Shutting down a business is a lot of work. Every day there are little details that crop up where I say to myself, “Oh yeah, I’ve got to take care of that.”

For example, getting my phone off the company plan and transferring it over to a new personal account.

“This should not be complicated,” said the man who hates automated customer service and computer log-in security questions that want to know what kind of PJs I wore when I was 10 years old.

Cowboy and Indians without the footies if you must know.

I ended up driving up to the Verizon store in LaGrange. Kevin helped me work through the maze of keystrokes on my phone as we talked to Lucy, who sounded like her shoes were too tight and that she probably lives somewhere in the mountains of Taiwan.

“Yes. Yes. I am happy to hepp you sove this prawbem.” Lucy could not pronounce her “Ls”.

But this is not the interesting part of my day.

While I was sitting in the store involved in a global conversation about my phone service, 40 days and 40 nights of liquid heaven poured down just outside the huge glass windows that surrounded me. It was dark as dusk at 5:00 in the afternoon. Lightning flashes filled the sky and thunder pealed like Hammering Hank at the plate.

Max was waiting for me outside in my truck.

Now, those of you who know anything at all about Max, you know he goes into panic mode when he feels the thunder. He feels it before it’s even audible. He’s like an early warning system. All can be quiet on the home front, but when he starts trembling and panting, you know. It’s about to get nasty.

I wish he could understand that it’s just a thunderstorm. No big deal. But his little dog-brain just can’t process my logic.

“Settle down, boy. It’s just thunder. You’re fine.”

He just comes unglued.

The whole time I’m talking to Kevin and Lucy, I’m thinking about Max. Moreover, I’m thinking about the interior of my truck. I’ve seen what Max can do to a kitchen door. One night he pulled the window trim right off the wall and chewed it into splinters.

“Please, Lord!” is all I knew to say.

I was in the store for nearly two hours. The phone transfer wasn’t complicated at all. By the time I got done, it was still raining but the storm had passed. From the curb outside the door, I could see that my windows were fogged up like London. Two beady eyes peered at me through the windshield from the front seat.

Max knows that his place in my truck is his bed on the back floorboard. He never rides in the front seat. I feel a cringe in my gut. Visions of torn upholstery and gaping holes chewed out of my dash torment me on my walk across the asphalt. I am trying to convince myself not to overreact.

“Max. Get in the back.” He looks at me with sad eyes.

“Max. In the back. Now.” I am stern and he finally moves over the console and plops down on his bed.

What I see is not as bad as I feared. No claw marks. The seats are intact. Not one chew mark.

But do you have any idea how much slobber one dog can produce during a two-hour thunderstorm? A five-gallon bucket wouldn’t hold it all.

Slobber smeared on both front seats. Slobber globules on the dash. Slobber on the floor. Slobber on the door handle. Slobber running down the electronics and dripping off the knobs. Slobber on the steering wheel.

I keep a towel under my seat for cleaning up messes. Mostly me spilling coffee on my drive into work. I refuse to drink from a sippy cup with a lid.

I grabbed the towel and started to clean up what I could. Slobber is like slime. It has a texture to it. It’s not like wiping up a water spill. It spreads.

The onboard computer looked like the screen had melted. Dog spit drooled down the front of the dash and puddled up in the seam of the glove box door. When I opened the glove box to get at it, strings of goo drizzled down into the contents of the box.

The cupholders in the console had puddles of sticky slush mixed in with the dust that otherwise covers the inside of my truck.

My towel was starting to get slobber overload. I reached for the leftover burger napkins in the glove box which were already partially soaked in canine sludge.

I’m telling you. I’ve never seen this much slobber. Yet, somehow, I’m grateful that the damage isn’t worse. I could be picking up pieces of seat stuffing.

By now, it’s 6:00 and my stomach is growling. I pull into the local Chic-fil-A to grab a bite to eat. The rain has slacked off to a drizzle. My phone rings. I sit in the parking lot for twenty minutes talking to a customer who just called to say congratulations on retirement. I appreciate the good folks in this world.

When I got out of the truck I had a stern conversation with Max. I really didn’t know if I could handle another slobberfest. In an attempt to secure the front section of my truck, I placed a box on the console between the seats. A doggy blockade.

Inside the restaurant, I found myself faced with a mob of 12-year-olds accompanied by a few haggard-looking adults. I didn’t see the school bus in the far corner of the parking lot.

When I finally got up to the counter and placed my order, the young man asked me if I was the bus driver.

“Lord, no. Not in a million years,” I said.

Most of the workers at Chic-fil-A look like kids themselves. Boys with rose-colored cheeks and trim haircuts. Young girls with ponytails and wide smiles. I thank them for their service, and they give me the company line. “It’s my pleasure.”

Somehow, I believe them.

As I’m eating my grilled sandwich and my side order of Mac & Cheese, the rain is coming down in buckets outside. No thunder this time. Just an epic Noah-and-the-ark type rain. Max is on my mind enough that I’m choking down my food more than enjoying it.

I grab up some extra napkins when I’m done.

Believe it or not, the old boy was lying calmly on his bed when I opened the door. The windows were not fogged up. There may have been a puddle of slobber in the back, but I didn’t even look.

I did notice that the dash had a nice sheen to it. I guess slobber could be a substitute for one of those sprays you buy at the auto parts store to shine up your vehicle’s interior.

I thought, “Maybe I could bottle this stuff.” Create a side-venture for my retirement years. I’ve got the perfect name.

Maxter Shine. Like no other product you’ve ever seen.

Look for it in stores soon.