maximus ovenbird We brought Max (formally Maximus) home on my 19th birthday, 45 pounds of tail wagging love who came with a bad rap. He was left at the shelter when his original family moved to Vancouver when he was two years old. He was adopted but returned when his new family left him home alone in his first days with them and he ripped their house apart out of anxiety. We took a chance on him and he never chewed a single thing that wasn’t his. Max was never really mine. He was my brother’s and when my brother left home Max became my dad’s. Max was an exuberant walker who never learned not to pull on the leash. He was known for finding discarded sandwiches on the sidewalk. He was the kind of enthusiastic greeter that had to be restrained when company came over. I liked him well enough but somehow our hearts never bonded. He wasn’t meant for me. The dog that would glue himself to my soul was many years in the future, and that dog is sleeping on the bed beside me now, preparing to break my heart spectacularly with his inevitable leaving. Max left too, as all dogs do, saddling my parents with a hole in their hearts and a tiny urn full of his ashes. They’re planning to downsize in the near future and recently decided they should give Max a final resting place. They chose a treed section of a park he loved, one where he found a lot of sandwiches and knew which people to approach for treats. It’s illegal to spread ashes so they were trying to be stealthy. They brought a small shovel and went at a quiet time of day. When they got there a police officer was hovering near their chosen burial site. They did a lap of the park and came back to find more officers. So Max got a final car ride, living in the trunk overnight until they could try again. The next day the coast was clear. They dug a hole. They poured in what was left of Max. They left him there in the place he liked to find dead things to roll in. There’s a picture of dad wearing jeans and a blue jacket, leaning on the shovel he used to bury his dog. The ground is covered with leaves. There are enough trees to make it look like he’s standing in a forest. In our family chat mom asked if anyone wanted the urn with Max’s name on it. No one did. The vessel means nothing now that it’s empty. Max belongs to the park now. When the snow comes I won’t be at all surprised if people catch sight of his ghost running full tilt across the field, with a ham and cheese sandwich hanging from his mouth. 251123 what's it to you? who go blather from