by Christine Wells
Max the Wonder Dog
He was the Red Dog; a mutt.
Copper red, with matching eyes
The small Errol Flynn mustache just under his nose
The red freckles on his white legs
The same freckles scattered across the white strip
Down the center of his face.
He was the Squirrel Dog.
Chasing them through the woods,
Up a tree,
Barking - calling them down
Paws up on the trunk, taunting them,
Giving them a run for their money.
He was the Mole Dog.
Head tilted, listening as they burrowed.
Jumping, head first, digging
Until the mole was found and flung
Up into the air -
Dead from one swift bite.
He was the Guard Dog.
Always sitting at the end of the walk
Whenever a car pulled into the driveway.
Never barking - that was reserved for squirrels.
A lone sentinel
Saving me from evil intentions.
He was Max the Mooch
To many of his human friends
Of which there was many.
If there was food -
There was Max.
Those eyes would look deep into you soul,
Not pleading or begging,
But making you question your place in eternity
If one bit, one morsel, preferably more
Was not quickly turned over.
A reminder, a paw outstretched
If a plate began to empty,
A cookie to crumble,
A sandwich to disappear,
Before something was given to
The Cute Dog.
Max was found,
Shortly after the beginning of his thirteenth year,
Under the ramp
Leading down from the front porch.
I had stood on that ramp
Calling for him.
He was out visiting the neighbors.
He’ll be back that evening
Or maybe in the morning.
In the morning, he was there,
Lying in the wallow he had dug
During the Dog Days of Summer
In the cool dampness
Under the ramp
As if he was merely sleeping.
Yes, Max was a wonder dog
And I wonder if I’ll ever go
More than a day
Without missing him
Or thanking the fates
That I had the chance to be owned by
Max the Wonder Dog.