Today I received something in the mail that was bubble wrapped. It’s been 14 years since I’ve been able to pop bubblewrap. I used to love it for stress relief. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Popopopop.

When I adopted Max from the shelter, even as a puppy he was so afraid of loud noises he would have seizures. He never outgrew the fear. He hated the Fourth of July. He refused to go outside when there were any fireworks in a 20 mile radius. Thunderstorms caused sheer panic and he usually became a 60-pound shoulder shawl. I would add a picture of that if I could figure out how.

Once a hot air balloon was losing altitude over our house and fired up the burners just as he was stepping outside.  My poor little buddy peed himself and then had a seizure. He didn’t go out again for more than 24 hours, and when he finally did, he was looking up at the sky like, “That noisy fking thing better be gone or I’m turning around.”

Max passed away a little over a month ago.  He was my PTSD dog. He wasn’t trained as a service dog but when I had nightmares he would wake me up and curl up next to me. He always slept close enough that if I started to panic, he was there to calm me.

He would goose me with his cold nose if I wasn’t moving fast enough to let him out in the morning. He would headbutt me if I got distracted or had the audacity to stop petting him. He would refuse his Milk Bone if he knew there was cheese anywhere nearby. He would turn his nose up if I offered him dog food when I was cooking dinner. He didn’t get people food often but that didn’t deter him. He would hover inches away from my daughter’s plate, staring intently, willing the food to fall…but never sneaking any.

Today I popped a few of the bubbles and then broke down in tears, much like I’m doing right now.  My god do I miss his furry face and his head on my shoulder, as I breathe through the anxiety. He was so intuitive and loving, the sweetest, gentlest, most neurotic, fussy dog ever. He was my Max.