Life Lessons From Maggie

Maggie was our first dog. When we chose to adopt a shelter pet, we felt altruistic, but it was Maggie that did us a favor by joining the family. We had no idea the countless ways she would enrich our lives. We are heartbroken without her daily presence.

Maggie constantly demonstrated how to live life. We just need to embrace her attitude and innocent spirit.
 

1. Welcome the start of each day with joy.  A positive attitude spreads to those around you.

2. Greet all beings, human and creature without prejudice. Assume you will be friends.

3. Don’t worry about mistakes. That decision is over and done. Move on and forget about.

4. Make sure you always know the location of all the people you love.

5. The most important moment is right now. Live in the present without regret about yesterday or worry for tomorrow.

6. Get outside every day to smell the flowers, feel the sun, or frolic in the snow.

7. Don’t hold a grudge.

8. Clean up after yourself – nuff said.

9. Don’t worry so much about what you look like.

10. Eat a treat before dinner, it won’t ruin your appetite and it’s delicious! 

11. Expect goodness. Be surprised when something bad happens.

12. Keep a look out for simple treasures that are right under your nose.

13. Get your beauty sleep. A nap in the sunshine is very rejuvenating.

14. Sometimes people need a little nudge to get going in the right direction. When done with love (and your nose), they appreciate the extra motivation.

15. Love unconditionally.

Extinction of the Corgisaurus

It was a couple of months after our move to Massachusetts and we could no longer put off our promise to get a dog. I have to admit I was dragging my feet a bit, but when I saw the advertisement for the Save-A-Dog open house I knew the time had come. 

My husband and I had criteria for our new dog; NO PUPPIES was number one, followed by not too big, not too furry, not too much shedding and not too much barking.

“Impossible,” my kids said, but the excitement was high as we drove the Save-A-Dog open house. With all the adoptable dogs out there, I was confident we would find a dog that fit our family.

At the Save-A-Dog event, the kids tumbled out of the car and immediately investigated an adorable litter of fuzzy golden puppies.

“Mom, Mom, MOM! Look at the puppies!” My ten-year old dragged me to the play yard that corralled the furry, wiggling bundles of fun.

“Oh no,” I said even as I put my fingers into the thick, soft fur of a puppy with big brown eyes and wandering tongue. I had to steel myself from its heart-melting cuteness. “Come on, let’s go to the information table,” I said and we headed to group of volunteers in Save-A-Dog t-shirts.

A Save-A-Dog volunteer handed me a clipboard to fill out our family information and dog wish list. I started with the checklist, Adult dog – yes. Female – yes. Size – medium. Do you work outside the home? – no, (I worked remotely from my living room). Do you have a fenced-in yard? – yes, (luckily it came with the house). Provide the contact information of a veterinarian you plan to use with your new dog.  There was no box for “I have no idea” so I skipped ahead. Provide two personal references that know you and your ability to provide a good home for the dog. HMMM I would have to get back to that one. I flipped the page and was shocked to see how many additional questions Save-A-Dog asked.  Will you be feeding dry kibble and if so, what brand? Will you feed a raw diet? The list went on for four pages. I thought, are you kidding? I dated men knowing less information than this form required.

“Can I finish this at home if we find a dog we like?” I asked the Save-A-Dog volunteer.

“Sure,” she said, “why don’t you just look around?”

My husband pointed out a tiny, trembling white dog with a high-pitched bark named Snowball. She met the not-too-big, not-too-much-fur requirements but she seemed a bit skittish. Snowball bared her sharp teeth, and growled low in her throat as we approached. “Snowball doesn’t stand a chance in hell of coming home with us,” I muttered.

My daughter chose a big brown Lab/Rottweiler/something mix that wagged its whole body with joy. “Too BIG,” my husband and I said in unison.

The Save-A-Dog volunteer glanced at our application. “New dog owners. Well that narrows it down,” she said and started pointing at dogs lined up in their crates. “Not that one, nope, definitely not that one, no, maybe, no...”

My husband pointed at a mid-sized, fluffy white and tan dog with big stand-up ears and a flag of a tail. “What about that one? She’s pretty.”

“Yes, that’s Maggie,” said the Save-A-Dog volunteer. “She is an excellent choice. She just came up from a high-kill shelter in West Virginia. Very sweet and not a big barker. She just needs to be spayed.”

“I don’t know,” I said slowly, eyeing the thick white coat and calculating fur per square inch. “I was hoping for a dog that doesn’t shed much. What kind of dog is she anyway?”

The volunteer consulted Maggie’s paperwork and confidently answered, “She’s a Welsh Corgi/Collie mix.”

OK, I could see the resemblance to a Corgi in her face, her tan and white coloring and shorter-than-average legs. The Collie part was up for discussion.

      

“That’s a whole lot of fur,” I said, but my family ignored me as they greeted Maggie with enthusiasm. She wriggled all over them, bumping her head into hands, weaving through legs and wagging excitedly. After a long trip from West Virginia in a crate and a week in a foster home, Maggie just wanted someone to love. Ten minutes with Maggie and we knew she was the one.

A few weeks later, Maggie had recovered from her spay surgery and was settled in with us. Owning a dog jump started my exercise routine and introduced me to our new neighbors as we walked our daily route. People frequently stopped us to ask what kind of dog breed she was and before long, I had dog-owner walking companions. Maggie was a great ambassador for our newly transplanted family. 

I absolutely loved having a Corgi mix breed. The queen of England has Corgis so I figured I was on good company. Corgisaurus climbed to the top of ridiculous Maggie nicknames. I bought a couple of books on Corgis, and it was amazing how much Corgi personality there was in our dog. I fantasized about someday having a pure-breed Corgi puppy and my daughter and I became fans of the Web site, www.corgiaddict.com, even posting a photo or two of our Corgi mix breed along with the other crazy Corgi owners.

My family recognized my growing obsession with finding Maggie’s real heritage. We knew she was a Corgi, but what was the other dog parent? My son and I spent hours looking at images of Corgi mix breeds on the Internet and decided that Maggie was not part Collie, but most likely a Corgi/Lemon Beagle mix. The resemblance was undeniable:

In order to stop the madness, my family gave me a Canine Heritage DNA test as a gift. I was so excited to open the test results and see what other dog produced our beautiful, but unusual looking Maggie.

The Canine Heritage test results proved you should not judge a book by its cover or believe a Save-A-Dog volunteer. Maggie is NOT a Corgi, or a Collie or even a Lemon Beagle. Maggie is primarily an Australian Shepherd with a little Husky (those ears!), Italian Greyhound (?) and Wirehaired Pointing Griffon (we had to look that one up) thrown in. Maggie is the true definition of an American mutt.

So much for rubbing elbows with the queen of England. I have had to realign almost six years of touting the advantages of owning a Corgi. I gave up her Corgisaurus nickname, donated my Corgi book to the library book sale and rescinded my membership to www.corgiaddict.com.

Maggie of course, remains unfazed. 

The Silver Lining (Happiness is Peanut Butter!)

In 2006, my husband and I decided to move our family to Massachusetts after living our entire lives in Connecticut. This was a big decision for us and our two children met our announcement with enthusiastic remarks including, “You are ruining my life” and “I will hate you forever!” Like most good parents, we attempted to appease our unhappy children with a bribe. Adopting a dog was the ultimate bargaining chip, but it came with conditions.  As my husband and I were occasional work-at-home professionals we could not have a noisy, boisterous dog interrupting us on the phone. My children insisted that finding a quiet dog would be impossible and what I really wanted was a cardboard cutout of a dog. I had to agree, until we met Maggie.

Maggie is an unusual Welsh Corgi/Lemon Beagle/who-knows-what mix with fluffy marmalade and white fur and a compact, low-slung body. Purported not to bark, Maggie instead communicated with a repertoire of whines, yowls, sighs, and other sounds reminiscent of cartoon dogs. Just the right size, with big expressive ears and vocally amusing, she seemed the ideal dog.

Maggie came to us a bit underweight and with worn down teeth from being chained outdoors. It quickly became apparent that Maggie had not been treated well and as a result did not expect much of us – a perfect fit for ignorant, first-time dog owners. We offered plenty of love, a soft bed and most importantly, an abundance of food. It did not take long for Maggie to realize that she had won the dog lottery and settled right in as one of the family. (I’m the center of the universe!)

Over the years we have had our share of mischievous behavior surrounding Maggie’s love of all things edible including a stolen ham (My stubby legs do reach the counter!), missing muffins (Pumpkin is my favorite!), and most recently, the disappearance of an entire sheet cake. (Do you think this cake makes me look fat?) But this year proved to be our most eventful one yet.

After repeatedly putting off dental treatment for our dog (I have a hard enough time getting us all to the dentist), I finally decided to have Maggie’s worn-down nubbins removed when my vet sent a coupon for discounted dental procedures. Since I am a sucker for a good coupon, I dropped Maggie off for minor dental surgery.  Of course, minor surgery turned into major surgery and resulted in the majority of her teeth being removed. When I arrived at the vet, Maggie cheerfully ambled out, weaving slightly with her tongue lolling out of her mouth. The vet reassured me that she would eventually learn to keep her tongue in her mouth despite her lack of teeth. In the meantime, I owned a dog that resembled Gene Simmons.

A few days later I was giving Maggie her pain meds using a narrow silicone spatula to reach the bottom of the peanut butter jar. Maggie loves peanut butter and will eat anything embedded in it – pain pills, rocks, shoes, etc. The pills were going down easily when suddenly she got this crazy look in her eye, used her two remaining teeth to grab the spatula and promptly ate it. I was left holding the empty handle futilely yelling NO, STOP, DROP! To no avail; the spatula was gone. I was beyond distraught, but Maggie was quite pleased with herself. (Peanut butter is my favorite!)

Back at the vet, I waited for the results of her X-ray, spatula handle in one hand and my credit card in the other. Maggie wagged joyfully and investigated the biscuits on the counter. (Treats are my favorite!) The bad news was that silicone does not dissolve and was not “just passing through.”  The good news was we got the frequent flyer surgical rate. As Maggie happily trotted off to surgery number two (Another adventure!), I took a deep breath and signed the consent form to retrieve the world’s most expensive spatula.

Two days later Maggie, aka Frankendoggie, was home and feeling just fine. She had no apparent after effects from either surgery with the exception of a few stitches and an assortment of shaved patches (belly, leg, back). After eating her first special post-op dinner Maggie pawed around her bowl trying to determine if there was more hiding under it. (Remarkably delicious!)  Apparently $6.95 a can is significantly tastier than a scoop of dry kibble worth 49¢. Dogs, I have learned, can always find the silver lining.

I wish I could say Maggie has learned a lesson, but she still has the brain power of a newt, the appetite of goat and the relentlessly sunny disposition of a dog. (Did someone say peanut butter? Peanut butter is my favorite!) In the meantime, I keep my credit card at the ready and my spatulas in a locked drawer, because when you own a dog you never know what life may dish up.

Life is a Piece of Cake

The end-of-the-year soccer party was bittersweet. We had almost reached our four-year anniversary of moving to Holliston, Massachusetts. The four years were filled with change – new schools, new church, new jobs, new friends. We were all settled in, roots growing down and eyes to our future when life sent us another curve ball. We were moving back to Connecticut in just a couple of weeks. Connecticut held family and old friends, but we would sorely miss the life we built in Massachusetts.

Our eighth-grade son played on a soccer team with the same wonderful coach for most of the time we lived in Massachusetts.  It seemed appropriate to host the soccer party – a thank you to the coach (who had become a personal friend), and a last hurrah for our son and his team. It was a satisfying day filled with comfortable adult conversation, good food and the laughter of a dozen seventh and eighth-grade boys splashing in the pool. Our rescue mutt, Maggie was in her element, trotting from house to pool, snitching a fallen chip or lapping up soda from forgotten cups. The day ended too soon, with player awards and a large sheet cake decorated in a soccer motif.

Standing in the yard as the last car departed, we wiped away a few tears and turned to confront the damage. Solo cups, paper plates and forgotten beach towels littered the yard. Inside the house were half-empty platters of food and lots of leftover dessert. I started cleaning up the house while my husband and children tackled the yard and pool area.

A few hours later, with the garbage collected and the house in order, we headed to bed. Half a sheet cake remained on the counter along with six cupcakes still in their grocery store package. Breakfast! Our family firmly holds to the belief that cake is a perfectly acceptable breakfast entrée.  It contains the basic food groups – eggs (protein), flour (grain) and milk (dairy). Not to mention it is delicious.

In less than two weeks, school would be out and we would pack up four years of our life and move home. I tossed and turned as I tried to determine if “home” is a place or a state of mind. I finally fell into an exhausted slumber and did not resurface until long past my usual hour. I awoke with the sun shining full in my face. Odd, I thought as I struggled from sleep, it is so quiet in the house. The clock displayed 7:30 AM and I say bolt upright in bed – Maggie must be dead!

For four years, Maggie had been a reliable morning alarm clock. Although she does not bark, Maggie whines, yowls and snuffles us awake everyday from her post at the bottom of the stairs.  Maggie rises with the sun (the actual time of day matters little), eager to embrace the day and anxious to eat. For Maggie, food is her number one priority. She typically greets me by “pogoing” straight up in the air and weaving between my legs for a brisk petting session before herding me down the hall toward the Holy Grail – her empty bowl. Therefore, this morning’s silence was ominous.

I threw on a bathrobe and descended the stairs cautiously. “Tick, tick, tick tick,” Maggie’s nails sounded on the hardwood floor as she slowly rounded the corner from the dining room. My first emotion was relief that Maggie was not dead, followed by curiosity about what she held in her mouth. It only took a moment to determine that it was the frosting-covered, bas-relief soccer decoration from the top of the sheet cake. I ran down the remaining stairs and hit the foyer in a skid, arms flailing wildly as I sought to regain my balance. I realized that frosting was smeared all over the floor, along the baseboard heating elements, across the foyer carpet and into the dining room. Yikes!

Dogs have an innate sense of right and wrong and Maggie shied away when I said, “Maggie, come!” She did not intend to give up her prized possession and instinctively knew her behavior was solidly in the “wrong” column.  My slippers made sucking sounds as I entered the frosting-smeared dining room in pursuit of the cake thief.  We did a few laps around the dining room table with Maggie firmly in the lead. A quick direction change on my part brought success and she reluctantly relinquished the frosting-filled cake decoration.

Maggie retreated to the kitchen as I stood in disbelief in the doorway.  The box containing the sheet cake was destroyed; only crumbs of the marble cake remained. A trail of frosting and cake descended the kitchen cabinets and covered the floor. Maggie must have pushed and pulled the box all over the house as she feasted on her prize. In the corner of the kitchen lay the mangled aluminum tray and plastic lid that had contained six grocery-store cupcakes. All were missing, including the shiny foil cupcake wrappers.

I whirled around, calling “MAAAGGGIIIIEEE!” and located the culprit hiding in her crate in the corner of the kitchen.  With her tail at half-mast and downcast eyes, Maggie crept out of her crate and approached me tentatively.  Maggie’s normally compact body was swollen beyond comprehension. Possessing shorter-than-average legs, Maggie’s stomach was so big it hovered just a few inches above the ground, swaying from side to side like a pendulum. I flip flopped between hysterical laughter and anxiety she would spontaneously burst, spewing half-digested cake and frosting all over me.

Feeling a bit ridiculous, but sure that a dog who has ingested most of a sheet cake and six cupcakes (including wrappers) was considered an emergency; I dialed our local vet for advice. Holliston is a small town and our solo-practice veterinarian deferred Sunday morning emergencies to Tufts University Animal Hospital. I quickly dialed the Tufts 24-hour emergency hotline while keeping an eye on Maggie who furtively licked frosting off the refrigerator door.

The emergency technician made an inventory of Maggie’s breakfast, “Let’s see, half a marble sheet cake, white butter cream frosting, six vanilla cupcakes with icing and sprinkles and six foil cupcake papers. Is that all?”

“Is that ALL?” I repeated in disbelief. “Isn’t that enough? She looks like a balloon animal.” 

Apparently, in the big picture of Tufts emergency calls, my cake-eating-dog emergency was actually banal. The vet tech calmly informed me that as long as the foil cupcake wrappers made an appearance in the next 24 hours, she should recover with no long-term health issues. Even the small quantity of chocolate she consumed was not dangerous for a forty-pound dog. All that was required was patience and a whole lot of quality time in the great outdoors.

As I hung up the phone, I heard a strange gurgling sound and a great cloud of doggy gas filled the kitchen. Maggie danced at the sliding door urging me to let her out. I needed no further incentive. Sliding across the kitchen, I flung open the door and Maggie dashed outside. Without a second to spare, the “The Great Cake Escape” began.

For the next 12 hours, I was Maggie’s digestive doula. I cheered her on as she dug holes and deposited each foil cupcake wrapper, expertly using her nose to cover them with dirt as if they were tasty treats to be retrieved later. I cleaned up after her many “sheet cake moments” with a soothing “It’s OK Mags,” and her belly slowly deflated. As time (and cake) passed, Maggie returned to her normal size and her noxious fumes dwindled to an occasional puff.

Amazingly, by evening Maggie was again her cheerful self, eyeing our dinner and begging for a treat; the digestive events of the day already a distant memory. She was thrilled to discover that boiled chicken was her diet for the next few days – in her eyes, a giant improvement over daily kibble. For Maggie, life was good – no regrets.

After dinner, I took a moment to step out on the deck to appreciate the late June evening and the sound of the tree frogs croaking. I smelled the moist, rich mud of the pond and marveled at the flight of the green herons against the pink sky. This particular pair of herons returned each summer to nest on our pond. They were one of the innumerable things I would miss about our life in Holliston.

Maggie gave me a gentle nudge with her nose as she joined me on the deck. I absently scratched her ears and she flopped down with a happy sigh, wagging contentedly. Like Maggie, I tried to embrace the present moment instead wishing I were somewhere else.  Life was good - I just wish she had saved me a piece of cake.