Maggie...Another Dog Story

It really began 28 years ago.  One late spring day I drove up to our home to be greeted by our 3 year old shouting with exuberance, “we gotta dog”.  Not what I was expecting.  The subject of a dog had surfaced from time to time. With three children under the age of 8, however, I thought a family dog was still an exercise in planning.

            As I approached the three of them in our front yard they proudly offered up as exhibit A what appeared to be a dead albino squirrel, minus the tail. I looked up only to see vet bills floating down from the sky. I didn’t consider sheer exhaustion, which was the pup’s only malady.

            She had already been named Molly, a pre-maturely weaned, all light-yellow Border collie mix. The runt of a shelter’s litter and last chosen.

            Dogs from the “working” breeds are noted for their intelligence, but not necessarily their demeanor.  Molly was an exception to the latter.  A smart dog, yes, but with a passive character that won over all those whom she chose to acknowledge.  She was the antithesis of aggressive. She could and would skillfully avoid nearly any dog that came near.

            She grew into a 40 pound fir ball and, understandably, became a much loved centerpiece in our family as we experienced the changes that occur as children morph from childhood to adolescence to teens to young adults.  She was a constant through all that, and as perfect as one might wish for in a dog.

            Just after she turned 12 she got sick.  There were several symptoms, but I mostly remember her inability to eat and her lethargy. I took her to the vet for exploratory surgery with the understanding that if they found the suspected cancer she would not be awakened. And so it went.

They gave her a transfusion to prep her for the surgery, which made her act like a young pup.  She was brought to me in an empty examination room for her to, once again, show her enthusiasm for affection.  She then pranced out on a lead. It was the last I saw of her.

            I was distraught, not able to edit from my memory our last encounter in which her soft expression said see you later. That was it for me. No more dogs for a long time…maybe decades. The kids were getting ready to leave the nest or already had. They could get their own dog(s), I determined.

            A mere six months had passed when I received a call at work from my wife, not from home but from the college town where my daughter attended school.  She and my daughter had conspired to replace Molly and were calling to get my buy-in on a rescue puppy they found. I said absolutely no.  Molly was not replaceable.  Maggie arrived four weeks later.

            Maggie was not Molly. Like Molly though, her heritage was also from the Working Breeds. Some Border Collie perhaps or Australian Shepherd, but I think closest to the lesser known English Shepherd. Unlike Molly she was explosive with energy, even at just ten weeks of age.

            She was tri-colored, which with all her puppy fluff gave her the visual appeal of a plush Gund.  Her eyes were a striking blue.  As she grew older she lost much of her white. The brown only remained near her paws. Her eyes slowly changed to a blue-gray. Nevertheless, with her black and spotted, semi-long coat and expressive eyes she was stunning.  For sixteen years she never lost her attractiveness.  Her nose remained jet black till the day she died, her mussel with only a hint of gray.  She received several “what a beautiful dog” comments even as she made her last visit to the Vet’s waiting room.

            As pretty as she was it wasn’t her most remarkable trait.

Initially I was not receptive to seeing what Maggie held in store for us. That attitude only enhanced what I was not used to. She was forceful by nature, in both play and conduct. Right from the beginning, if given the chance and a slightly open gate she would tear loose from the yard like a freed wild stallion.  And she was fast, very fast. She seemed in constant search for the herd she was never given.

            When leashed and confronted with essentially any other dog she showed a quick aggressiveness, a behavior that took me many years to understand. It was her instinct to protect whoever was holding the leash.  She could be underfoot, take her role as watchdog to a fault, and coat the house with endless tumble weeds of black fir. She was, especially in the early years, a handful. In later years she would have phobias which would confound us.

            Where she was remarkable, though, was her intelligence.  It was, to me, extraordinary.  Second to that was a devotion she afforded me which was virtually disarming.

            Her working vocabulary was enormous as was her recognition of my specific actions.  She learned each of the standard “dog tricks” within minutes.  She quickly learned what 3 rooms in the house she was allowed in, which she never violated until we softened on that rule during her last two years. Even as visiting dogs roamed everywhere she would dutifully stand at the thresholds.

One time when she thought she was alone, I caught her sneaking into the living room to look out the window. When she saw me standing looking at her, she slinked out and into the free zone of the family room, laying down facing the wall looking immersed in guilt. I never uttered a word.

            When it was time for her to eat we would tell her to “get your bowl” which she would eagerly do and hold it at the ready. If I was tardy she would get her bowl and drop it at my feet. If she sensed a possibility of getting a piece of whatever was cooking she would do the same, with astonishing accuracy that there was something to be had.

            She was a ravenous eater right up to the day she died (a distressing fact for me that day). Even so, she was completely passive if I, for some reason, moved her half full bowl away from her. If I placed her food in front of her she dived into as many dogs do, but if her food was waiting for her before she was let in, she would stop in front of her bowl, turn around and look at me and wait until I told her it was okay. Then she would start. It was an action I never taught her.

            Her intelligence made her, and thus my life, more predictable.

            She never stopped learning, the extent to which would likely be boring to anyone but me. Her port-o-san was a patch of ivy in the backyard which she never deferred from. At about age 14, with her hearing nearly gone, in just minutes she learned commands to a sports whistle and knew instantly what it meant when she saw it hung around my neck. That same year she had half her lower jaw removed due to a tumor. She soldiered through that handicap with virtually no adjustment period, although I felt her quality of life had been struck a blow…no more bowl, no more flying to catch a Frisbee, no more bone chewing, etc.

            At nearly 16 she dramatically slowed down. She started to retain fluids in her abdomen and an ultrasound showed a large, likely cancerous tumor on her liver.  Her abdomen was drained twice, but it could not be stopped and a toll was being taken. Her loyalty, which had always been fierce, was now reduced to her following me step for step anywhere I went around the house or yard. Yet when I sat she would not stay in the same room with me, as if to spare me her distress.

            We spent a painful, warm summer day waiting for the Vet to call to tell us he was on the way to our house to put Maggie to sleep. When he arrived she was calm and willing. We went out in her backyard under the shade of our large oaks. Finally resting from the sedative he gave her, she peacefully closed her eyes seconds after receiving the second drug.

            Maggie did not just work her way into my heart as Molly had done.  It seems more that she worked her way into the very fabric of my life.  For the most part she was less of a dog and more of an extension of what makes life meaningful.

In an age of horrific human distress around the world, devastating predictions of environmental changes, or pitiful social inequities, the story of a dog seems no more than the preverbal grain of sand…and that’s true. Still, every person’s life is filled with unwanted fears, none are exempt. Sometimes the daily cures we seek, the calming, thought-free predictabilities can be found sitting at our feet.