Name: Max Crossroads
Age: 11 years 3 months
Breed: Labrador Retriever (chocolate)
Weight: 82 lbs
Gender: Male, neutered
Favorite Activities: Sun bathing, playing fetch, hoarding “babies” (stuffed toys) from the toy bin, cuddling with his Crossroads family members (mainly with his head buried in an employee lap), and assisting Interactive Daycare with the coordinator (and best friend), Terri
Bio
He’s our doggie face of Crossroads. The title for the Pet of the Month is accurate. Max is Crossroads dog. He’s been a permanent member of the facility since January 2009. Throughout those two years, Max has drastically changed and captured the hearts of everyone in the facility. It’s hard to believe that the calm grey-bearded chocolate lab who calls kennel 34 his bed and the whole facility his home was once a problem child when he walked through the lobby doors.
Max wasn’t a new face in 2009. He’s been a frequenter to Crossroads since 2003. And when he first walked through the doors, the staff all raised an eyebrow. Labs typically carry the stereotype of being energetic, gentle, goofballs. They want to do everything that their owner does. Their lineage endowed them with a gentle mouth in order to bring prey back during a hunt. The love-able, interestingly intelligent, slightly comedic, common American household Lab was a breed that lifted everyone’s mood on a stressful day. 
Not Max. In 2003, a soft bodied (almost 110 lbs), sleek coated Chocolate lab entered CPP. The receptionists greeted the owners and Max. He gave no response back. No tail wags. No energetic wiggle. He was stagnant, firmly planted by his owner’s side. His amber eyes burned into anyone that attempted to approach him without his own approval. He wasn’t owner protective. He would start to raise a lip when someone would touch him. Not protective, not shy, but a spoiled brat. Anything to be done to him had to be on his terms. If not, he made sure that any chance of handling him was going to be one of the most difficult experiences that one had to endure. He showed to be cage aggressive, somewhat male aggressive (though, his tolerance of the female employees was dependent on fickle lines that no one could figure out – fine one day, snapping the next), and extremely food aggressive. On TLC’s, he ignored the individual attempting to play with him, often sniffing and then demanding to go back inside to sleep. Max was dubbed “The Brat,” a renowned nickname throughout the facility.
His nickname carried beyond the kennel up to the Bath Shop and the Hospital. For a bath, it was a quickly learned lesson to have two people present and at least an hour blocked out of the day to start and finish his bath. Max hated water. Touching his feet to trim his nails required someone to bodily restrain him (after struggling to get a muzzle on in a “Who can be faster” duel). Nails, anal glands…and then there was his ears. To put anything into them, swab them out or touch them required a medal of honor to get away untouched his teeth. He constantly shook during his bath and attempted to jump from the tub. Every day he came in, he wasn’t the only one getting a bath – both bathers were soaked head to toe, usually for the rest of the day.
The ones who experienced the worst of Max’s juvenile temper were the members of the Hospital. The site of scrubs flipped a switch in Max’s brain – he went from being unpredictable, to extremely upfront. The fear crept into his body when a vet tech or vet would come get him for vaccines or a small physical. He would swell in size, his 110 lbs seeming to grow to 200. That bulk would cram back into a corner of a cage or run, and his lips peeled back from his teeth, amber eyes miniature fires. He couldn’t be lassoed – he was the master at catching the leash in mid-throw. It never took any less than two people to wrangle Max from his run. Then up in the hospital, it took four people to restrain him for a fecal sample and to give his Bordetella. No one knew the foundation for his intense hatred of the vet. Once procedures were done, Max would sulk in his cage, a little thundercloud hanging over his head, making any employee (male or female) susceptible to a temper tantrum.
“The Brat” Max came and went from 2003 to 2008. Tricks were found to keep him satisfied (want him to be your friend? Give him a treat). In December 2008, Max checked into the kennel for a week long stay, his checkout day to be several days before Christmas. Now 8 years old, Max had tempered somewhat. He tolerated the kennel staff (select members of his choosing). His food and cage aggression were still hard wired, but once out of the cage, he was amicable. His week long stay came to an end…and the checkout date rolled over to the next day. One extra day turned into three, which then turned into a week. On January 1, 2009, the kennel crew walked in and saw Max still in kennel 69 – a New Year’s Eve surprise. A month had come and gone. His owner didn’t respond to messages left from reception and upper management. We couldn’t contact any other family member. Max’s stay continued to lengthen.
Depression was settling on Max – he grew quiet and wouldn’t move around in his cage. A senior kennel staff member, Bill, began to take his lunch in the outer portion of Max’s run. He would pull a chair into the large outer section and just sit. He didn’t force Max to come to him, didn’t attempt to make eye contact, and didn’t engage in conversation with him. Max would growl through the door that led to the inside of his run. Yet, gradually, he started to come out to sit next to Bill. Each day, Max got closer to the man, eventually to where he was resting his head on Bill’s lap, looking up at him and then to the sandwich that the man had. Bill would save some plain chicken from previous dinners and hand them to Max. Murmured conversation could be heard from kennel 69, Bill casually talking to “The Brat.”
Max’s mood started to lighten. Yet, he wasn’t quite his normal loquacious self. He still growled when his space (or food) were approached, but his entire demeanor was that of a lost child. Bill’s patience had opened a small door. Terri, the Interactive Daycare Coordinator, came up with an idea that would be the pivotal spark to change Max from “The Brat” to “Our Max.” The beginning of January came and went. By mid-January, Max had been at Crossroads for over six weeks and nothing had been heard from his owner. Terri walked into the back with permission from Crossroad's owner, leashed Max (who was stunned that she so briskly walked into his run, leashed him and then pulled him out) and led him out to the Daycare yard.
“If you’re gonna be here for a while buddy, we can at least work on some socialization skills will you. And get you off that concrete and around others that speak your language.” Terri waved at a fellow employee to grab an experienced Daycare dog to test Max. Max stood outside, looking up at Terri. He was confused, agitated, uncertain of how to respond, and a little (with a small flick of his tail) excited at this new experience. The first dog came out, a black-shaggy Flat Coated Retriever named Scotty. Through the gate, he approached Max, and we all thought “The Brat” was going to turn inside out. More dogs were introduced, each one wanting to explore the newcomer to the Crossroads Pack. Gradually, Max’s tail rose from between his legs and he started to circle with the other dogs. He exuded confidence and was assured of his stance in the pack. That mid-January, the Crossroads Pack had its first established Alpha Male in the yard. After his initial shock, Max displayed the best dog communication seen at that point in the yard. What he couldn’t convey to people, he could convey to other dogs. He became a figurehead in the yard, an unbreakable bond cementing between him and Terri during their six hour days together. 
The end of January 2009, Crossroads finally heard back from Max’s owner after several firm phone calls. Max wasn’t wanted anymore. There was no intention to pick him up. He had been boarded and left at the only place that would properly know what to do with him. With that, Max had no one else to take him. His male aggression was still prominent, and anyone who walked into the kennel without a Crossroads shirt on was a serious threat to him and what he viewed as his friends. The facility was faced with a choice: What to do with an 8 year old chocolate lab, who was food aggressive, temperamental, and was demonstrating that he was adjusting comfortably to the scheduling of kennel life? We weren’t a Rescue Facility. The Human Society was filled to capacity. Max would have to go the pound. Yet that thought was fleeting.
Over the course of those two months, Max was beginning a metamorphosis that many employees were starting to see. In two months the introduction of patience, talking to him, pushing his boundaries to show that it couldn’t always be his way, and introducing him to Daycare were affecting “The Brat” in a positive way. The owner of Crossroads, after talking to kennel staff and witnessing the growing affection between “The Brat” and employees, made a choice that forever changed our lives: Max, “The Brat,” would be a permanent member of the Crossroads facility.
Through that spring of 2009, “The Brat” died. In his place was a trim chocolate lab – an animal that weighed 30 pounds less, barked excitedly whenever he saw employees in Crossroads shirts, waited for his food to be set down, played fetch with a tennis ball, buried his head in your lap, and jumped six feet in the air when he saw a familiar face. His tail pumped the air and he wiggled – the lab wiggle of excitement when a loved one is seen or heard. His CPP friends were now his family. “The Brat” became “Our Max,” “Golden Boy,” “Max-Max,” “Handsome Man,” “Soldier,” and “Uncle.” Despite every nickname, he was “Our Max.” He became loving, craving our attention, be it quick pats on the head, a shared secret or a long sit and cuddle. Max became Terri’s assistant in daycare – what she may miss in a large group, he was right there between two dogs who couldn’t quite figure out their situation. He was the Dog Alpha to Terri’s Human Alpha – he enforced when needed, but ultimately looked to her for what to do. His communication strengthening in Daycare, Max communicated more than us. Occasionally, he’d throw a small tantrum – when his ears were being constantly checked due to chronic ear infections; a sudden change in his schedule; or if someone attempted to take his food when he wasn’t done – just saving it for later.
His male aggression extinguished (at least among the kennel staff). Employees can be seen in kennel 34, whispering something to Max. From 2009 to 2011, we all have watched Max shed a violent skin and blossom into a loving, devoted friend. We all felt a slight blow when in 2010, a large male boxer stepped in Max’s place as the Alpha (10 years old, developing joint issues and a cadre of strong young puppies trialed Max’s physical condition). He stepped from Alpha and moved into a “Grandfather/Great Uncle” position. Still observant of Daycare and only intervening when he’s absolutely needed, Max now sits close by Terri (or any Daycare attendant) rubbing his head against her leg, groaning as she rubs his ears.
We don’t fully understand what happened to Max in his four years before he started to come to Crossroads. We also have no idea what happened in his daily life outside of Crossroads. A thorny seed was planted in him – it festered as it grew into a creature that didn’t trust, was skeptical of any action from another human, and unaware of the attention and care that humans can give. In the past three years, Max has been an example of how patience, love, compassion and understanding can alter negative personality traits. With each passing day, his amber eyes went from burning Hell fires, to glowing embers filled with warmth and true happiness. Regardless of his past, Max experienced hands on attention and care (mixed with some stubbornness that if he was going to stay with us, he was going to learn to love us). The dog that walked through the front doors in 2003 is nowhere near the same dog in 2011. Max, our beloved “Max-Max-Handsome-Golden-Soldier-Uncle” boy, was one of the greatest gifts to come to Crossroads. He works, he plays, he talks, he keeps secrets, he brings a smile, and he is a reminder that an old dog can not only learn new tricks, but completely change given the right care and attention.
Max Crossroads, the one, and only, permanent canine resident of Crossroads Pet Professionals, for all of time.