Maxwell C Wolf

“Either he grew to be like you or vice versa. I'm not sure which.” There were many messages we received after the news about Maxwell leaked out, but that was the one I liked the best. Maybe because I think it was true.
Maxwell C Wolf died at 2.50pm on Tuesday February 12. I can’t really say that it was a shock because it wasn’t. I can’t really say that it was unexpected because it wasn’t that either. But it was. It’s so difficult. I don’t even know where to begin.
I think it was Woody Allen who said “Only taxes and death are inevitable” but then Gill got a tax rebate for £1,800 and that makes you think. Then, about a week later, I got a tax rebate. £1,400. And that’s when you start to think “Well, maybe”.
Maxwell was a cross breed, but had about 80% German Shepherd knocking around I there – though not, he says pointedly, the sticky up ears – and for him to be alive and kicking at 14 was, in itself, a cheat. The canine equivalent of the taxman giving me and Gill over three grand.
His back legs had largely gone. We were thinking of getting a carpet to cover up the stone tiles because it took him so long to stand up. He was like Bambi on ice, he tried and tried and dragged his legs behind him until they were in position and then… he could go. He’d still drag himself to meet us at the drive as we arrived – though sometimes we had to slow down so as to allow him time to get to us. Sometimes it took him just too long to get to us but we all kinda waited and played the game. It was an important ritual.
I was worried about the coming summer. I had – have – a sneaky feeling that it’s going to be a hot one and I knew that that would be so uncomfortable for the old man. The whole thing was… a concern.
I knew Maxwell was going to die. I’d been building myself up for it. I knew it was going to happen. I’d known for years. I used to talk to him about it. Late at night when everyone else had gone to bed and he’d be lying at the bottom of he stairs I used to lie down next to him and stroke his head and talk to him, sometimes about him dying. We both knew it was going to happen and yet… I am so fucking angry. Why couldn’t he have hung around a bit longer? What difference would it make? Like Topol said, would it spoil some vast eternal plan?
I can’t be sad. Maxwell had the best life he could have had. From Battersea Dogs Home – and God knows where before that – to the vast acreage of Laughton Lodge via West Hampstead, Primrose Hill, Hampstead Heath and Brighton. Whatever way you look at it, it’s not a bad journey. They’re not just nice, comfortable places, they’re happy places. Places Maxwell made happy.