Maggie and I took a little walk in the gray, warming afternoon. We went down a path that she’d never seen before, so every pebble was sniffed and every breeze was listened to. She’s very popular with all the kids in the neighborhood, so she held court at the park for a few minutes. Maggie gave the girls lessons on how to pee in public like a lady (a useful thing to know, I’m sure).
Maggie is a Pound Puppy, a mut, adopted into our family because someone else didn’t want her. She does a great job on the leash, will “sit” and “stay” and listens to me whine about laundry. The kids have been pestering me for a dog for a couple of years now. I finally relented. The irony? I like the dog more than they do. Maggie is My Dog, a Good Dog.
She puts her head in my lap and asks for nothing more than a Belly Rub. She perks her ears when I talk about the dinner menu and she lets the baby roll all over her. The baby will toddle over, sit on her if she’s laying down, pull on her tail and ears and she just looks at me as if to say, “It’s okay…I got this.” The older kids wrestle with her, getting licked in the face as penalty for being too slow. She’s a great babysitter; Wendy’s Nana could take lessons.
So why would anyone dump her off on the side of the road? Why wouldn’t any family love her? I’ll never know. For now, all I can say is that one man’s trash is this woman’s treasure.