You’re My Best Friend: The Secret Life of Max and a Legacy of Love

Queen: You're My Best Friend
Film: The Secret Life Of Pets

The truck rumbled into the driveway, gravel crunching beneath its tires, and I remember standing there, small and wide-eyed, watching a bed full of puppies wriggle and squirm. My dad knew the man driving, though I can’t recall his name. What I do remember is how one golden blur leapt up against the side, paws scraping, eyes locked on mine. As if he had been waiting for me.

I climbed onto the truck bed, and before I could even think about picking, he was already there, pressing into me, licking my face like I was the best thing he’d ever seen. “Which one should I get?” Dad asked. But there was no question. Max had already chosen me.

“Maxiford,” I said proudly.

Dad raised an eyebrow. “Maxiford?”

“How about we call him Max?”

And so he was ours. My best friend. My golden guardian. My shadow in the sun.

Max wasn’t just a pet—he was family. My dad believed in that, believed that taking in an animal meant making a lifelong commitment, that pets weren’t disposable, weren’t passing amusements. You took care of them. You loved them. Always. And we all loved Max.

At the lake, if I wandered too far into the water, Max would herd me back like a little lost lamb, tugging at my shirt or nudging me with his nose. When I was outside, he was always nearby, watching, waiting. And then, when I was seven or eight, he saved my life.

It was early morning. My parents were still asleep, the world was quiet, and I decided to take my bike out for a ride. Just up and down the road, nothing far, nothing dangerous. But our neighbor’s Rottweiler had broken loose. He was huge, dragging a chain behind him, and he was coming for me. Fast.

I froze. Too small to run, too scared to scream. And in that moment, before the world could close in, before the dog could reach me, Max was there. He hit the Rottweiler like a golden bolt of lightning, knocking him to the ground, snarling and protecting me. I ran to wake my dad yelling franticly about what was happening. He jumped up out of bed and went running, his pistol in hand. I heard the shot, heard my mom shouting, and then Dad was carrying Max inside—ruffled, panting, alive.

Years later, I would learn the truth. That the shot hadn’t been a warning. That my dad had to make a choice to save Max the way Max had saved me.

We lost Max within the next year. He was only eight or nine. We think it was antifreeze poisoning—other dogs in the area were dying the same way. It was the first time I saw my dad cry. I think Max took a piece of all of us when he went.

But love, the real kind, the kind that stays, doesn’t just vanish. I think that’s why, when I was ten and struggling with my parents’ divorce, lost in a new place, I begged my mom to let me use my savings to buy a miniature dachshund. His name was Sam, and the day I brought him home, I made a decision: his bloodline would grow with mine. Not as a breeder, not for profit. Just for love. For family.

Sam had a son, Atticus, who was with me when I met Jamie. Atticus and I built a life together, and when I turned twenty-one, Jamie gifted me Matilda—a beautiful dappled dachshund who would go on to have three sons: Bruce Wayne, Frankenstein, and Charlie. Bruce and Frankie stayed with us. Charlie went to a dear friend. When Matilda passed away young, Bruce and Frankie helped heal the hurt.

Years later, when I was pregnant with Jaxon, we adopted Daisy. She and Frankie had a puppy, Penny, who still sleeps curled beside my children today.

Dogs mark the passage of time in a way few other things do. They grow up with us, age beside us, and when they leave, they take little pieces of our hearts with them. But they also leave something behind: memories, love, the reminder that we were theirs, and they were ours.

Jaxon had his own Max. Not in fur, but in film.

When he was a toddler, we lived deep in the woods of Hot Springs National Park. Every week, we’d drive into town for a visit to the Mid-America Science Museum. We had a membership, and it was our place—where he could run and explore, where the world felt wide and full of wonder. Afterward, we’d stop for groceries, and as soon as we got home, he had one request: The Secret Life of Pets.

It was his favorite movie, his comfort film. We must have watched it a hundred times, me unpacking groceries while he curled up on the couch, eyes locked on the screen. And at the heart of it all? Max. The little dog who just wanted to be with his person. The one who loved without hesitation, without conditions.

I get it. I’ve always gotten it.

And maybe that’s why You’re My Best Friend feels like more than just a love song. John Deacon wrote it for his wife, for his best friend, but love is bigger than that. Some of the best advice I’ve ever gotten came from my Aunt Teresa: Marry your best friend. Because life will throw things at you—good and bad, highs and lows—but if you have your best friend by your side, you’ll never be alone. You’ll never be afraid.

Jamie is my best friend. I am so grateful for him. For our children. For the pets that have curled up beside us through the years, offering love in the simplest, purest form. I saw a quote recently that said, I feel like the richest person in the world because I have someone I miss even when I’m away from them for five minutes.

That’s how I feel. About Jamie, about my kids, about the animals who have shaped my life. I am rich beyond measure.

Max knew it before I did. The moment he climbed into that truck bed, the moment he pressed his golden head into my chest.

Love is simple. Love is steadfast. Love is a dog at your heels, waiting by the door, greeting you with a wagging tail and the kind of devotion that never wavers. Love is your best friend.



Always.