Maxwell David

We adopted Max in October of 2016, on the heels of our St. Bernard’s death. He’s a daisy dog, which is a fancy way of saying mutt. Our first two dogs were also daisies. I had never been a dog person before George and Beeze came into my life, but they converted me quickly and permanently. I adored them.

Then came Crosby the St. Bernard, who was equal parts magnificent and mischievous, true to the Beethoven stereotype. When he passed away, my husband quickly suggested another Daisy, which I’m positive was solely to prevent me from buying another 200-pound dog.

Only two puppies were available: Max, with cute spiky nose hairs and a sweet personality, or a jumpy, curly, slightly awkward puppy who bounced like Tigger. We quickly chose Max, the last pick of the litter, the second-to-last pick of two litters. The one everyone else had passed over repeatedly. The irony, of course, is that the overlooked dog turned out to be a once-in-a-lifetime companion.

“Maxwell David” was an inside joke with myself. I had always wanted four children, but we stopped at three. I carried that name around for years, tucked away for another baby that might someday come to round out our family. By the time Max joined us, I knew that ship had permanently sailed. So the name went to the new little family floof.

Brady’s health went off the rails almost immediately after Max came home. We were soon hospitalized in San Diego, chasing neurological answers that never came, while Max stayed home with Michael and the girls, chewing everything he could find and christening the house in all the usual puppy ways. But when we came home, Max quickly chose his person. Brady was his human. He never let him out of his sight. From that day on, Max treated Brady with tenderness and territorial devotion. He was half therapy dog, half guardian angel.

When Brady’s body froze in long stretches, Max would curl up beside him, waiting. He wouldn’t budge until Brady was up and moving again. When medication side effects set in and dyskinesia took over, Max never flinched. When Brady’s arms and legs flailed, Max stayed put. If Brady accidentally elbowed or kicked him, Max didn’t move. Once, Brady’s dyskinesia was so bad we worried about Max getting hurt. We moved him repeatedly. He went right back to Brady, over and over, until we gave up. Max ended up with a concussion. Michael rushed him to the vet. He came home and curled right back up with Brady. From that point on, we stopped interfering. Which was a good thing, because Max also stopped tolerating interference. If anyone tried to move him off of Brady, Max would growl or nip in protest.

Eventually, when Brady could no longer walk, he was most comfortable in his La-Z-Boy rocker. Max claimed the left side as his throne. If he was perched there, you couldn’t move him without risking your fingers. Sometimes he’d press a little too firmly into Brady’s lap, and we’d have to pry him off. Brady would laugh after making it clear he needed Max moved, because he knew we were all genuinely scared of his dog’s obsessive loyalty.

When Brady showered, Max would hop in, despite all efforts to keep him out. When Brady slept, Max curled up on his head. If Brady swam in a pool, Max would hop in and swim to him. Max loved going to the movies with Brady, and attended concerts, Broadway shows, and any vacation we took. He watched over Brady at the beach and loved boating. If Brady did something, Max was beside him while he did it.

When Brady got his custom wheelchair, his rehab team built a special spot for Max. They explained they’d made one before for a dog named Sammy, called the Sammy Pad. They wheeled it in and introduced it proudly as the Maxi Pad. Brady laughed so hard he couldn’t catch his breath, and we mutually agreed to rename it the Maxwell Hammock.

As Brady grew, the hammock got too small, and by then, we had added another dog, Bucky Waffles, to the chaos, in addition to our golden doodle, George. The team custom-built two sidecars for the two small dogs, turning Brady’s wheelchair into something that looked like it was fueled by puppy rockets. The sidecars were such a gift. Max was slowing down with age, and it was helpful to have him riding along instead of risking his paws under the wheelchair, which had been happening since Brady outgrew the hammock.

Because Brady died at home, Max was able to lie with him for some time. He had dedicated his entire life to Brady, and somehow, in our complete shock, we realized he needed to understand what had happened. By this point, Brady and Max had been together for nine years. They were almost never apart, and if they were, even for an hour, Max would be hysterical: waiting by the window, pacing, barking, whining for his boy. When we returned, he’d be hoarse, jumping all over Brady, licking him, wild with joy.

But after Brady died and we let Max back into the room, he walked up slowly and gently. He curled his body alongside Brady’s with what I can only describe as sacred tenderness, like he was both protecting him and letting him go. He laid his head down and did not move. There was no confusion, no manic behavior, no searching afterward. Max knew. Brady was taken away, and Max did not retreat to the window or pace or bark. He curled up on the couch.

A few days later, at the funeral home, our new, uncomfortably smaller family of four was given one more chance to say goodbye. We brought Max because he deserved to be there. Again, he approached Brady softly, climbed up beside him into his usual spot, and rested in perfect stillness as we said goodbye. It was quiet and holy and unbearable.

Max understood his assignment. And he completed it.