I’d never seen anyone talk so excitedly about a mayor. I drove up to the California mountain town of Idyllwild in March 2022 for a day trip and was finishing a purchase at a local vintage store when the cashier informed me, “The mayor is in town.” Before I could say anything, another shopper swung around with a big smile and asked, “Is he really?”

I listened to them talk ecstatically about the mayor for a few minutes, until finally the cashier clued me in: The mayor was a dog. Everything suddenly made sense, and of course I had to meet him.

In the town’s main street, I spotted Mayor Max II, a golden retriever, in the back of a white pickup parked in front of Wooley’s, a store with a giant cowboy hat protruding above the entrance. The mayor, wearing an orange tie around his neck, was greeting his fans all lined up in the street waiting to take a photo. The spectacle made my overall visit to Idyllwild feel a bit more magical, like going to Disneyland and seeing costumed characters walking around.

Idyllwild, an unincorporated community, has no local government and is under the jurisdiction of Riverside County. It was in 2012 that an animal rescue organization ran the election for an animal mayor to raise funds. Votes could be cast for $1 per vote. The candidates were two cats and 14 dogs, including Max the First.

A new resident to Idyllwild, Phyllis Mueller wanted to win the election badly. She felt she had the perfect dog, who already knew how to shake people’s hands. “He loved to be in the public,” says Mueller, chief of staff and owner of Mayor Max I, II and III. “He was just a friendly, loving dog.”

She campaigned for Max around town and spent about $5,000 on direct mailings to Idyllwild’s residents. She also donated $10,000 of her own money toward Max’s votes and stuffed some in other pets’ buckets too, “because she didn’t want them to be heartbroken.” When Mueller received word that a wealthy competitor asked how much it would be to buy the election, she threw down $10,000 more. In the end, Mueller won in a landslide.

What the townspeople didn’t know when Max won is that he had cancer. He lived for nine months of his two-year term, before succumbing to the disease. “I think it extended his life,” says Mueller. “When he died, everybody was heartbroken because he was so friendly. He got to know people and they loved him.”

After he died, she got three more dogs, including Max II, who took the place as mayor of the small town. “I told my husband, ‘I think Mayor Max II is Mayor Max the First. I think he’s reincarnated,’” says Mueller. “I think I got the same dog. Either that or I got Mayor Max the First beaming down on my new dog.”

In the second year, when Mayor Max II was mayor, the nonprofit rescue group tried to have a new election. “Basically, the town revolted and said, ‘No. Mayor Max for life,’ … so if I want to do it, I want to do it. There are no more elections,” says Mueller.

Mueller says some people don’t expect anything from the mayorship. But, since the beginning, she has brought each Max to all the community events and makes public appearances in town, so that it’s now an expectation. 

Under the mayorship, she spends $57,500 of her own money to create calendars that she gives away. She and her husband are also part of an animal rescue team for the region. Other initiatives include a living angel program to promote love for humanity. 

She also refuses to get Mayor Max involved in politics. She doesn’t want to create division as she only wants to promote positivity.

When Mayor Max II died of cancer at the age of 9 in 2022, Mueller spent a lot of time searching for Mayor Max III. She wanted the dog to also come from the same bloodline as the others — a descendant of a golden retriever named Thunder — and she found him in Utah.

“So the attributes of my current dog is that he is just like Mayor Max II and the First, except he’s in the puppy stage of what that is,” she says.

This month, I stopped by Idyllwild once more to meet the new Mayor Max III, who’s now a year old. The lines outside Wooley’s were as long as before, with crowds of couples, families and kids waiting for their chance to pet him. When it was my turn, I looked into his gentle eyes and understood what Mueller sees in him. He’s calmer than his vice mayor and two deputy mayors (also golden retrievers), and has a big, loveable face, like that of a Teddy bear.

“I’d charge $5 per photo, if I were on the city council,” I heard someone say behind me. Though fame can be lucrative, in this case, being Mayor Max doesn’t make much money at all.

The Mayor Max merchandise sold in the town’s gift shops are made by independent sellers, and that money does not go back to Mueller. The only money she receives is a portion of proceeds sold in an online store. This year, she says it won’t be more than $500.

“My husband and I get paid nothing for what we do,” says Mueller. “My husband and I spend about $100,000 per year of our income. We’re not retired, everybody thinks we’re wealthy and retired. We’re the opposite of retired. We have two full-time jobs: The job that makes us money to pay for Mayor Max, [which is] our second full-time job that pays us nothing. So that’s a flat line for us every year.”

But she says that is OK because Mayor Max has never been about making money. “Mayor Max is just a fun, simple experience,” says Mueller, “that elevates [people’s] spirits and makes them happy when they meet the mayor.”