Walking with Maggie

Maggie is our 16-year-old chocolate lab/terrier mix. A “how does THAT mix turn out” expression usually crosses people’s faces when I describe her this way, and my usual response is: You know how terriers “talk”? Imagine a terrier with the lung capacity and appearance of a chocolate lab, with some white on her face and white feet. That’s Maggie.

Harold met and adopted Maggie as a puppy. Our friend Monica went with him to The Pound and was skeptical, because apparently Maggie was exactly as talkative and excitable as a puppy as she remains today, but Harold fell in love, and Maggie spent all of a few hours of her life in The Pound before he took her home.

When I met Maggie, she was about 3 years old, fast, smart, talkative, and selective in who she chose as “her people.” She is not the dog whore that Gus is (he will love the exterminator as much as me, if the exterminator pets him). I am a dog person; I know how to approach them, and usually they meet me halfway and I have an instant friend. Maggie isn’t like that, though. She ignored me at first, occasionally would check me out when Harold and I took her for walks. She actually sat herself between us on Harold’s couch when we were on a date, and she went wild whenever Harold and I danced in front of her (Harold called her a Baptist). But before long, I won her over.

I love taking walks, particularly with a dog to share the experience, so when Harold and I started dating, he would give me a key and I’d go to his place and take Maggie out for a walk. I did this a few times a week for a while, always keeping her on a leash, until one day when I decided that we were ready to test our relationship. I let her off the leash. She was so happy that she did the breathing/talking terrier thing and pranced her feet up and down. She would run ahead but always run back to me, as if to make sure it was still OK to be off the leash. “Good girl,” I’d encourage when she came back. She’d wind her tail like a helicopter, ears perked up, and run off again. Our walks bonded us, and after that she decided that I was OK. By the time Harold and I were married (less than a year after we started dating), Maggie would follow ME around, check to make sure I was OK when we went mountain biking, would wait for me if Harold went to bed first.  She’s definitely OUR dog.

These days, walking with Maggie is a meditation and an act of compassion. She is arthritic and can’t go very far, she doesn’t see well, and she doesn’t hear well. It is a slow and quiet walk. This walk is not for me; I wait patiently to let her sniff everything that she wants to sniff, let her wander in whatever direction she wants. I smile when I see her ears perk up when she smells something good. I remember the quick little dog that she was, and we slowly head back home.