Max, Yesterday, (l, r) 6:48:00 p.m., 6:48:24 p.m.
Just when you think it doesn’t get cuter, and you can’t possibly get down on the sidewalk any lower to hug and kiss and snuggle and flail and make an enormous honking fool out of yourself over the outrageous, otherworldly sweetness and beauty of a huge bear of a dog you just met moments ago, and who makes you want to just curl up with him and hibernate forever by a fireplace, just when you think your heart is going to fairly burst from your chest, clear through your jacket, because his mom tells you she first met him when he was three weeks old and “his ass was so big he kept falling over” and took him home when he was eight weeks and thus has lived with him almost 14 years, the clock moves from 6:00:00 to 6:00:24, and he smiles and looks up, and anything else that may have happened during the day that made you mad or sad or anything else other than exuberant, suddenly disappears just like that, and you just want to thank whatever force of nature is possible for bringing this much ridiculous sweetness and beauty into the world. And then his mom tells you he was a “love child” because some silly boy dog had an unplanned encounter with his dogmom, and he was the only puppy in the resulting litter, so it was truly meant to be. And you just about cry right there on the sidewalk, or, okay, you do. All this, because you had to dash to the post office to mail your own mom’s Mother’s Day card in time for it to reach her this weekend. Woof!