Formula One Dog

By Ashley Harris

 “What’s his name?” asked the receptionist on Monday over the phone. I’d made an appointment with a veterinarian in the hopes they could find a microchip on a stray puppy we found at our church on Sunday.

“He doesn’t have one,” I told her. The dog was now tethered to the leg of our seven-foot dining table on a lead. He bore all the markings of a full-blooded Siberian husky—piercing blue eyes, gray fur edged in white, and pointed, erect ears. But his tail lay out straight, a furry stick he may not have known how to curl.

“Let’s call him Max,” offered my husband, J.P., who was watching a recorded version of the weekend’s Belgian Grand Prix. “After Max Verstappen, a Formula One champion.”

Easy enough. I wasn’t a fan of racing, or of any sport that required speed. But “Max” was short and to the point. And it didn’t matter because we weren’t keeping him.

We already had Finn, a beagle-terrier mix, and we weren’t in the market for a new dog. A Siberian Husky was not what we wanted or needed. At five feet, two inches tall on a good day, I preferred a cuddly dog small enough to manage. Certainly not one bred to compete in the Iditarod.

Max was not housebroken by any definition. And as we shortly learned, he had more parasites than permanent teeth. From the looks of him, Dr. Dugan estimated that he was about 3-4 months old. And there was no sign of a microchip. Still, we vaccinated him for rabies and the first round of something else that would shortly need a booster, and took home enough treatments to knock out any shape of worm: hook, round, or square. I warily made the follow-up appointment, still hoping Facebook would help us find his owner or a new home before then. Every time he visited his water bowl, I stood by with a beach towel, prepared for a tsunami. He inhaled, spewed, and snorted as he drank, not even swallowing the last gulp. This couldn’t go on.

The next day, I called a husky rescue organization. But they wouldn’t even consider taking Max unless he’d been officially reported missing for at least two weeks. So I sent a picture to the county animal shelter and the sheriff’s office with my contact information. But Max didn’t look like a forlorn dog who missed his owner. In one picture, he lay at my feet with his loose lead in his mouth, more mischievous than melancholy.

As he grew more comfortable, I soon learned just why people loved huskies so much. A carryover, perhaps, of a sled dog who must communicate with his pack, Max was the most loquacious dog I had ever known. A psychoanalyst’s dream, he chattered constantly, a master of both small talk and the philosophical.

He had two tones: either a high-pitched Woo-woo-woo-whee! followed by an exclamation mark—his head voice—or a deeper, more thoughtful roo-roo-rarl…. followed by an ellipse—his chest voice. We let him sleep inside the house at night, in a large crate, partially out of fear he’d wake the neighbors. He quickly learned commands such as “Sit” and “Lie down” and an imperfect form of “Heel” but that was all I taught him. He would need intensive training and daily vigorous exercise, something else I hadn’t signed up for.

As we diddled and dawdled—what on earth would we do—the Dutch driver Max Verstappen kept winning. I soon learned that Verstappen was known for his bold moves and an uncanny ability to overcome any circumstances—a blown tire, wet track, lower qualifying speed—to emerge as the leader in race after race. Our Max, too, started racking up trophies. He beat the worms and eventually learned to run to the door when he needed to go out. Best of all, he won over Finn, and the two of them spent the days playfighting in the dog lot.

After another round of shots, Dr. Dugan advised monthly treatments for heartworm. But you can buy them as you need them, he said, knowing better than to push. In the meantime, Max’s tail turned into a luxurious plume that now curled. He began filling out his narrow chest, and those wide paws suddenly made sense. And he kept talking…to us and our friends.

Woo-woo-whee! (Pay attention to me!)
Woo-woo-whoa! (Don’t you go!)

Wu-wu-wuth! (Nice to meet you Ruth!)

I also found a way to harness that extra energy. J.P. and I were bricking our house, and I tied Max’s leash to the wheelbarrow and let him help me haul bricks. It wasn’t exactly the Iditarod, but no snow was needed for the “Brick-a-Rod.” Max and I worked so hard through the day that, despite my usual insomnia, we both slept through the night.

No one ever claimed him, and I never followed up with the rescue organization. Someone from our church did suggest that a “friend of a friend” might be interested in adopting Max, but by then, I didn’t want to turn him over to a stranger. For a time, we hoped J.P.’s nephew might take him, but his son’s allergies ruled that out.

“Don’t you know God sent you that dog?” my sister-in-law Tiddle said.

I still wasn’t sure. But then Max Verstappen kept winning race after race.  As I wiped up the latest spills around our Max’s water bowl, Verstappen celebrated his latest victory by cracking open a bottle of champagne and spraying his fellow drivers in celebration. Okay, I thought. Maybe God was right.

“How about turning off the ceiling fan?” J.P. calls from the sofa.

“Why can’t you do it?” I grumble.

“Because there’s a big dog in my lap!”