7/19 Buddy stood next to my bed this morning until I got up. I followed him to the living room, where Maizey lay on the floor. Still. Too still. Scary still. I tried to get her to move. She lay there. I screamed. Jack came running. He scratched her tummy until her foot started moving. She groaned a little, not happy to be disturbed. Once I knew I she was okay I put my head on her chest and listened to her heart beat. Oh, Sweet Maizey Girl, I'm not ready to say goodbye," I cried.
"She was faking," John informed me. "She does that when she doesn't want to go outside."
Who knew a dog could play possum?
_ _ _
"I have found that when you are deeply troubled there are things you get from
the silent devoted companionship of a dog that you can get from no other source."
Doris Day
While Maizey spent her puppyhood with a loving family, we were all getting to know a sweet, gentle American Foxhound, named Suzi Q. We’d been without a dog since my father’s beloved Black Beauty passed away a few weeks before he did. My father, who owned several dogs during his lifetime, believed the only way to get over the loss of one dog was to get another as soon as possible. Even though Dad was in the palpable process of dying he seemed to think we should go right out and find a new dog to love. I didn’t say no to my father often, but I knew I wasn’t up to the task of caring for Dad and a new dog.
Getting another dog was not high on my priority list. In the full throes of grief and house renovations, a dog would have complicated things. Yet anyone who's ever been pet hunting knows it only takes an itty bitty seed of an idea —“hey, let’s go look at the Humane Society, or they’re giving away a litter of puppies on Craig’s List, or we need some cat food better stop at PetSmart, is it adoption day?” — to throw all good sense out the window. Black Beauty had been gone for 4 months, Dad 3. It was time to follow Dad's advice.
A brown and black dog, with eyes that could melt butter, Suzi Q left a cage and the din of yelping dogs at the Humane Society, hopped into our car and didn’t look back. She wasn’t the best trained dog. I’m no Ceasar Milan, so some head butting was inevitable. Mostly, Suzi wanted what we wanted — love. The kind of bond formed when a fur-covered, face-licking, dog meets ear-scratching, MilkBone treating ball-throwing humans. Suzi Q and the cats had a you-don’t bother us and we won’t bother you relationship. (I cannot say the same for Maizey).
John fell for Suzi as quickly as we did. But he was still on the lookout for “his” dog. He’d know it when he saw it. Meanwhile Maizey grew into the kind of dog that couldn’t (or wouldn’t) stay in a box all day. Let’s just say she was a handful. The kind of handful a family knows, even if they love her to pieces, needs to be “re-homed.” A heart-breaking event for the Stevensons became the love story between John and Maizey. It also became a game of who can get in more trouble for Suzi or Maizey.
The children’s book, The Diggingest Dog comes to mind. And the thousand dollars we spent on training with a renowned handler who never met a dog or horse whose bad habits he couldn’t change into good manners. The dogs performed magnificently during our living room classes. Clicking our clickers to reinforce new behaviors, Jack and John and I were proud dog parents, but as soon as Bob and his pocketful of treats walked out the front door, the two dogs exchanged sidelong glances and went back to doing what they did best -- exactly what they wanted to do. Clicker be damned. "Puppy, puppy, puppy" calls were ignored.
“Be the boss,” said Bob, the trainer.
“Show me the treats,” snickered Suzi.
"Yeh right," yawned Maizey.
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| Look at those innocent faces. What you can't see in this picture is the hole that goes halfway to China. |
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