When I was on the night shift, a snatch of a telephone conversation drifted into my ears from the break room. My colleague, his voice edged with irritation, repeated:
Take him wherever you like, do whatever you want with him, I cant stand it any longer!
My curiosity pricked. I asked what he meant, and he shrugged, saying he was handing over his German shepherd.
Why? I asked.
Hes a menace, he replied. He howls through the night, tears off his chain, his coat is a tidal wave of hair, the garden is a mud pit, and he never guards the house.
I felt a pang of pity for the dog. I called my father, David, to see if he needed a guard for his fenced property. After a short silence he called back, saying I could take the animal.
The appointed day arrived. We piled into my dads old Ford, stuffing a roll of gauze in the boot just in case we needed to muzzle the socalled wild beast.
When we pulled up, the colleague stood there with a gaunt, ragged hound, fur clumped like discarded weeds, a fresh gash on his skull, and a torn paw pad. His eyes were mournful, as if on the brink of tears.
The dog hopped into the car on his own, calm, not a flicker of aggression. Beside him slipped James, my sister Emilys husband, and the whole drive the animal lay silent, his breath a soft whisper.
At home we first bought a new collar and leash and gave him a bath. My mother, Helen, and Emily peeked from the hallway, wary, as though wed brought a snarling wolf inside.
While we were driving back, Helen prepared a pot of meat porridge. The stew was still steaming when we offered the dog a slice of crusty bread. Watching him lunge at the dry morsel was more painful than any wound on his flank.
A healthy German shepherd should tip the scales at about 77lb, yet this beast was a lean 44lb. When we set down his bowl, he devoured the contents in an instant and collapsed on the mat he claimed as his throne.
Later, Helen reached for his bowl to rinse it, cradling it behind her back. Suddenly she sensed a gentle tug as something lifted it from her grasp. It was Max that was his name now who seized the bowl with his teeth, carried it to his corner and lay down as if to say, Its mine; Ill look after it myself.
We hadnt intended to keep a fiveyearold male dog in a flat; we imagined Helen would object. Yet her heart softened, and no one could turn away such loyalty.
After the bath and a thorough brushing, Max transformed. The next morning I took him to the local vet. They explained how to tend his wounds; I bought the prescriptions and, over the next fortnight, administered his vaccinations. I didnt blame his previous owners perhaps hed truly run away and suffered on the streets.
When Max was fully healed, we enrolled him in a training course. In summer the parents would ferry him to their country cottage, where he patrolled the fence like a miniature sentinel; strangers didnt dare approach the gate before his 40lb bulk demanded respect.
Eight years have slipped by since that surreal night. Max survived two operations first a hernia repair, then complications from it. His joints ache, arthritis has set in, but we nurse him, support him, love him. Today hes an old gentleman. My father calls him son, and my mother spoils him as if he were a child.
I cannot fathom how anyone could have abandoned such a dog. His devotion is boundless, his tenderness endless. Caring for an animal drains you, yet now none of us can picture a home without him. When dad isnt home or someone is away, Max sighs, refuses food, and waits.
A few years after Max entered our lives, our longstanding cat passed away after eighteen years. In the same stairwell, a tenant had left a stray kitten. Neighbours fed it until I realized I couldnt leave the tiny creature out in the November chill. That bold, cheeky feline, named Eva, now lives with us.
People, be kinder to animals. They feel everything pain, love. Just choose love.
