Today, Max is (supposedly) 6 years old. I say supposedly, because as he was rehomed from The Blue Cross, they can only give him an estimated birthday based on dental records and their general features. It's hard to believe that as a puppy, he was abandoned at the side of a road in Southern Ireland, wrapped in a bin liner. Who could actually do that? However, it gives me great joy that I was able to give him the home he deserved, and I just can't get my head around that my little four legged bestie is now 6 years old.
Max has been more than a dog to me - he's been my best companion for over half a decade. We've done a lot together and I try to include him in as much of my life as I possibly can. We've explored hundreds of beaches together, he's been on holidays with me, come to my classes when I was teaching, sat on my lap in a variety of pubs whilst the humans have an alcoholic beverage or two, come 2nd place in a dog show, and followed me around the country and adapted to many changes. He knows when I'm happy, and comes to comfort me when I'm sad. Fur therapy is a real thing, and he's provided comfort to many family and friends, including my grandparents when they're lonely, and my parents when we had our last Jack Russell put to sleep.
His chin & paws may be a little greyer, but he's still got all the beans of a puppy. He loves nothing more than chasing a ball, or snuggling up to Dan and I when we watch a film, and he has an annoying habit of bringing all of his dinner into the living room and dropping it all over the floor. However, it makes him the dog he is and I wouldn't change him for the world (apart from when he rolls in fox poo. That I would change.)
I love reflecting on my time with little Max. He's the black and tan JRT with a cracking personality to boot, and I can't imagine my life without him. My little shadow and friend.
He will be feasting on chicken all day.