Max came to live with us in 1986 after a break-in caused the need for a guard dog. He was what I affectionately refer to as a "used" dog; he was already a year and a half old. I was terrified at our first meeting; indeed, he nearly knocked me off my feet as he brushed past me on the way to investigate something. He was 125 lbs of muscle, tooth, and attitude. But he was also a loving and obedient pet.

At first, Max was banned to the yard. He had a dog house which his original owner had built for him, a huge wooden structure with traditional peaked shingle roof. Max had been kept in a small yard, chained to this house, which was on a concrete slab. When the neighborhood kids would tease him through the chain link fence, the enraged Max would run towards the fence, pulling the doghouse with him. Our yard was far larger, and we let him have free reign. He proved to be an excellent sentinel. He would periodically pace the yard from one end to the other, and occasionally issue a warning bark to any person or animal within a hundred yards of the property.

Winter came that year and predictably, Mom let Max into the kitchen to sleep. I was still a bit wary of him, but my fears were soon proven to be unfounded. Max was an even-tempered creature who was really a big loveable baby. He liked nothing more than to climb up on the sofa and watch a little television with Dad. Of course, this made for little room for the rest of us to sit. And he was never pleased to give up his comfy perch. He would growl in protest, but then get up and sulk away. He would then sit and look at us, making small whining noises, until he was either banished to the kitchen or allowed back up.

Although we all knew that Max was a pussycat, those who encountered him for the first time felt otherwise. He would put on a great ferocious show each day when the mailman arrived, bouncing off the walls and throwing himself up against the gate. Occasionally, he would grab the metal "Beware of Dog" sign in his teeth and pull it though the gate towards him. I must admit, the dents in that sign were a good indication of the strength he possessed in his jaws. One day that gate was accidentally left open. Max wasn't one to wander off, so he stayed in the courtyard until he heard the UPS truck approach. The delivery man innocently emerged from his truck, package in hand. Max's barking alerted my Dad, who found the UPS driver on top of his truck. Dad put Max behind the gate again and the badly shaken driver climbed down. That particular driver never returned.

Rottweilers and other large dogs tend to have short life spans, usually 9 -10 years. Max passed 11 with a healthy and rigorous constitution. That is not to say we did not have our health scares with him. A few years before, he had become sluggish and although he did his duty, he would often slump to the ground in a heap. He displayed extreme lethargy, which we chalked up to his increasing weight. Mom always was generous with the food supply and Max had nothing to complain about as far as quantity was concerned. Pretty soon Max was not able to get up from the ground. He was not being lazy, he simply lacked the strength to stand.

My brother and Dad lifted Max's bulk to the car and drove him to the animal hospital. The doctor immediately called for emergency surgery and removed a watermelon-sized growth from Max's liver. The tumor had been growing for some time and had burst. If he had not been brought in when he was, Max would have died. He soon recovered with nothing to show for the incident except for the scar on his abdomen.

Max grew old and grizzled with a gray muzzle and paws. But still he guarded his domain and followed his master around the house. He started experiencing trouble with his digestive tract, or so we thought. He would vomit his food soon after eating it, no matter how Mom prepared it. She would give him only canned food, then only boiled chicken. She mashed the two together, then she resorted to pureeing the mess in my Cuisinart.

Nothing worked; Max started to lose weight. There were many visits to the doctor for medicine which didn't seem to help. Finally an x-ray revealed that although he was otherwise very healthy, Max had a condition which resulted in the enlargement of his esophagus, which at that point filled most of his chest cavity. The enlarged esophagus so twisted and turned that it did not allow food to get past a certain point, and soon expelled it.

The doctor told us that one option to control the problem would be a stomach tube into which we could directly give him the nutrients he needed. But that would seriously cut down on his quality of life. The only other option was to have him put to sleep. We gathered around to bid him a final farewell as he lay, partially sedated, on the floor of the hospital emergency room. Max died quietly on August 1, 1996, at the ripe old age of 11 1/2. He was buried near our other dog, Gary, at Dulaney Memorial Gardens.

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