The Big Dog

Some introductions arrive quietly and stay with you for years.

“Hey, I saw you passing by my street every day with a big dog.”

That was how a new friendship once began. A simple observation. Apparently I had become a small local landmark. An 88-pound person walking down the street beside a 104-pound Rottweiler tends to create that effect.

Maxie was not just a big dog. She was a presence.

We walked miles together. Block after block, street after street, through sunshine, wind, and the kind of weather that politely suggests you stay home. Maxie never agreed with that suggestion. If the sky was gray, she simply considered it dramatic lighting for our walk.

People noticed us.

Some smiled. Some stared. A few stepped aside with great respect. That happens when the dog walking toward you looks like she could run airport security if she felt like it.

Maxie belonged to Terry first. She came into his life at four months old when both of them were newcomers to a tiny town that did not quite know what to make of either one. Over time, the town adjusted. Maxie helped.

Terry wasn't joking in his self-introduction. Remember how he came up with a line that sounded like the beginning of a novel?

“Hi. My name is Terry. I have a small house, a big dog, and a Tiger rice cooker.”

Accurate. Concise. Complete.

Maxie was his shadow. When Terry was on the air in his studio, she sat nearby like a quiet producer monitoring the broadcast. Every word mattered. Every tone was evaluated.

She was also practical.

One evening Terry was loading the dishwasher and talking to himself, the way thoughtful people often do.

“Oh Maxie, it would be cool if you could grab your bowl for me.”

A moment later, Maxie walked over and dropped her bowl beside the dishwasher.

Request acknowledged.

Task completed.

When Terry brought me home for the first time, I was nervous. Big dogs have a reputation. And Maxie was, by all official measurements, very big.

I stepped in behind Terry.

Maxie walked toward me slowly. Her head was lowered, her eyes soft. Then she placed one gentle paw directly on my feet.

Just like that.

A greeting.
A promise.

We became friends that night.

Years later, when Terry grew quiet sometimes, I knew what he was thinking about. Maxie. The walks. The quiet company that only a good dog can offer.

I like to imagine them now somewhere peaceful. Perhaps sitting on a hill. Watching a sunset.

Terry talking.

Maxie listening.

Still the best audience he ever had. 🐾