Sadly, Milford Lost One of Its "Best Friends"

Milford lost one of its "best friends" Wednesday night.

His name was Max. He was only two years old. And somehow, the young Labrador retriever managed to get away from his owner and run onto Merwin Avenue in the dark, rainy night.

It was a matter of seconds. The driver of the white car in front of me had stopped and jumped out of her vehicle.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't see him! Is he all right?" the driver, a young woman, asked as she ran to the front of 197 Merwin Ave., where Max lay on the sidewalk.

The chocolate Lab had a gash on his head. He was breathing heavily, as he lay on his right side.

"Max! Max!" the tearful owner, a young man, said, stroking the dog's head.

The owner reassured the driver.

"It wasn't your fault. He got loose," he said.

"Is he old?" she asked.

"No, he's only two," the owner said calmly.

The driver, a young woman, turned to me.

"I heard (the dog owner) yell, so I braked. But it was too late," she said.

"It's not your fault," I said, "Just pray."

And I held out my hands toward Max, and did just that.

Somewhere between my car and the curb I had dialed Rick George, chief animal control officer, begging him to send someone out to help the dog. It was about 8 p.m. -- and George responded promptly, sending out an animal control officer and later coming out himself.

But before they arrived, the rest unfolded.

The young man stood.

"He's going toward the light," he declared.

"No he's not!" I insisted. "He's staying here with us!"

I was desperately trying to inspire hope.

Another bystander ran up. She said she had dialed 911 because she thought a person had been struck. But the woman added that she had called back to cancel the ambulance after realizing the victim was a dog.

Then, Max's owner unfurled his clasped hand -- and I saw the blood. It looked like the palm had been torn open.

"He bit me hard," he said, "when I went to help him."

That's what animals do when they're desperate. They literally bite the hand that feeds them. They don't know what they're doing. They're in so much pain.

I called 911 and told them to send an ambulance anyway because the owner was injured. By then, a firetruck had arrived.

The firefighters swung into action. They doused the young dog owner's hand with a saline solution and wrapped it in a white bandage.

They asked whether he wanted to go to a hospital. As expected, he declined. He was staying by Max's side. That's what best friends do.

The firefighters covered Max's frame with a white sheet to keep him warm. He was in shock. They tried to administer oxygen to the dog.

Eventually, emergency personnel pried the young owner away from the scene, and put him in an ambulance, where he sat a short distance from Max.

A woman came over. Max heard her voice -- and rose to his feet, sheet over him like a ghost. She too was part of his nuclear family.

"He heard his Mommy's voice," one of the firefighters exclaimed.

Max was ordered to lie down -- and dutifully, he obeyed.

I kept in touch with George by phone as he and the other animal control officer made their way to the scene.

"Describe what's happening," George said.

"The dog is breathing heavily, labored breathing. It has a gash on its head. His name is Max. He's a lab. He looks like he weighs 50 to 60 pounds. He's a pretty big boy. He's only two," I said.

In between phone calls to George, I heard the police speaking to the driver of the car that hit Max.

"This is an accident," one reassured her. "That's why they call them accidents. They don't call them 'on purposes.' "

Good point, I thought. Good point.

I kept calling George, asking him where he was going to take Max. Some vet's office that's open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. (It turns out to be Shoreline in Shelton.)

Suddenly, I saw several emergency personnel walk toward the ambulance where Max's owner was sitting. Then I heard the wails, the sobs, the pain. It was unmistakable.

I walked back to Max, whose head by then had been covered with the sheet.

I asked a firefighter, "Did we lose him?"

"Yes," the firefighter said somberly. "He just died."

I called George in tears.

"We lost him," I cried.

The animal control officers arrived. They waited.

The young man emerged from the ambulance to say good-bye to his dog. He stroked Max's head and cried -- as the crowd that had gathered stood back a respectful distance.

The animal control officers then gently lifted Max's lifeless corpse into their truck.

I walked away and drove home slowly.

As soon as I stepped inside, I burst into tears. My dog, Baci, rose from the couch and walked to me.  I pet her on the head -- and suddenly appreciated the warmth of her fur, the warmth of my friend.