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MAX

I was used to female German Shepherds, so when Mandy died, I immediately sought out another Shepherd. A woman invited me out to see her dogs; she had at least 7 Shepherds. When I got there, I asked, “Which one is mine?” She pointed to a smallish brown and white male dog, with floppy (not pointy) ears. So I said, “What’s that?” And she said, “That’s Max. He’s part Brittany, part Pointer. You can have him.” I wanted a Shepherd. Female, not a male mutt. But the thought of having fur to pet and cuddle led me to lead him to the car. By the time I got home, I was in love! Max had eyes the color of sherry, he craved salad, and he was my constant companion and faithful guy for 13 years. The night my mother died, he went into my mother’s room and walked around her hospital bed, as if to say, “Goodbye.” And less than a year later, Max became suddenly, catastrophically ill—and I was having to say “Goodbye” to him. It is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. He died in 1995, and I still miss him every day. Max the wonderful dog—I still love you.

—Binnie Syril Braunstein

This is the latest in a series of dedications from readers who have shared the pain of the loss of a beloved dog. For more information visit my website at www.justinedavis.com.