husband, was that I shouldn’t go to the bathroom. Needless to say, the frost in the air wasn’t just outdoors on that particular night and Max wasn’t the only one in the doghouse.

Christmas was coming, and that meant show time. Finally, we were ready to debut Guard Dog in Concert, which was the very first of what was to become the Max, the Ho Hum Husky series. However, Max was not impressed by the fact that his puppet was going out on gigs and he was left at home. Having sat through rehearsals, practicing his bow and getting cookies as a reward, he felt like it was the world’s worst rip-off when we packed the trailer and took off without him.

Unfortunately, many of our gigs were not in venues where Max would be welcome. One was a Motorola Xmas party at the Burnaby Villa, and it was a good job we didn’t have the distraction of our dog with us, because we ended up having a terrible time with the sound system. It kept blowing fuses because there was a problem with the hotel wiring, and by the time we realized that we had to settle for our backup system, everyone’s nerves were frayed.

Another busy gig was a two-day engagement for the Brentwood preschool, where we performed for four different boisterous groups of three- and four-year olds. They were a highly enthusiastic audience, and the little ones were very sweet, patting the Max and Brandy puppets as if they were real dogs. Perish the thought of how the real Max would have reacted to being bopped on the head by thirty toddlers!

After all these gigs, we returned to our sulky pet who looked most put out at our long absence. However, the day came when he finally managed to get in on the act. We had been booked for a single-day gig at the Burnaby Village Museum. We were to perform in the small hall which was the basement of the Royal Bank building. It was the venue used by Footlight Theatre for their vaudeville shows, and it had a private backstage area with our own washrooms and small kitchen. Out the back door was access to an area where Max could have a short walk, so it was easy to have him on site.

Hugh and I went down in the morning to set up the theatre. Then we returned home for the girls, the puppets and Max. Max settled quite happily in our backstage area, though he became very excited when he recognized Edna’s voice coming from the audience area. Soon afterwards, my parents rolled in, followed by Carla and Ron, and Max was berserk with excitement to see so many of his favourite people in attendance. We managed to settle him down again, though he started to look anxious as the voices from the audience began to swell, particularly when future MLA, Harry Bloy, marched his boy-scout troop in and filled all the remaining seats.

The first show went well, and the audience was most responsive. They oohed and aahed most satisfactorily when the real Max appeared, and he managed a nice bow after much bouncing about looking excited and confused.  However, when we went backstage, the poor baby climbed up onto our standing platform and lay down as if to say, “This is a familiar bit of home so I think I’ll sit here.”

By the second show, Max had lost his anxiety and decided he was Mr. Superstar. While we performed, he sat expectantly behind our standing box, but as we approached the finale, I became aware of a lot of laughter in the audience. Hugh and I blinked at each other, perplexed. Yes, we knew the show was funny, but we didn’t think it was that hilarious. Then, as we concluded the show and lowered the curtain, we turned to get Max’s leash and realized he wasn’t there. Anticipating the post-show adulation and cookie, he had snuck out front and was bounding up and down in front of the stage, doing his bow and socializing with the audience, all of whom were in convulsions.  I couldn’t believe it. Talk about no business like show business. After all my years of opera and theatre training, I’d been upstaged by my dog!

This Season at the Burnaby Village Museum

Max, the Ho Hum Husky                                Die Fledermaus, the Sequel
December 26-29, 2014                                   December 30, 2014 – January 2, 2015

After Halloween, the house was full of treats, so Max continued to clean up. Every time the girls ate a treat, he had to have one of his chocolate Goodboys.  Like all children who overdose on too much candy, his behavior was predictably erratic. He chased and corralled our neighbour’s cat on the garage roof one day, and then proceeded to watch for it every morning thereafter. Whenever I did my morning aerobics, he would bound about and puff at me as if the entire exercise was exclusively for his benefit. He also developed a new trick—self-taught yet!  I was outside in the garden with him, and he caught my eye, then walked over to the chain-link fence that separated our yard from the neighbour’s garden. On our neighbour’s side, there was a small wooden bench, tucked snugly against the fence. Max looked round to make sure I was watching; then he collapsed against the fence, making the bench on the far side fall over.  Having sent it flying, he got up, wagged his tail and looked very proud of himself.  Later, when I spoke to my neighbor and apologized for what Max had done, she went into convulsions because she had been telling her children off for knocking the bench over. Apparently Max had been making this a daily exercise when out in his garden.

Max’s feistiness did have its uses. Edna and I certainly didn’t worry about walking in the woods when we had him with us. On one occasion, we saw a man hovering in the bushes, and Max barked furiously and saw him off in no uncertain terms. However, his aggressiveness was also enough of a concern that I had to ensure that he was properly supervised, which generally came down to the fact that I had to be present when visitors were in the house, or else Max had to be isolated. This was born out by an incident that caused me great distress during our puppet rehearsals.

Caroline asked if one of her friends could come to watch our practice. I agreed, but put Max out of the rehearsal room since I couldn’t watch him and work marionettes at the same time. However, while I was backstage, Hugh arrived home and answered a phone call which was the mother of Caroline’s friend wanting to speak to her daughter, so he called the girl out and let the dog in.  Then when Caroline’s friend returned to the practice room, she saw Max eating one of Katie’s pop tarts and went to grab it from him. Taking food from Max had predictable results.  He snapped to get the tart back and Caroline’s friend was bitten. Oh, what a woeful day that was, even though the mother was most understanding and realized that it had been the result of her daughter trying to take food from the dog. But there was no doubt that Max was quick with his mouth and we had to be so very careful with him. Socializing this dog was one of the hardest challenges I’d ever had to deal with.

Fortunately, Remembrance Day proved to be much more upbeat. After a pleasant morning at the George Derby War Veterans’ Hospital where we visited old friends and joined in the service, we came home to prepare a birthday dinner for my father. The girls decided that we should perform our new Birthday Bug show for Gamma after dinner, and this time, Max was welcome in the performance area, cuddled up with his namesake and wagging his tail at all the hilarity.

A few days later, it was my turn to be fussed over, since my birthday was four days after my father’s. Hugh and the girls made me breakfast in bed and brought me a pile of presents. With these was a very artistic card from Katie, one with a cute drawing of the Birthday Bug from Caroline, and a highly appropriate card from Max. On the cover, it said, “From your little angel in disguise.” Inside was a picture of a devil. Max, indeed!

As Halloween approached, Max seemed determined to outdo himself in delinquency. One day, Edna and I took the dogs down to the Brunette River. Soon after we reached the water, Max went thundering off into the bush and ignored all calls to come back. Five minutes later, he emerged, his face, throat and back covered with blood.  He looked horrific, as if a raccoon had lacerated him.  I clipped on his leash, and we immediately started back, thinking a trip to the vet was urgent, but after a few seconds, I noticed that (a) Max was bounding along vigorously, (b) he looked rather pleased with himself, and (c) he stank to high heaven.  On closer examination, we realized there were no wounds.  He had simply rolled in a revolting pile of fish guts.  By this time, I stank to high heaven too, so I got him home, gave him a bath, stripped and threw all my clothes in the wash, showered, and finally collapsed with a cup of coffee, which was quite unappetizing as the fishy smell still permeated everything.

Another day, Max found two yucky old bones and became quite aggressive when we tried to make him drop them. After a while, one became too heavy and he abandoned it, but he clung to the other for dear life, his jaws clenched around it like a vice. Finally, we managed to trick him into dropping it in the creek, whereupon it sank to the bottom like a stone.  Max indignantly leaped in and dove for it, but presumably it had gone right down into the muddy bottom. The silly dog persevered, diving and coming up with a face covered with mud.  By the time he realized it was hopeless and gave up, his white muzzle was jet black. Home for another bath.

A week before Halloween, Hugh finally finished the Max marionette.  It was perfect, and continues to be perfect today. The body looked like a little bulldozer, which was very appropriate for our Mackie. Everyone in the family agreed that it was a delightful marionette, although at the time, we had no idea just how popular it was to be with our audiences. Max’s puppet was to perform in shows, street festivals and parades, and even once went down to strut its stuff in Kansas, Missouri. It was, and still is, my very favourite of all our marionettes.

But back to the real Max and his misdemeanors. Around four o’clock that afternoon, Hugh and I heard a loud bang. We thought it might be Katie coming home from her friend’s house, but we couldn’t see her anywhere.  We looked out all the doors, and finally noticed that one of the two pumpkins that had been sitting on the deck waiting to be carved was now in the stairwell and the other one was nowhere to be seen.  After further exploration, we found it, alongside a sheepish looking Max, at the foot of the stairs.  Max had stolen it and dragged it down to the lawn, then had returned for the other one, only to miscalculate and send it flying into the stairwell where it banged on the back door and alerted us.  We decided we could now add ‘Pumpkin Thief’ to his string of titles.

Halloween finally arrived, but Max and I were left to man the home fort together. Caroline was off to see Andre’s football game, Hugh was at night school, and Katie was trick and treating with her friends. So how to cope with a terrible-two dog and a horde of children coming to the door?  It actually worked out quite well. I set a bowl of dog biscuits besides the bowl of candies.  Then, whenever I went to the door, I made Max sit and stay while I dispensed the treats. Then, if he’d been good, I gave him one of his cookies.  He was remarkably well behaved for a terrible two, though he was very anxious to see who was at the door. He sat straining so far forward that he actually resembled a swan.  He seemed to enjoy the evening, however, and barked every time there was a knock to make sure I didn’t miss any of the visitors—no Halloween howl, though, just one decorous woof to alert me. Maybe we were going to train that misbehaved mutt yet!