A memorial to a dog named Max
Two weeks ago I traveled back east to Philadelphia to visit friends, have a few cheese steaks, enjoy a Phillies game at their brand-new stadium, and hang with the family. Those were my intentions, nothing too exciting or dramatic — just a nice, calm stay in the house and city where I grew up. Little did I know that the puppy that I had picked out after a sweaty seventh-grade summer of working as a supermarket clerk to save enough money to buy would die during this trip home. I wasn’t prepared to see Max go, he was my dog in a house of five, with my two brothers, one younger, one older. I had saved the money to get Max, and I can still remember handing my father the 300-plus dollars nearly 14 years ago on the way to the Amish country in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where Max was born. I’m told 14 is well past the life expectancy for a Labrador retriever, but of course I thought he would live forever. The past few years Max’s hips became severely arthritic and he could not run or walk around the block without enduring significant pain, which of course neither I nor my parents — whom Max lived with — wanted to subject him to. In addition to the arthritis, Max had a nervous stomach and towards the end of...
Read More