Update on Max Atticus Finch, Dog!
Max Atticus Finch turned three last Monday, November 21. I know he turned three because I got him on November 21, 2015, and the rescue group told me he was two. (Museum visitor to guard: “How old is that T-Rex? Guard: “Six billion and 13 years old.” MV: “Wow.” G: “Yep, I’ve been here 13 years, and he was six billion years old on my first day.”)
We have shared 369 joyful days together, me and Max … but for day 368, and a few others. Thanksgiving morning left Max hot and bothered, when I told him the festivities did not include him. Yes, you went last year, I thought, but you were only two, and I’d had you for all of four days.
Well, Max showed me. His Aunt Leigh and the cousins – Corgis, June and Ozzie—stopped by for a bit early on Thanksgiving afternoon. Walking them out, and slow off the draw, I realized a couple of moments too late that Max—always at the front of the line—was not among us. I look back from the front door, saw him, saw him see me, and saw him hop off the kitchen counter, having ended the servable lives of two Black and Blue Berry Pies. (He had to taste each one.) And if you’re thinking “cut and patch” and no one will know, someone in the know, other than me, offered that suggestion. No go, but here’s the magazine version of Max’s T-giving treat, as well as the two pies I made which did survive.
I know not so much from dogs, but I’ve got a stubborn cuss, for sure. I thought every dog wants to go for a walk. Not mine! Often, yes, but when his planted feet, 30+ pounds, and the fear that someone will see me dragging him, he goes back inside the house. I am a master at the art of walking my dog, sans dog!
Then there’s his pathway to the U of A campus. There are several, but he knows from one, only. Deviate from the regular way? Planted feet!!!
Max has billed nary a tenth of an hour during about 250 work days, but he’s in my office all day, most every day.* (If I’m out for a long while, Aunt Leigh provides afternoon entertainment.) So what does the boy do all day? Sleep … unless someone comes into my office and stays. Then, he comes alive. He chews toys, self-tosses and chases a ball, etc. All is fine, except for those moments when he decides “table chewing” might entertain my visitor.
Max and I do dinner for Irwin, my mom’s boyfriend, every Sunday. We travel, with dinner. Max helps not at all, but when we arrive he does go directly to his Cousin Reily’s food dish. If it’s still there, he snarfs down a quick snack before it gets removed.
In addition to the food dish, Max favors boiled shrimp. No cocktail sauce required, and we’ve gotten pretty good about protecting the plate. Not so much one of the corners of the faux-verdigris finished coffee table base my mom has had for 30 years. And if Rochelle was around? She’d probably say: He’s a dog. Dogs chew things. (She mellowed, for sure. On one occasion she mentioned to one of my sisters that I brought Max Atticus Finch to dinner on Sundays. “Really,” said my sister, amazed. “Of course,” said our mom.)
I did check a few prior posts about Max Atticus Finch. That man with the dead animal-thingy on his head? POTUS to be. The Allen Edmonds shoes, with the sh*t-covered soles? In the trash. Runs like the wind? OMG, does he ever, and now that my yard has been defoliated, he sprints back and forth daily, getting in his workout. Hmm? Maybe that’s why he passes on walks.
Covered? Not quite. Max Atticus Finch loves his person, and his person—that’s me—loves Max. Just two lucky guys!
*If Chandra, my assistant, is around when Max and I are leaving, he won’t walk out unless she walks with us to my car.
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