Small in Size, Big in Heart: How My 22-Pound Support Animal and I Survived the Fire (And Swam!)
Updated: Mar 23
If you really want to know me, you need to meet Max.
Max is my support animal, I've always had debillitang anxiety. Being in recovery my doctors and I had to get creative, so we tried this. Luckily it worked.. He’s also my best friend, my co-pilot, and hands down the most reliable relationship I’ve ever had. No offense to the men out there, but Max has never ghosted me, criticized my Apple Music playlists, or told me he needed space. Nope. Max wants to be in my space. Preferably under a blanket. Ideally with snacks.
He’s 22 pounds of loyalty, stubbornness, and shameless cuteness. And trust me—he knows it. Max works those big brown eyes like a pro.
Chest scratches? He’s a connoisseur. If you’re offering, he’s taking. And food? Don’t even get me started. Every meal is a party, and he’s the guest of honor.
Treasure Hunt… French Fry Edition
Perfect example: A few weeks ago, we were parked outside McDonald’s eating lunch. Max was off-duty, curled up in the passenger seat. I crumpled up the bag thinking we were done—then suddenly, he shot up. He found a lone french fry wedged between the seat seams. He looked at me like,
“Best day of my life,”
And honestly? In his world, it was.
The Fighter in Him (And in Me)
Max didn’t get an easy start in life. As a puppy, he was diagnosed with Legg-Calvé-Perthes disease. It’s a rare genetic condition—basically, his hip was crumbling from the inside out. Before he turned one, he’d already had three major surgeries. While other dogs were learning to fetch, Max was learning to walk—again and again.
I was there every second. Slept on the floor beside him after each surgery. Petting him through the pain. Whispering,
-“We’ve got this, Little Man,”
even when I wasn’t sure we did. But he believed me. So I did too.
We Showed Up for Each Other
The hardest part? I’m a recovering addict.
Painkillers are a hard no. So when Max was recovering, I was there—sober, steady, and raw. No numbing. No shortcuts. Just me, Max, and a strict medication schedule. We ran on structure: meds at this time, check the incision, short walks, repeat. Some days I didn’t even look at the clock—I was the clock.
Winning at divorce with AI and Max at my side
Nine months ago, I went through a brutal divorce. On paper, I could’ve walked away with everything.
We had agreed to handle the divorce amicably, but he lawyered up anyway—because he had deeper pockets and assumed that meant control. What he didn’t expect was my AI-powered legal team. I held onto Max and went to work, filing motion after motion, running circles around his attorney, and torching his retainer with every strategic move. I flipped the narrative and forced his team onto the defensive. I still smile thinking about the inevitable conversation where his attorney probably had to explain she hadn’t anticipated this much work—and that going forward, she’d be billing him hourly. After enduring over a year of emotional abuse, knowing I was making him pay where it hurt the most gave me deep, unshakable satisfaction. Eventually, I decided the war wasn’t worth nine more months, brought in a negotiator to finalize the paperwork, took Max, and walked away free. Still—his $2,000 retainer likely ballooned into a $5,000+ invoice, all because he never imagined I’d have such an intimate relationship with AI that it functioned as an extension of me—an appendage that let me do things he couldn’t possibly begin to comprehend. Charles was a computer programmer adding insult to injury. I was using the very same technology against him that would make his career obsolete 10 years from now. I imagine the sting he must’ve felt from that. It was definitely a pivotal moment for me and Max was there all along. I got closure in that war. At the end of the day, Max was the one “possession” that was nonnegotiable. I learned that the law considered Max a possession, which seemed fucked to me. Max like my team of AI agents is a part of me. And in the world, does Max ever get left behind.
Not Everyone Gets It
If you’ve ever dated with a service dog, you know the drill. Some people get it. Others… not so much. There was this one guy who told a couple of curious kids,
“It’s okay, he’s not a real service dog.”
Yeah. Don’t do that. First: don’t undermine someone’s service dog in public. Second: don’t confuse kids who are trying to learn respect. Third: if you don’t respect the bond I have with Max, you’re not going to last long in my life.
That guy didn’t. I finished my meal, we grabbed dessert to go (Max always gets dessert if someone disrespects him—it’s a rule), and we left. That was the last date I ever gave that guy.
Max the Surprise Athlete
For a dog with one working hip, Max is ridiculously athletic. Last summer, I took him to Edgewater Park in Cleveland. We walked into the lake—me holding him just above the water. We got out deep enough, and I sighed, “Okay, Little Man. Moment of truth.”
I lowered my hands, fully expecting him to sink.
But he didn’t. He floated there like he was thinking about it. Then he turned his head, gave me the
“Are you seeing this?” look, and swam.
Not a splashy mess. Not a flail. He swam like Ryan Lochte in pug form. One hip. Zero excuses. I was and incredibly proud pug dad that day.
Chest Scratches Are Non-Negotiable
For all his grit and glory, Max keeps it simple.
If you’re in his space, you owe him a chest scratch. Minimum. And if you think you’re getting past him without paying that toll? Good luck. Max will find you, sit in front of you, stare you down, and wait. You’re not moving until you pay up. And you will. Happily.
If You Know, You Know
If you’re a dog person, you get it.
That bond where your dog isn’t just a dog—he’s your person. The one who keeps you steady when life gets messy. And if you’re a cat person? Same deal.
That cat who chooses you. Who shows up on their terms when you need them most.
Max and I? We’ve been through it. Surgeries. Recovery. Addiction. Divorce. And we’re still here.
Moving forward.
Together.
If you’ve got someone who’s walked through the fire with you—or if you’re still figuring that out—you’ve got a seat at our table.
Right here.
Next to Max.
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