You think YOU got a dog's life!
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Vital Stats:

Age:  We don't know.  Probably born sometime around summer of 2000

Type/Coloring/Breed:  Ginger and buff, Pomeranian/Spitz/? He could even be a purebred Pom who got too big, who knows?

Weight:  About 15#

Circumstances:  Adopted from Franklin County (Indiana) Humane Society/Brookville, through the "Petfinder" web site and the PetsMart Charities shelter adoption display program.

Max spends much of his time confused, as a matter of fact.

But, then, Max is a dog.

He lives in a house that's run by four cats.  He's not allowed to argue with the cats.  He's not allowed to bark at the cats.  But he's allowed to bark at other cats, especially when they come to his house.

Max sometimes seems to think he is a cat. 

Of course, that would make things easier -- then, he could poop in their box and he wouldn't get yelled at for pooping on the rug. 

He wouldn't have to go in his crate every time the cats get food because he can't resist annoying them, and they won't eat if he's out.

He already likes to take over their windows, which they don't like, but which I won't yell about -- if they want the windows, two of the cats are about his size.  If it pisses them off that much, they can gang up on him.  They're just as intimidated by him as he is by them, though, which makes life very interesting around here, much of the time.

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As should be fairly obvious, Max spends a great deal of his time (when he's not trying to rip my arm off with the leash chasing squirrels, or pushing cats out of the downstairs windows, or chewing on something) "assuming the position," usually on the family room sofa.  He's not as miserable a sad sack as he looks, it's just next to impossible to get a picture of him when he's happy, because he moves at the speed of light when he's happy.  His ass is a blurry little fountain.   The image on top, below, is Max after his bath and brushing.
Max, like all the cats in this house, was a "porch dog."  He was adopted from the Franklin County Humane Society in Brookville, Indiana, where he'd come in as a two-year-old, intact stray.  With giardia.  And a tapeworm.  *sigh* -- Tink was the only animal who came into this house WITHOUT a tapeworm.  And most dogs who drink from puddles eventually wind up with giardia -- so do many cats, though the only one here who might have had it when she came in was Doodle, and a broad-spectrum antibiotic seemed to clear her up.

FCHS doesn't, at this point, have a shelter building.  It's a group of fosters like many shelters have, only without the shelter.  We found Max (who was Leo, at the time) on the web site.

Why, you may ask, did we have to go to an out of town shelter for a dog, when we both volunteer at an animal shelter?

Many reasons -- not many small dogs who seemed appropriate ever came through SICSA.   The ones who did usually were adopted right away, by dog fosters, volunteers or employees, before they ever made it into the "system."  A shelter's a shelter, and we already have one of SICSA's cats, and two who could have wound up in their foster program but didn't because we elected to keep them after we'd "rescued" them. 

(I suppose I shouldn't put "rescued" in quotes -- it looks like I'm being sarcastic.  It isn't that -- I just find the vision of myself as an animal rescuer kind of hysterical.  Like either Squeek or Doodle gave us a choice?)

Anyway, Leo is now Max, and boy does he have a lot to deal with, around here.  Four cats in various stages of accepting him -- from Squeek, who thinks he's a toy, to Tink, who thinks he's a meal.  He gets hollered down for things he might not in a catless household, like being confrontational about his food and chewies, and trying to eat their food.  We don't mind if he doesn't let the cats mess with his stuff, don't get us wrong -- barking at them, in their house, is going to create a major disturbance, though.   I already have one cat who thinks pooping on the floor just outside the box is the best way to air her grievances -- I don't need the other three making the same decision.

To be fair, Max isn't too bad about that.  He seems to get the message that the cats are his equals -- at least in our eyes.  And unlike the cats, our eyes are the only ones that matter, to Max.  The cats couldn't care less about what we think; I suspect if they could run the microwave, they would already have eaten Max as snacks and had it done with.  Except Squeek, who dearly loves to do "death from above" on his tail when he walks under a chair, and probably knows if she ate Max the tail wouldn't move like that anymore.

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