John Delach

The two puppies were eight weeks old when they arrived at our house on a Wednesday, November 11, 2010. That day also happened to be Veteran’s Day and Mary Ann’s and my forty-third wedding anniversary. Mary Ann had engineered the purchase through a breeders’ network based in Florida who acted as our agent with the breeder. They were sent to us by truck via a pet-oriented shipping company with the unlikely name, PetEx Express. The driver and his helper found us through a complicated series of events, and here they were, two lively and healthy puppies being handed over to Mary Ann and Jodie.

Both gals lifted the pups into the air to determine their sexes. We were taking delivery of the male while the female was Jodie’s birthday gift. Once the right sexes was determined, the grand kids moved in as part of this exciting morning. Both families had already named them, Max and Ruby after the story-book and cartoon rabbit brother and sister. Ruby went off to Fairfield, CT with three kids, ages 11, 9 and 5 and their sister Golden Retriever, Barely, seven-years old. Max stayed in Port Washington with two sexagenarians.

Separating the puppies reminded me of an old Budweiser commercial where two Dalmatian pups arrive and the pick goes to a fire house. The lucky pup sticks out his tongue at his sibling as they depart not knowing that it is heading for Bud’s Clydesdale’s wagon. At the end of the commercial they pass on a road, the shunned pup sitting on the wagon seat with the teamster driving the Clydesdales. The chosen pup sits in the open cab of a fire engine. The shunned pup retunes the gesture and sticks out its tongue at its sibling.

Max became our sixth Golden Retriever. The first was Harry, then came Fred, Bubba, Jumbo and Maggie. Harry was a grand dog. Knowing what I now know about Max, his disposition, attitude, temperament, etc. Harry would have been a great name for this Missouri bred dog. Failing that, I would have pushed for Truman because he is a “show me dog.”

Max was our first pup in a long time. We acquired Maggie when she was ten-months old and a certifiable Looney Tune. Anyone who knows us and knew Maggie will certify that she was f—ing nuts.

Folks we know looked at Mary Ann and me in a way that clearly showed their thoughts: “The two of you are either dumb or crazy.” I too had real doubts about what we had done. The biting, destruction, housebreaking, sleepless nights and other unpleasant happenings and events: WHAT HAD WE DONE!

Admittedly, we had some bad moments, but this new pup was special. He gave us a pass on several fundamental problems. He never cried through the night and he was house broken when he arrived. Max remained happy in his crate and would return to is for naps during the day. In the morning, once we opened it, he usually reacted by looking at us, stretched, got up, stretched again and then began his day.

Max was clean even for Goldens who by nature house break themselves quickly. His only early accidents happened when he was excited and these stopped after a few months. Max also proved to be very trainable. He cooperated for love and he would do almost anything for food.

Biting, however lasted more than a year. Never vicious, he just had the need to use those teeth. Unfortunately, this meant that play sessions deteriorated into bloody sessions, especially for Mary Ann whose thin-skinned arms and hands soon made her look like the victim of a series of knife fights. Mary Ann’s ultimate defense was to cut the toes off of athletic socks and fashion them into shields to minimize the damage to her skin.

Max grew rapidly, almost before our eyes and quickly became known in our development as the dog who proudly carried sticks around in his mouth the size of small trees. A fine-looking dog, one gal remarked to me one day, “Wow, that is a good-looking dog. Why he’s the Robert Redford of Golden Retrievers.

Max retained a terrible flaw as a young dog, he considered children to be play toys, especially those dressed in hoodie sweat shirts. As all of my five grandchildren, each one suffered the same dubious experience of Max grabbing the hood on their sweat shirt, knocking them down and being dragged on their backs along the ground. This finally stopped, but stealing never did. Max stole anything he could get his mouth on, clothes, shoes, towels, throw rugs mats and pillows. He would even unmake beds so he could get to the pillows. He considered  stealing to be retrieving and he would proudly parade his trophy with his plume tail high in the air.

We lost Max when he was twelve, but he was not our last dog. We were done with raising puppies and our last two were adults that we rescued.