Our family dog died on September 22, 2007. It was Yom Kippur, the holiest of all the days for Jews. More so than Christmas when there aren’t any lines at the movies.

We finally buried him today. Four years later.

Max was 14 years old, which in dog years made him… what, 98? That’s old. That’s a good long life for a dog. A day before, I got a call from my brother Eric.

“Max is dying. You need to come home,” he said fairly cool.

I was in the city, Eric and Max were living at my dad’s house in Flossmoor where we all grew up and hid dirty magazines and pot. “Why, what’s going on?” I asked.

“He’s not moving. He’s just laying on the bathroom floor. His mouth won’t stop bleeding.”

When I got to the house, I found poor Max on the downstairs bathroom floor, just like Eric said, a little dried blood on his lip and some on a Kleenex Eric had used to wipe it away. He tried to lift his head when he saw me, but could only look up with those big brown eyes. I think he tried to wag his tail but it was fruitless. That made me laugh a little because Max never wagged his tail.

He was a Brittany Spaniel so his tail was docked. A nub about two inches long. He was such a happy and funny dog. And because he was so full of energy and thrilled to do anything, he would show excitement by wagging his entire ass. It was more like the rear half of him was individual from the front. Like a horse costume at a Halloween party.

And nothing got him more excited than seeing my grandparents who lived next door. “Max! You want to go to Nonny and Poppy’s house?” we’d yell from downstairs. And with a jolt, he’d come barreling down the stairs, around the corner into the family room, hit the wood floor, slide a bit before catching his balance, only to then zigzag across the room because of the inertia of his ass blasting back and forth. I’m surprised he never threw out a hip.

He had his idiosyncrasies, which made him a perfect fit for our family and something I could relate to. Like many dogs, he hated thunderstorms. At first, he would hide in my parents’ closet tucked behind my dad’s suits. Then he learned to hide in my parent’s bathroom behind the toilet. But that wasn’t enough. He learned to close the door. This door had a push-button lock and he learned to lock himself in. Of course, because he didn’t have thumbs he couldn’t turn the handle to open it so he would scratch and bark and whine until someone opened the door for him. It was pathetic.

And when you’d let him out, he would have this look of total embarrassment. The same look I imagine someone walking out of the police station would have after spending the night in the drunk tank. A look like he was saying, “Thanks, David. Sorry I don’t have thumbs. Fucking storms…” There are still marks of stripped away paint on the back of that door.

He would sometimes fall asleep sitting up. Something I have done countless times at bars and while driving. You know how when you nod off in meetings and you catch yourself right before your head completely drops. That’s what Max would do. And then he’d look around to be sure no one saw it. Like you do. In meetings.

He was such a pitiful thing that day on the bathroom floor. He had cancer in his jaw. The vet said that surgery would be a temporary fix before it grew back and he’d be in a ton of discomfort through all of it. So we just waited it out until finally the cancer and his age caught up with him.

I wanted to take him into the vet right then and there. I couldn’t stand seeing the little guy miserable like that. By this time, my father was home from work, my mother had made her way from the city, my brother Steven had come up from school in Champagne and my grandfather was over. They all fought me on it. I don’t remember exactly what the arguments were but I vaguely remember my dad saying, “Maybe he’ll feel better in the morning.”

“What? As a fucking zombie!” I shouted. Not one of my cooler moments, but watching a loved one die sometimes makes you a dick. Even if it is your dog. At that point, Max was the closest thing to me to ever die.

It was agreed, however, that we’d go into the vet tomorrow morning and have Max put to sleep. That night, my family was all together again. It was the first time since I left for college. In the 10 years I’d been gone, Mom had moved out, the divorce was finalized, and Eric and Steven had gone off to school as well. Max loved sleeping in this one particular corner of my parents’ room. It was between the wall and my father’s bureau. So that’s where Max slept that night. Eric, Steven and I slept on the floor. Mom and dad slept in the bed they used to share.

That night proved that catastrophe keeps people together.

That morning, Max did seem better. It was strange. While I had to carry him upstairs the night before, that morning he had a bit of pep in his step. And he walked around the house, slowly checking every corner, sniffing every wall and tile. It was like he was doing one last sweep before leaving. I watched him do this while I got dressed for temple because, remember, it was Yom Kippur and I had three hours of sitting in synagogue feeling bad about being a person to get through following the vet.

We took him outside. Usually, when you’d let Max outside without a leash, he’d go bolting for the nearest rabbit, squirrel or busy intersection. This time, he moseyed over to the large crab apple tree that shared the front lawn between our house and my grandparents.’ And he just laid down under it’s shade. Nonny and Poppy came outside. They sweetly and sadly said their goodbyes, patted him on the head, told him he was a good dog and they would miss him. Nonny asked him, “What shall I do with all of those Milk-Bones, you silly dog?” Then she patted him on the head again and stepped away.

Before that day, I only saw my father cry once. That was at my Bar Mitzvah. It was funny because I didn’t know what to do about it. And I would have laughed, but I had to pee so badly  and was worried that the slightest chuckle would cause irreparable damage to my reputation as a man. The second time I saw my dad cry was after the vet said, “He’s passed.”

All of us were in the room when he died. There was no reason for the last moments of Max’s life to be alone with some pet doctor in Homewood who was just doing his job. Everyone filed out of the room except me. I stayed back.

I looked at the little pup one more time. Kissed the brown spot on the top of his head we all called his yarmulke and said to him, “Be good, boy. I love you. Be good.”

I caught up with the rest and saw my father sit down – almost collapse – at the top of a small hill just past the parking lot and weep.

The one great thing about that day, was that we were an hour and a half late for temple. I considered it Max’s last little gift to us. After temple, not wanting to stay home and be sad, Eric and I went to the baseball fields and had a home run derby. This is an annual tradition now. The loser has to eat his dinner out of Max’s old bowl, which also serves as the trophy. I have it sitting in my apartment. Because I won last year. Because Eric sucks.

It took four years to bury my dog Max. My father thought it was a better idea to have his box of ashes sit on the dog’s favorite chair in the living room with a toy next to it.

“This was his home. This is where he belongs. Where would you like to bury him?”

“I don’t know,” I argued a few times every year. “Under the crab apple tree.”

“What happens when we move away?” Dad would ask.

“What?”

“This is his home.”

I understand why Dad didn’t want to bury him. There was something comforting for him having the dog in the house. But his reasoning was screwy. I was surprised that when his father died, he didn’t have him stuffed and propped up at the kitchen table.

“This was his home. This is where he belongs. Where would you like to bury him?”

But finally, almost four years later, Dad, Mom, Nonny, Eric, Steven and I went to the cemetery where all of us will likely end up and we finally buried the goddamn dog. Dad got a post digger. We went about three feet deep right next to the big Himmel headstone. My father’s sisters aren’t happy about it. They were concerned that it’s against the rules of the cemetery. I was more concerned someone would come by, see the disturbed dirt and think zombies.

Dad considered burying Max with the Milk-Bones Nonny had left.

“No, Jim,” my mother said. “They’re stale.”

Death. It leaves you concerned about people and things you no longer have to be concerned about. Even four years later.

Why shouldn’t a family dog be buried in the family cemetery? He made us laugh. He taught us to love without vanity. He offered loyalty and kindness and understanding. He was cooler than most girlfriends. He was a goddamn Boy Scout. He was something all of us should want to model our actions after. And yeah, maybe that includes taking a crap on the carpet sometimes. Maybe.

I can still feel him. I can sometimes still smell him – that brown yarmulke spot on his head where I would kiss him. I can still hear his bark, his yawn, the tags rattling on his collar. Sometimes, I can close my eyes and still see him. I would give anything to walk him again. Or wrestle with him or just watch him sleep.

He was a Himmel, for sure. He was a good brother and a fine friend. And I will never forget the look he gave me the one and only time he was hesitant to go for a car ride. I just turned 16. It was one day before I got my license. I couldn’t wait to go out in the car by myself. But I wanted my pal, Max with me.

“Max! You want to go in the car?” He ran down the stairs and hit the brakes when he saw it was just me standing there with keys in my hand. He looked at me like he was saying, “Uh… okay. But if you get busted, I’m not going to feel bad for you. And I’m not going to jail either.”

And we had a nice ride. Just me and him.

The day I took my driver’s test, he chewed up my favorite pair of shoes. I’m convinced it’s because I didn’t take him with me. Because you don’t leave your buddies behind. Even after they’re dead. Even if your buddy is a dog.

Anyway, we’ve got some old Milk-Bones if anyone wants them. They’re stale, but no dog is going to care. They’ll just be happy you love them enough to give them a snack.