Max

It seems like every boarding stable has its own canine ranch hand. At Flying J Stables in Plain City, Utah, the mantle fell to a splotchy grey and black mutt named Max. Flying J is where my dad kept his horses for a few years when I was thirteen.

Max was tall enough to hold a person’s hand in his mouth—something he did regularly—and had a face like a golden retriever’s. I remember seeing him outflank and outjump the horses in the pasture, but for all his swiftness and muscular power he was also a compassionate sort. When he looked at you, he tilted his head and lowered his eyebrows like a concerned mother.

Precious few are the friends who show the same loyalty Max showed. Not once did he fail to run and bark out his greeting when I rode my bike down the gravel road that led to the stables. I’d say hi to him as he wagged his tail, and he’d amble beside me through the stable gates.
He was handy with horses too. Sometimes horses will lie down in their stalls in such a way that they can’t get back up. If they stay in this position for too long, their muscles can’t support the weight of their bodies, and they suffocate. More than once Max heard a horse in distress and ran to the nearest human. Gingerly holding the person’s hand in his mouth, Max would bring help to some poor mare who’d got herself in trouble.

On really hot days Max and I had a habit of laying down in the shade of a large trampoline in front of the stable keepers’ ranch house. Max let me use him for a pillow, and I’d stare up through the netting of the trampoline and teach Max what shapes the clouds were. "Now, Max, that one there is a dragon," I’d say. "And that one over there, that’s a huge ugly monster." Every now and again Max would lift up his head and look at me; then he’d drop it to the ground and sigh. I guess he didn’t care much for my tutoring.

Looking back, I think Max probably taught me more than I did him. One thing he taught me was the importance of showing up. Whether he was meeting me on a country road, saving a horse, or giving me his company under the trampoline, Max always showed up. I can’t help but wonder how things would be different if the rest of the world showed up more often. What if nations always showed up for peace summits? What if CEOs always showed up for work? What if fathers always showed up for dinner?

Max showed up for one more event on my trips to Flying J, and that was to say good-bye. Whenever I got on my bike to leave, Max trotted beside me as I rode away. I’d look back, and there he would be, standing in the road looking forlorn, even though I’d be back the next day.
But one day Dad got a new job, and we had to move. On my last day at the Flying J, I told Max to keep taking care of the horses and helping out with the place. I hugged him and told him I’d miss him, I’d never forget him.

When it was time to go, I walked with him to my bike, gave him a good scratch on the head, and he ran beside me for a while as I rode away for the last time. I looked back, and there he was looking after me as one friend to another. That’s the last sight I had of him.

I suppose Max is still showing up for his daily duties, if not here, somewhere else. It was his nature, and I hope it is mine as well.