Max has crossed Rainbow Bridge

Max passed peacefully yesterday morning in my arms. Even those who did not know him were teary eyed including our wonderful vet.
It took a few moments for him to pass, and I had bought along his favorite tennis ball to hold on his journey to the other side. (Remember, in Max's world all was good if one had a tennis ball!) his last gesture was to release the tennis ball where it rolled by my husbands feet; shift his head deep against me and look me in deep in the eye. There was such peace there, such understanding within him.

Without me even asking the vet then came in with some clippers and a beautiful little granite keepsake box on it and gathered some of Max's hair and put it inside for me then handed it to me.
I was sad because I had parted ways with my best friend and partner of so many years that he is intrinsically a part of me, but yet I felt peace. Such warm peace inside me. My heart still clutches when I write or speak of him, the voice may catch in my throat, but inside I am truly Ok with all of this. Honestly, I am more at peace with Max's release than I have been with any other animal I have had to be there with. I think our connection was so close that I truly understood how much he needed to be released from the pain and how thankful he was for it.

I always wondered when some had mentioned that often a surviving pet exhibited some special ritual, look or act that the departing pet used to do. As if a torch had passed between them. I had never truly seen this before, until Max's passing. Normally when I would come home from somewhere Caesar would be right there at the door all anxious to see me and hyper. When we cam home yesterday he just followed me quietly, I hugged him once very tightly and opened the little granite box where Max's fur was. He sniffed it so very gingerly and then his head seemed to wilt a bit. He came up and very tenderly put his head on my lap. For all of yesterday Caesar acted much more dignified, more 'Max like', being more of a gentle guide than his usual rambunctious, buffalo crashing self. I repeated the same ritual with Monty, our rat terrier, (letting him sniff the box) and he immediately put his little paws up indicating he wanted me to pick him up. Once I had him in my arms he wrapped his paws around my neck like he used to do as a pup and just snuggled against my shoulder in the very spot Max had snuggled against me. He looked sad, but yet his little nub was wagging a mile a minute.

Both dogs knew it Max had passed and they seemed to be just as at peace with it as I. Strangely it was my husband who seemed to take it the hardest, maybe because he had never really "talked" to Max and said his goodbyes, I don't know. At lunch we reminised about Max, and by evening time all of us, the whole family was at peace. It was indeed the strangest and most CALMING of letting a loved one go that I had ever felt.

I expected to cry myself to sleep that night, but instead I actually found myself with a feeling of inner calm, and even a smile on my face as I remembered the silly way Max would tilt his head with a tennis ball clenched inside his mouth. "Play with me? Come on, I gotta tennis ball! Honest, life is better with a tennis ball, come see!" I knew he was safely across rainbow bridge and more importantly that he was HAPPY and pain free. I know he will be waiting with that tennis ball, and someday I will be able to take it and toss it back to him. Until that day, I am good...And so is my beloved Max.
Rest well my dear partner.
Maxmillian "Max" von Sydow, 6/5/1997 - 8/9/2007
Max had told me he wanted me to post one more of his messages (see other diary entries) he was my guide, and I dutifully would write them down, in his words. He whispered to me on thursday morning what he wanted his last words to be, as usual, they were comforting and will be comforting for all who have ever lost a pet or felt the sorrow. I will write his last story this weekend and post it here for all of his friends. Thank you.

Tail of Devotion

My name is Max and I have a little something I’d like to whisper in your ear.
I know that you humans lead busy lives. Some have to work, some have children to raise.

It always seems like you are running here and there, often much to fast, often never noticing the truly grand things in life.

Look down at me now, while you sit there at your computer. See the way my dark brown eyes look at yours? They are slightly cloudy now, that comes with age. The grey hairs are beginning to ring my soft muzzle. You smile at me; I see love in your eyes. What do you see in mine?

Do you see a spirit, a soul inside who loves you as no other could in the world? A spirit that would forgive all trespasses of prior wrong doing for just a simple moment of your time?

That is all I ask. To slow down if even for a few minutes to be with me. So many times you have been saddened by the words you read on that screen, of others of my kind passing. Sometimes we die young and oh so quickly, sometimes so suddenly it wrenches your heart out of your throat. Sometimes we age so slowly before your eyes that you do not even seem to know, until they very end, when we look at you with grizzled muzzles and cataract clouded eyes. Still the love is always there, even when we take that long sleep, to run free in distant lands.

I may not be here tomorrow; I may not be here next week. Someday you will shed the waters from your eyes, that humans’ have when deep grief fills their souls, and you will be angry at yourself that you did not have just “One more day” with me.

Because I love you so, your sorrow touches my spirit and grieves me. We have Now, together. So come, sit down here next to me on the floor. And look deep into my eyes. What do you see? If you look hard and deep enough we will talk you and I, heart to heart. Come to me not as “alpha” or as a “trainer” or even a “Mom or Dad”, come to me as a living soul and stroke my fur and let us look deep into one another’s eyes, and talk. I may tell you something about the fun of chasing a tennis ball, the scent of a cool spring breeze or I may tell you something profound about myself, or even life in general.

You decided to have me in your life (I hope) because you wanted a soul to share just such things with. Someone very different from you but yet a kindred non-judgmental soul, and here I am. I am a dog, but I am alive. I feel emotion, I feel physical senses, and I can revel in the differences of our spirits and souls. I do not think of you as a “Dog on two feet” I know what you are. You are human, in all your quirkiness, and I love you still. Now, come sit with me, on the floor. Enter my world, and let time slow down if even for only 15 minutes. Look deep in my eyes, and whisper to my ears. Speak with your heart, with your joy and I will know your true self and you will know mine. We may not have tomorrow, and life is oh so very short.
Love,
Max, (on behalf of all canines everywhere)
"May be reposted and shared freely as long as this credit appears with the post given to © Jackie .D.Ellis 2001, rottweilerdriver@aol.com."

GREEN TRIPE...In a can!

You know, I used to think I was tough. That I could handle just about anything! After all, I LAUGHED at fresh Green Tripe! I mean, I thought, there was nothing wrong with it, why even our own Ms. Debra, let me dig my hands in some fresh Green Tripe, to feed her doggy crew.

So it was with much joy when I discovered that one could BUY Fresh Green Tripe, in a CAN! How novel I thought! No more mess, no more fuss, just open a can, and feed Green Tripe on demand.

Of course I ordered from this wonderful company immediately! And not just one or two cans, but a case. Mind, you, I'm no simpleton, after all, it’s "Fresh Green Tripe"... In a CAN!

So today, that Santa Claus of the mail system UPS came to my door and delivered a LARGE brown box. With a satisfied, "Ah Ha!!!" I hoisted my prize high over my head and carried it inside, Max following along closely at my heels, sniffing at the box, nub wagging. After all he knew it was for him!

"What's in the box??" my 13 yr. old son asked.

"Fresh GREEN tripe! In a can!" I stated emphatically. "A case of it!" What a smart consumer I was indeed! ('Oooh. Ooohh! Tim Allen grunt!)

Finally the moment I had waited for had come, later in the evening. Max's dinner time. We put the normal raw beef heart, some veggies, Hokamix, flaxseed meal, and a wee bit of kibble in his dish, but the crowning moment was about to happen.

As I looked longingly at the can, it felt almost like a solemn occasion. "Now you will see some good stuff!" I smiled as I positioned the can into the electric can opener. Clink, Chink Whhhhrrrrrrrr!! went the can opener. For a brief moment , it felt as though time itself had stopped, so intent were we to see this wondrous marvel of modern science. Green Tripe in a can, why it was almost as if we were discovering the lost Ark of the Covenant. Dog, Child and myself were held in awe. With a final CHINK! The can lid was released… And then I smelled something...

"What is THAT?!?!" My son exclaimed. One of our cats who had been sitting by the kitchen door, quickly sidled out. She was smart, running for her life.

"Green Tripe, in a can…" I tried to sound parental and authoritative, but I could feel the first churning of my stomach.

Max's eyes were on me intently, like two laser beams.

With a daring poke, I took off the lid to the can. And then it hit us. "Oh Geeeshhhh!!!!" and then my normally angelic son, cursed for the first time in my presence "What the $&%@ is that *@#*???!!!" And with that he too ran away.

At that point a smell hit me, so foul, so putrefied and grotesque, that bathing in fresh skunk spray would have been a pleasure. A smell so rancid that it made a raw sewage plant in a hot southern sun, smell nice.
I felt my insides begin to roil dangerously.

Max now had two long lines of drool that hung from his mouth and with a sickening slurp, he licked his lips, willing me to give him what was in that can.
"You’re sick!" I said to him through clenched teeth. I had to clench them or else I knew my dinner would be revisiting at that very moment.

This Green Tripe in a can was nothing like the fresh tripe I had dealt with. No, this stuff was insidious, vile, and deadly. The US Military should use it as a biological weapon. I could see squadrons of men falling before this stuff.
I held the can at arms length like radioactive plutonium and gingerly waggled it over the dog's dish, aiming for his food bowl. Sluuuurrrrk!!! It made a sickening noise as it slid out of the can. By now my vision was clouded, and I could have sworn I saw GREEN vapors leaking out of the can, like some mad scientists experiment gone wrong.

I thrust the dogs dish down, and he immediately threw himself into eating it, like a starving man at a banquet.
"Aaaaaaaacck!" was all I managed to say, as I WILLED myself not to hurl my cookies. "Steve! Help me! Find the plastic lid cover!" I cried plaintively to my son.

"Nuh uh!" he screamed from somewhere deep in the house, "That stuff REEKS!"

Now it was my turn to come up with colorful expletives as I dug up a plastic lid cover to try and hide the horrible bomb that had been unleashed in the house. I just KNEW that the smell would be forever imbedded in my walls, my furniture, my cats fur, and thanks to the central AC, the putrefying fragrance was being spread to all corners of the house.

Finally in disgust I managed to cover the can and thrust it into the refrigerator. The dog had finished his dinner, and stood looking at me, as though hoping for more. I knew I would be sterilizing the dogs dish, and probably his mouth with hot water. Heck I may just throw them both in an autoclave.

If a Hurricane hit my house now, it would not have been a bad time. It may even clear the air. I realized now why they called it GREEN tripe, it was. And it was in a can. And it was deadly.

5 hours later, the smell STILL lingers around, in cruel little whiffs. But hey, who am I to complain, I was smart, right? After all, I only have 11 and ½ cans to go, of Green Tripe in a CAN!

Update on our Wonderful Max!

Our deepest apologies for not updating more on Max and his condition. We had so many people asking us about Max, our "Padrone" that I will update our friends.
Max is doing fairly well! Yes he still has several large tumors (slow growing) also has many "fatty lumps" and even tumors in his muscles (that seem not to be spreading). His energy is still good, he enjoys each day, and does not appear in pain. As long as HE enjoys each day and let's me know he is happy to be here, then I will follow his lead. I always have, I trust him and he trusts me.
We have been using a special diet to help Max control his symptoms and any discomfort, and of course while this is not a "cure" it has made a very significant improvement in his quality of life.
First we use a good high quality kibble (Eagle Pack or Natural Balance) we suppliment him (with human grade suppliments) of Ester C, Glucosamine/Chondroiten, CoQEnzyme 10, Cranberry pills a 'low dose' asprin a day, and also Benedryl if needed for any allergies along with probiotics (or beneficial bacteria such as Acidophillus). We also often include fresh ingredients in his food such as simmered chicken or sweet potatoes or barely and carrots.
And not only does he of course LOVE his food, but it has made a difference in putting some weight back on him, giving him energy and helping him feel better.
He still likes to do his favorite activity of all time (Playing fetch with the Tennis Ball) or visiting people to brighten their day or go for walks.
Max insisted I post another of his stories from his younger days on the site, so that his friends can enjoy more of his tales.
From Max and I (and the rest of the crew) thank you for all the well wishes, supports and "bones". We have met some great people here on Dogster!
Warmly,
Max and his Family.

Update on a Special Heartdog

This is perhaps the hardest entry I have ever had to write....
How do you write the words, that you fear you never had to write...Logically your heart tells you, that someday you know your special friend will pass, but, you don't want to know. We all hope I guess that we wake up one day to discover them passed on to Rainbow Bridge, painlessly in their sleep.
I know this may seem small to some, but to others you may fully understand. Those of us, who have Service Dogs, or a beloved pet, we understand, because like a child, maybe more so, they are an intregal part of us. So interwoven into our lives, they literally become our second pair of hands. TRUE "Guardian Angels" who must watch over us, and whom we entrust our very lives to daily...
Max, ("Maximillian" von Sydow) is my heardog and first and currently retired Service dog. He is 9 years young, but considered a senior in the breed. He didn't start out as a Service dog, but as a Therapy Dog for autistic and Downs Syndrom children. But when I was diagnosed 4 years ago he stepped up to the plate valiantly.
I want my boy to be around forever, and I hope he is! lately he developed a few back to back severe urinary infections, and a few suspicious tumors, one on his forearm, that thankfully turned out to be nothing, however, the ones we X-rayed internally around his liver and spleen looked very large, hard, dark and ominous. I have made the hard decision to not proceed further nor do any further testing on these. They surround so much tissue that there is really nothing that could be done with them if any results were to come back as malignant.
He spends a lot of time sleeping now, but when he is awake and up, he is as peppy as can be! He still wants his favorite tennis ball, and he wants to play, and pull on his tire, and go for walks (with the little terrier) and he occasionally looks longingly at the cart (we used to do carting demo's and raise money for charity doing carting), but only briefly. He knows. It’s too much effort for him to pull it now. He is simply the “doGFather” and he rules the roost. It’s HIS roost to rule, it always will be. I hum the song to the famous movie to him, and do off kilter imitations of Marlon Brando...He loves it, he smiles that famous "Rottie smile" and he loves to “back kick” dirt once in awhile into the fence, just because he can, or show Caesar (The young Service dog in training) just HOW the ball can be caught. But mostly he loves to lounge in the sun, or lay with his head on my lap, and look at me, and entertain me with stories of his youth and tell me he was NEVER as rambunctious as that pup is!
He is the last of the true great gentlemen. He and I have made a pact, he doesn’t want to be put through a lot of tests and nonsense and neither do I.
So we kind of go through things together, he and I because we understand one another. He knows I’ve been there, and now I can be there for him, at least I hope I can. I am only human after all. He will let me know when it is time. Not yet, hopefully not for another 3 years, (I pray!) but I steel myself it may be as soon as 1 year or less. This is up to him. All I can do is keep him pain free. And now, I’m getting teary eyed, so I better stop…. Which is another reason I have been away for awhile, spending some quality time with the genteel “old man.”
How does one even concieve of going on without their best friend? As Max's message says, we have the "Now" together I suppose... And I intend to spend as much of the now as I have with him. I owe him that. I will post some more of his life throught his diaries here. To share in the extraordinary and special dog. But if we are gone from time to time, you will know where we are. Playing ball, or simply cuddling and giving him "Tummy Rubs" perhaps just sitting in the sunshine together. He is the "DogFather" and deserves to be treated like the great 'Don' that he is, for he is the great gentlman and guardian and best friend one could ever have. The day he leaves me, my world will be so much more emptier, so much more darker.
Warmly,
Max's friend~
Jackie

A message from Max

Sorry it has been awhile since this has been updated... But I guess as this special heartdog gets older it is even more important to place down in print the special bond between us. Alot has happened over the last couple weeks. Max has been having urinary infections, and alot more fatty lympoma's pop up on him, and a few masses on his legs we have been quite concerned about.
This next entry is one that has made Max quite famous, you may have even seen it elsewhere before, for it has been around and been shared with many dog venues in many languages... It is simply called...
"A Message from Max".
My name is Max and I have a little something I’d like to whisper in your ear.
I know that you humans lead busy lives. Some have to work, some have children to raise.
It always seems like you are running here and there, often much to fast, often never noticing the truly grand things in life.
Look down at me now, while you sit there at your computer. See the way my dark brown eyes look at yours? They are slightly cloudy now, that comes with age. The grey hairs are beginning to ring my soft muzzle. You smile at me; I see love in your eyes. What do you see in mine?
Do you see a spirit, a soul inside who loves you as no other could in the world? A spirit that would forgive all trespasses of prior wrong doing for just a simple moment of your time?
That is all I ask. To slow down if even for a few minutes to be with me. So many times you have been saddened by the words you read on that screen, of others of my kind passing. Sometimes we die young and oh so quickly, sometimes so suddenly it wrenches your heart out of your throat. Sometimes we age so slowly before your eyes that you do not even seem to know, until they very end, when we look at you with grizzled muzzles and cataract clouded eyes. Still the love is always there, even when we take that long sleep, to run free in distant lands.
I may not be here tomorrow; I may not be here next week. Someday you will shed the waters from your eyes, that humans’ have when deep grief fills their souls, and you will be angry at yourself that you did not have just “One more day” with me.
Because I love you so, your sorrow touches my spirit and grieves me. We have Now, together. So come, sit down here next to me on the floor. And look deep into my eyes. What do you see? If you look hard and deep enough we will talk you and I, heart to heart. Come to me not as “alpha” or as a “trainer” or even a “Mom or Dad”, come to me as a living soul and stroke my fur and let us look deep into one another’s eyes, and talk. I may tell you something about the fun of chasing a tennis ball, the scent of a cool spring breeze or I may tell you something profound about myself, or even life in general. You decided to have me in your life (I hope) because you wanted a soul to share just such things with. Someone very different from you but yet a kindred non-judgmental soul, and here I am. I am a dog, but I am alive. I feel emotion, I feel physical senses, and I can revel in the differences of our spirits and souls. I do not think of you as a “Dog on two feet” I know what you are. You are human, in all your quirkiness, and I love you still. Now, come sit with me, on the floor. Enter my world, and let time slow down if even for only 15 minutes. Look deep in my eyes, and whisper to my ears. Speak with your heart, with your joy and I will know your true self and you will know mine. We may not have tomorrow, and life is oh so very short.
Love,
Max, (on behalf of all canines everywhere)
"May be reposted and shared freely as long as this credit appears with the post given to © Jackie .D Ellis 2001, rottweilerdriver@aol.com."

Max and the Tennis Ball

Well you remember reading about how much I LOVE tennis balls, so lets start with that, shall we? just so you get a feel for me, and my passion!
Max and the Ball


Never have I seen something HOLD an interest in ANY animal (or human) as Max and his Tennis ball.
Actually ANY ball will do, but tennis balls are the preferred balls above all others. For they are fuzzy, and are easy to carry in the mouth, and slime and pop, and get that desired wet, soggy, feel to them.
Max will play with balls all day, all night, until his very physical body were to give out. He has had this obsession since he was a pup, any decent retriever would be put to shame.
Ball playing, fetch, has always been used between us for a variety of things. As a reward for good behavior or a job well done, for general play, to use as an ‘enticement’ in training, even a comfort item. Ever since Max was a pup, if a fuzzy tennis ball was held in his mouth (his own doing) it acted almost like a pacifier for him when clipping toe nails, when he got his identification tattoo, anything. Having a ball in his mouth or nearby his person makes Max’s world A-Ok. Nothing can go wrong, everything is tolerable if I am nearby and a ball is nearby. His whole world is a "good place". Max even would hold a favored ball in his mouth on those times when we’d lay on the floor facing each other, me talking and massaging his shoulders, he looking deeply into my eyes, occasionally getting silly and pummeling me with his feet or playing “Bulldozer!!!!” (Which consisted of him either flumping down atop me, or using his gigantic head like a great wedge and tunneling under me, while I squealed with laughter, and made a tight ball of my body. Which encouraged him to nudge me more and tunnel more until somehow, with no logical reasoning HE ended up on the bottom and I on top of him. He would wag his nub, look up at me, and ‘splat!’ spit the ball out of his mouth as if saying. “Do it again!”)
So to Max, the ball was THE most integral part of his life. The pivot on which all other things k9 or human revolved around. If a BALL was involved, it had to be good! No bad could come, nothing could be that unpleasant or discomforting, if a slimy, well worn (or popped) tennis ball was in his mouth, or better yet in your hand, ready to be thrown to him.
After all, HOLDING the ball in his mouth was grand, but the whole purpose of holding it was in the hopes that soon, I would be THROWING it to him. This was his heaven. His reward. For me to throw the ball, for him to race out, grab it, bring it back and do it all over again. He was born unto this, it was in his soul. Never once did I ever teach him any of it. And unlike other dogs, it wasn’t JUST the chase of the ball. That was part of it, but the WHOLE game for him was only fun if someone participated WITH him. And I was the preferred participant over all others.
In fact, when he was younger, I often grew tired more quickly than he did. After about a good 20 minutes of throwing, I was nearly pooped out. Max had the most heartbreaking way of trying to re-encourage the game back up. He’d come with the ball, sit, offer it to you. And if you said, “Ok, that’s it. I’m tired. I’ve had enough.” He’d drop the ball at your feet with a rather wet “ffflapp!” and then look at it. Look at it as if he has just coughed up the golden egg.
“Look at that would ya?!?!” he’d say with the most intense quizzical look on his face as a dog could muster. He’d then gaze up intensely at me, hopeful. Then back at the ball.
“How’d you suppose THAT got there??” he’d look at the ball, look back at me. Brown eyes boring into me with an intensity that was unmatched, but that laughed with an inner fire beyond compare. Almost like a father playing a game with his favorite young son. “Why it’s a BALL!” he’d look again at the ball, then at me. Head cocked to the side, ears up at alert attention, forehead wrinkled ever so slightly showing the intensity of his thinking.
Of course he was trying to entice me. First with humor, he hoped I would play back, saying, “why, your right! It’s a BALL! Man, where ’d THAT come from?!?!” then pick it up, at which point he be back on all four feet, all alert, his body quivering with excitement. “Why, I wonder what happens if I THROW it!!!!” at which point I would hurl it as far as my body could, and he would shoot after it like a rocket launched from the pad, go get it, and retrieve it with the grace of a seasoned outfielder, then swing around and back to me, where the whole thing would be repeated.
This is what he hoped. If I was to dense, to dumb to get the humor of this, “Well, lookee there! It’s a ball!” game, and were to turn and walk on. Then he’d pick it up, trot a few steps ahead of me, spin back to a perfect sit, facing me, and repeat it again. Again, he’d drop the ball out of his mouth, look at the ball (as if he expected it to launch itself up and out for him to chase) and then look up intently at me, (Well??? Well?? Do you SEE the ball! How can you NOT! There it IS, in front of you, my gods human if you take another step you will trip on it!) If I make no move to bend down and retrieve the slimy, and now dirt and grass coated ‘golden egg’ he resorts to more blunt signals. The play bow. The timeless, ageless non-verbal signals that ALL dogs and puppies give, when they want to play. Front end bowed down; butt up in the air, eyes glaring intently at the ball. Then he stands up, looks at me, and if I still make no move, play bows again. If he’s really wound up, he’ll do a little side-to-side ‘hop!’. As if to say “Come on! Play with me! Play with me! Today won’t be here tomorrow, and I want today, this moment to last forever! Play with me! Play with me!”.
Most days’ I’ll give it one more toss, just to appease him. Because that’s all he ever wants, just one more toss. Some days, he’s so hot, tired, his tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth, so tired and hot that he trembles slightly, but still he elicits me for “One more toss”. If I scoop up the ball, and walk to the house, he follows intently, hoping beyond hope that I am really just ‘tricking him” and getting ready to launch just one more perfect throw for him to sail after. But if I say, “Uh uh. That’s it. In the house.” And he sees me put the ball down, out of his reach, the look that over comes him is truly sad. The ears suddenly droop; the nub no longer wags like a pendulum on a cuckoo clock. The ‘alert’ intense, obsessive look is gone. He is just a tired dog ready to go in the house.
But most days, we play. And play and play some more. The ball has become not a symbol just for him, but for both of us. A bridge, between two species, where we can connect on the most primitive of emotional levels, play. Play and ball is never for training, how can you train “play”? Through the years we have concocted our own versions of the game. Ball throwing has many intricacies, and can involve many types of games. From the straight forward throw and retrieve, to the more elaborate games.
Some of our favorites include the “trick throw” which is I will try and fool him into thinking I am going to throw it one direction (to the right) and try and really throw it to the left or some other place. Sadly, since dogs posses ways of reading other living creatures that humans cannot (the slightest wrong tilt of a shoulder, or the twitch of an eye the wrong way, or heck even ESP), I very rarely ever fool him on that game, but he love it none the less, and occasionally, just occasionally lets me THINK I have fooled him. But I know he is just letting me think that. It’s a whole ‘set up thing’. His way of being ‘nice’ to the two-legged one.
Two of his favorite games (especially when he was younger) was, “Catching on the fly” and “catching on the bounce”. Basically, I throw, and he tries to catch the ball before it lands on the ground. Scooping it up out of mid-air like an adept right fielder. Sometimes he cheats and already gets a running start and is half way down the field. Like he to I, I let him cheat at times. After all, it’s play.
Catch on the bounce, is the same as catch on the fly, only it’s my job to HURL the ball down on the ground as hard as possible so it bounces nice and high, and then he springs, like a gazelle, to snatch it mid-air on the arc of it’s bounce.
There are dozens of variations on the game that we’ve developed over the years. The “tracking” throw, where I throw it low, a “grounder” and he races after it head down, like a terrier hot on the trail of a fleeing rabbit. Sometimes he tries to race ahead and ‘block’ the ball with his forelegs, letting the ball skim from the ground, up his legs and “Plop!” right into his mouth.
One thing that never changes in any of the games is the complete and utter look of joy that is on that dog’s face. His mouth is split in a relaxed grin; his ears are either relaxed back or as alert as if he was listening to whispered voices in a blizzard. His eyes go from the burning flame of intensity and passion while he is waiting for the wind up and the throw, to the look of glazed, prideful contentment as he cups the ball smoothly, effortlessly into his muzzle and swings wide in an easy gallop back to me. During those times he has more peace and contentment in him than the most devout monk. The whole playtime with he and I together is to him, his own ‘religious experience’. A type of dogma and meditation that takes us both to a timeless place, perhaps as old as both our oldest ancestors. Perhaps we are playing with as much contentment and joy and love as the first caveman and his canid, as they tossed around an old giant deer hoof together.
Always I throw, and always he brings it back to me. Always with joy in his eyes. Always I tell him what a good boy he is, even if he misses. Always I smile and act as enthused at the 50th toss as I do the very first toss. Fair is fair. If he is going to play the whole time with the look of utter contentment, joy and nirvana, the least I can do is enjoy it even a half as much as he. For me the real joy is him of course. Watching him, watching his joy, watching that hard muscled back and tan body leap, dive; scoop, race, launch and catch with the grace of all of dog ancestors. The way he races like the wind doing a victory lap around the yard on a particularly hard catch, or the “shake and kill” of his mighty shoulders and neck if he is feeling froggy that day. (You’ve ‘killed’ the ball Max, it’s slimed to death! Good dog! Ok, drop it).
I think he likes watching me too. I know he laughs the way I almost hesitantly pluck at the ball after we’ve thrown it a few times and it’s now slimed, and coated with grass clippings, dirt, you name it. I’ve seen him. His brown eyes dancing with laughter as he either drops the ball into my hand or tosses it right at me. “Hey!!!!” I squawk as the slimy ball bounces off my leg, as I twist to the side to avoid being slimed. I’m never fast enough.
Sometimes obstacles come into play in our games. At the old house, the obstacle was the scraggly woods behind our house. Occasionally the ball would end up there, and Max would diligently sniff, and trail and track and snuffle around until he either found the ball or I called him off. He didn’t know the word “give up.” Balls were sacred to him, and if one was lost he searched the way a devout man might search for divine answers. Usually he found the ball in the woods and under the leaves and branches somewhere. You could usually judge his progress by his nub, for that was often all you could see, as he snuffled and sniffed and bulldozed around in there. As he was looking it was perfectly still, held alert, pointed up, like a radar. Once he was on the trail of it, once he got scent of his ball and was closing in on it, the nub would begin wagging, slowly at first like a slow metronome, but once he found his treasured item, once he was locked onto it, and getting ready to snatch it up and bring it back into play, the nub wagged like a proud banner announcing “Got it! Here it is! See, I wouldn’t let us down!”
There were two obstacles at the old house that Max could not conquer no matter what. One was the roof, and one was the storm drain in front of the house. One of the games we often did, was to toss the ball gently on the roof. The roof sloped ever so slightly; enough that if you tossed it right, it would ride the slope then pop off 10-50’ down. He loved this. Loved using his senses to track the ball as it rolled over the slope, then timed himself to be right under the ball where ever it would drop off the roof. Rarely was he wrong. He always seemed to know right were it was going to drop off, and into his waiting mouth, “SMACK!” the ball always made this satisfying resounding noise as it dropped right into his wet mouth. He loved it. But once in awhile the unforeseeable would happen. Either the ball would get caught on the rain diverter, or worse, my toss would be bad and instead of riding the slope and rolling back down, it would go over the point, and roll down off the FRONT of the house, and then with some unforeseen accuracy it would bounce once and roll into the storm gutter in front of our residence.
Max always looked lost when this happened. He would hear me toss it, run, then get this puzzled look on his face and freeze. It was sad to see him standing there, still as a statue, nose pointed up, mouth slightly agape (JUST in case it suddenly decided to come back). Not moving, waiting, puzzled. While he stood there, waiting, I would take a few steps back to SEE if it was stuck up on the rain diverter. If it was, that was not too bad. We’d just grab a different ball, and then during the next rain, Max would be surprised as the “Ball Fairy” delivered his old balls to him, (usually 3-4) and what a happy boy he was!
More sad was when they went over the house, and into the storm drain. He would always know, because after seeing that it was NOT on the roof I would trudge to the front, and he would come racing by me, (using his nose to find the ball.) once in a blue moon, the storm drain did not get them, and the ball instead rolled into a curb, or better yet bounced up and into the bushes. Max, ever the optimist, always assumed the best and began to sniff, looking for where the ball bounced and trying to track it down that way. You could see him, like the best tracking dog, sniffing, this way and that, back and forth until he caught scent of the ball, and then following it, as he began walking towards the storm gutter you could see his heart sinking. His steps would slow up, the ears would droop, and the nub would stop wagging.
He’d get to the large maw of the storm drain that often housed nasty stuff, debris, roaches, garbage, stray cats, but he did not care. He could smell his ball down there and he knew, not only was it out of HIS reach, but more importantly out of reach of me, his two-legged partner. The anguished look that he would give back over his shoulder was enough to make both our souls feel sad, empty. It was up to me then to quickly bring out the replacement ball and with an excited voice, interest him in that one. He always did of course, excitedly and happily come play with the replacement ball, but like some great ancient dragon, I don’t think Max liked ever losing any of his prized playthings. With a final rather sad look back, he left the storm drain and ran back to the back yard with me, as if saying, “You won this time, but someday, I am going to get them ALL back, ya hear me?”
When we moved into the new house, the one with the in-ground pool: That presented a new obstacle, ‘The Water Hazard’. While Labrador Retrievers might like going in water and swimming and retrieving, Max hated the new pool from the start. He was never a water dog. While he enjoyed walking on the beach shoreline, and even the shorelines of lakes and ponds, pools were scary. I could understand why, the crystal clear water often “fooled” Max’s sense of security. Unlike people, dogs’ depth perception and how they see the world is very different. A pool makes the bottom look very close, and yet it isn’t. Max was never much of a swimmer. He much preferred just ‘getting the feet and belly wet’ but not going in for the whole “dive”. So as a result, whenever we played ball at the new house, and the ball would go into the pool, Max would stare at it balefully. The first few times he tried to stretch out his neck and nose as far as he could, arching, trying to reach the elusive bobbing ball. Then if it got closer he would stretch out a forepaw, trying to hook it and drag it towards him. Usually that didn’t work. Usually the current of the skimmer would catch his prize and begin sucking it towards the side of the pool where the filter/skimmer was. As it got closer to the side, where Max COULD reach, he would try one or two last futile attempts, but he wasn’t brave enough. If he plunged his muzzle into the water and grabbed it like a bear grabbing a salmon, he would have had it, instead, he tried to delicately pluck it from the water, and that was just not the way, with soggy tennis balls and evil skimmers. He would turn and look at me with pleading in his eyes…”Help! You’re the one with that long pole with the thing at the end that can snag these balls out of the water! C’mon, whadda I got to do, to get you to net that ball out for me?”
By now I was laughing so hard, tears were rolling down my cheeks. This bought an even further baleful stare from him. “Alotta help you are. See if I rescue you from that spider again. Harrumph!!!” and Max could harrumph better than any living soul alive. Curmudgeonly men could take lessons from Max’s deep, soulful groans of discontent and disgust at my two-legged ineptness.
Now he tried the “bobbing for apples technique on the ball” trying to thrust his muzzle into the water to snatch it up, but still it would sink just below his snicker snacking teeth. Splash! Splash! CHOMP!
All he got was a mouthful of water. He resorted to the dirty trick then. The undeniable soulful look of “Puppy Eyes”. He would sit and look at me, “Oh…I am so poor, so alone, so devastated. All I want is that ball, nothing else. What a small thing I ask for, and there it floats out of reach. What a cruel master I have for not assisting me in getting that small insignificant yellow, fuzzy object. You’d think with opposable thumbs and your so-called intelligence you would help me out. I am sooo sad and alone. Maybe I will just keel over and die here of a broken heart. Then you wouldn’t be laughing at me would you?”
Max does guilt so well. By now, still chuckling and trying to compose myself, I use my opposable human hand to snatch the wet ball out of the pool and toss it to him.
With a gleam in his eye, he promptly squishes it with all his might in his jaws and shakes it as though it is some living monster with which he must dispatch. Of course this covers me in wet slime as water and sogginess goes everywhere, but especially on me. That will teach me.
With a lively prance he goes off to the green grass, shaking still the ball, a halo of water drops spraying forth from him, sheer delight and aliveness in his eyes. Now it is my turn to “harrumph!” at my water logged clothes and wipe doggy wet drool from my face. I can’t be angry for more than a moment though, soon he prances right back to me to drop the poor lifeless tennis ball at me feet or on my lap, and once again look between the ball and me… “Well lookee there! It’s a ball!!!! Where did THAT come from?” looks at me, such light and intelligence and a glint of humor in his eyes, “Wanna play??”

(Copyright of Jackie.Ellis, 2003. Rottweilerdriver@aol.com)

An Intro about me...

My name is Max, and you have already gotten to know a little about me on the above info...I am nearing my "golden years" now...For you see Rottweilers usually and sadly don't live very long. Usually only around 8-11 years. My owner and I literally could fill a book with all the adventures we have been on together!
So we thought it would be fun, to give you, the reader some highlights of some of our more fun times together (and more memorable times) the times that have stood out magical between she and I over the years. Things I have whispered to her soul and she to mine. To give you a glimpse of what makes a true "link" between a working team whether that team is a k9 working team of a police k9 handler and their dog, a Service dog and her disabled handler, a Search and Rescue dog and it's handler, an agility competition dog and it's handler....ANY dog and it's handler that is required to be a true TEAM, that must speak on a level that is rarely understood, in a language that is often forgotten in this modern day and age, that is a bit of the tales I will share...
It is stories of humor, and of things that involve not harsh discipline, but an understanding that transcends the bond of species when humans and dogs worked as one... Because I am growing a bit older, as is my owner, the stories may NOT always necessarily follow a chronological order (IE: that means you may read a story about me at 1 year old and then one about me at 4, then maybe one about me at 2...) but do not let this detract from the experience, it's the feelings and story behind the story, not the age that counts, eh? So let us begin the journey! shall we?