(by guest blogger Heather Peden from Three Dogs and a Couch
Whenever Max was gone a little longer than usual on his wanders, I used to stand at the bedroom window in the top floor of our house and try to see past a crowd of tree trunks to the dirt road three stories below. I would crane my neck, bobbing my head this way and that as I tried to find a good angle around the pillars of papery white birch and silver-gray poplar, through the bristling needles of balsam branches.
His kind face and gentle nature shone through the dirt and grime that tarnished his coat after living for years outdoors with little protection against the elements. When I looked into his dark brown eyes, misting over with cataracts, I knew our paths had been destined to cross.
In the months that followed it became a familiar sight in our little neighbourhood to see Max trundling along in his wheelchair, just being a dog. I loved walking with him. The wheels of his chair creaked and squeaked with each step, gravel crunched under his tires, and those sounds above anything else became my favourite sounds in the world.