They say that dog is man’s best friend. I think they’re wrong. In my house, dog is woman’s best friend.
My mixed-breed Maggie joined our household almost 11 years ago. Ostensibly meant as a
companion to my youngest child, who was about to be “abandoned” by her brother as he joined my eldest boy at school full time, the whole family knew that cold-nosed squirmy bundle of energy was really for me.
While she is partial to my daughter, mine she started and mine she stayed. A decade later, despite the fact that it’s the kids that primarily walk and feed her, Maggie is always looking to make sure I’m around. When we took her to my parents (who, to my delight, kept a motor boat for waterskiing into my mid-40s), it was a serious problem if I want out on the water without her. Her sense of abandonment was profound.
Maggie keeps me healthy. She gets me out walking and finishes up the bits of goodies on my plate that would otherwise go to my hips. She knows when I’m feeling down and nuzzles up close to me to make it better. She clearly loves and protects us all. When the kids were little and bedtimes were staggered, she went to bed with each of them, sleeping beside each bed until the next child was ready for storytime. But she often ended up – and still does – beside my bed.
When she was about five, Maggie finally decided she liked swimming. Until then, you could throw a stick out into the water and she’d just look at it and then look at you as if you were crazy. She might go in the water, but never take her feet off the bottom. But one day, she was just curious and excited enough to follow the stick to the point where she had to swam. And that was it. She was hooked. We often take her down to Lake Ontario in the summer and let her chase bits of driftwood in the early evenings.
Speaking of sticks, bits of wood have always been fair game to her. I remember my Dad sitting on my kitchen floor one day (installing shelves, I think) taking measurements, making pencil marks and putting the pencil on the floor. Every single time he put it down, Maggie took off with it. After all, that unpainted cylindrical bit of wood with graphite inside was just like a stick, right?
I’m not sure she’s much of a watchdog. She sits in the house, just tall enough to see out the front window. She is happy to tell us when another dog walks by – barking enough to make it clear this is her territory – but she’s really watching for the next exciting person to come by. As soon as an unsuspecting soul (or my now-ready friends) start up the path, she rushes to the door, tail wagging and full of excitement to see who has come to play. I swear that a burglar could break through the door and Maggie would stand there, full of excitement to see her new friend.
She’s not terribly brave either. She’s happy to meet dogs one at a time. When we meet one in the forest, she runs up, sniffs around shows her willingness to run and chase. But heaven forbid that there be two dogs. Two is terrifying. The first time I left her in kennels, they reported back that they couldn’t let my Maggie play out in the field with the big dogs. No, my wimp of a dog had to play with the little ones so she wasn’t so frightened. And let’s not even begin to speak about thunder, fireworks, and of all things, the knife-sharpening truck. Any one of those will send her into a panic that we’ve not found a solution to yet.
Despite all of that, I can’t imagine my kids having grown up without her. She’s been an integral part of our family. She’s taught the kids responsibility and the importance of caring for someone other than just themselves. She’s been a source of comfort to all of us when we need it, and often a source of amusement that keeps us laughing.
Maggie is starting to slow down these days. She’s greying around the muzzle and I am starting to see what I’m afraid is the beginning of cataracts in her eyes. She still loves her walks, but they’re not as vital to her as they used to be. She’s still up for a 2-4 km walk, but much more than that and she starts to drag a bit. They say every year is seven for dogs, so that puts Maggie in her 70s. We really don’t like to think about what that means, and other than slowing down, she’s a healthy dog, so for now, we’ll enjoy every day with her – and maybe spoil her just a little more!
