The first time I laid eyes on Max was almost 5 years ago. His owner drove from Columbus to the tree farm to check me out and see whether or not she thought I might be a suitable dog person. She held tight to him as he walked around on his leash. She was as skinny as a rail. He was showing all his rib bones. I only got to scratch his ears for a few minutes, and they were gone.

A few days later she called me and gave me the approval.

“When do you think you could come get him?” she asked.

“I’ll come down today as soon as I get off work.”

When I arrived at the place where she worked, I texted her and waited outside the glass lobby doors. In a few minutes the doors opened. A black and white mixed bred pranced out into the sunshine. A squirrel moved beneath a tree across the lawn. Said mixed bred threw his feet into high gear and was gone in a blur.

With his leash in hand, she took off after him. One of the guys from work took off with her. I stood there and watched as the threesome disappeared off into the bowels of historic downtown Columbus.

I learned later that Max had spent most of his recent life closed up in a crate in a cramped apartment. The transition to living with me off leash meant spending his days at the tree farm with miles of open space to run. I fed him well and his ribs disappeared.

There has been hardly a day that he has not left with me each morning before sunrise. When he knew it was time to go, he would “dance” on the kitchen hardwood floor. Whenever I opened the back door of my truck, he would get a running start and with one leap he’d gather himself on his bed in the back floorboard.

Max was always ready to go. He rode with me wherever I delivered trees. He has seen the fields and the skies over places like Birmingham, and Atlanta, and Athens, and Auburn, and Chattanooga. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he sat up and I would roll his window down so he could stick the tip of his nose past the window’s edge. He was never a dog to hang his whole head outside the window into the wind.

After a long drive, I would let Max out to stretch his legs. The work of unloading trees would stop as all eyes and hands focused on him. He has been greeted in Spanish. He has been fed snacks. He has gotten tons of head rubs from strangers. He is known by name all over the southeast.

A number of customers got used to seeing him. They would speak to me, but they would always ask, “Did you bring Max with you.” One guy called me from Savannah just to ask, “How’s Max doing?”

I can’t imagine my days without him. He’s my buddy. He grieved with me when Beth passed away. He is not a lap dog. He doesn’t give face licks. But he has consoled me with his presence. He makes me laugh. He takes long walks with me. He runs away in thunderstorms and gives me opportunities to meet my neighbors three miles away because he wears my phone number on his collar.

Talking to Dr. Mike, my best guess is that Max could be at least 12, maybe 15 years old. Which is why I’m not surprised when he has aches and pains. Sometimes he gets up slow for a few days, but soon he’s back up to his normal speed. Kind of like me.

The middle of last week was one of those times he wasn’t moving so well. I didn’t think much of it. But by the next day he was moving even more slowly. He was wabbly on his feet. When he stood over his food bowl his front feet slipped out from under him and he fell to the floor. It was bad enough that when I took him to see the Doc, I had to pick him up and lay him in the back floorboard.

The diagnosis was not horrific. His arthritis was more severe but not debilitating. His inner ears were swollen, which accounts for some of the imbalance. His blood work looked good except for an antibody from a tick bite. We left there with enough meds that Max was taking more pills than me.

“You should see some improvement by Monday,” Dr. Rachel told me. “Either way, call me Monday morning and let me know how he’s doing.”

Well, it’s Monday and he’s not any better.

Last evening, I took him out for a walk. He made it down the long steps from the kitchen porch with no trouble, but his gate was not regular. Normally, he trots out ahead of me. Most of the time his ears perk up and he darts off into the woods for a few minutes and catches back up with me farther down the driveway. Last night I walked at a snail’s pace, and he barely kept up with me.

He was constantly wandering off to his left side and would turn in a tight circle before heading on down the drive. He made circles every 20 feet or so. Our walk didn’t last long.

I’ve been leaving my bedroom door open so he can sleep on the floor next to the bed. He’s not using his own bed at all. Any other day he would have greeted me in the morning with his dance and a snort well before daylight. This morning he lay on his side past 9am and I had to pick him up just to get him on his feet.

When he does get up, he paces the house as if he is afraid to stop moving. I order him to lay down, but I know it’s for my own sanity not his own good. He bumps into doors. He slips on the wood floors. He has flipped his food dish upside down a hundred times and spilled his water bowl all over the floor, because when he lowers his head his body wobbles and he falls.

I got him to go outside on his own this morning. I watched from the top step as he paused to take a pee. He tried to hike up his leg but settled for squatting on all fours. I got busy with a few chores and kept going to the window to check on him. He was making slow laps around my truck, always turning to the left. He must have made laps for 15 minutes before I called for him to come back inside where he has been pacing for the last hour.

Dr. Rachel offered to refer us to a specialist. I opted to go see her in the morning for a discussion.

He’s sleeping right now. I sat next to him for a while so I could scratch his ears.

Tomorrow may be a hard day.