Miss Maudie: Year One

 Day One: "What is this place?"

I saw her as I strolled through the San Bernardino City Shelter with a friend. We were looking for her dog, a gorgeous German Shorthair Pointer that had somehow been left behind. Jeanette works with this breed in cadaver search and recover, and she’d seen Maggie’s profile online. I agreed to go with her to “look” (ha ha ha ha ha) because it had been a year since Thomas died, and I kept wanting to believe I was ready for another dog. (Here’s the truth: We’re never “ready,” are we? Like, “Okay, whew, I’m over that heartache. Where’s my new dog?” Nope. Not ever. Still… I needed a hiking partner. Maya needed a sibling. It was time. It was hard.)

Then I saw a blue heeler curled in the tightest dog donut ever. Thomas, you may recall loyal reader, was one quarter Australian cattle dog. But… I was looking for a male. The kennel card indicated this was a female. And a two-year-old. I didn’t want a young dog. (We older folks are constantly doing math: I was 70. If the dog lived to be 16, I would be 84. Would long dog walks be sustainable…?)

The stray hold on Jeanette’s dog wasn’t up yet, so we left. I came back the next day and sat by the little heeler’s kennel, talking quietly to her. I came back twice more, the final time with Jeanette on the day she picked up Maggie to take her home forever. I started to leave with them.

“Weren’t you going to do a meet & greet with that blue heeler?” she asked.

Sigh. I supposed so.

When the kennel worker saw which dog I wanted to meet, she physically cringed, her shoulders slumping.

“Okay,” she said, “We’re going to go really slow with this one.”

I waited 15 minutes for her to get the terrified dog cornered and leashed. When they emerged, finally, from the kennel area, the dog straining at the end of the leash, trying to escape, the whites of her eyes showing, I stood quietly grounded, not making eye contact. As soon as my girl saw me, she ran to me, dragging the kennel worker along behind. The anxious dog sat on my feet, then turned and stood, placing her paws on my waist, begging to be picked up. As if she were a puppy.

“Whoa. She’s never done that before,” the kennel worker said.

“I guess she’s going home with me,” I said.

In the weeks that followed, I ascertained this from Miss Maudie’s behavior:

1. She had been someone’s spoiled baby. When I showed her around the house, she saw the couch and wanted to climb up on it, but she looked to me for permission first. “No,” I told her. “No dogs on the couch.” She has never tried to get up there since.

2. She had some type of obedience training. When I asked her to sit, she would move around behind me and sit on my left side, as dogs learn in some classes. She still does this.

3. She had been hit and kicked in her past life. This became clear immediately. If I raised my hand, she ducked. If I lifted a leg, she jumped away. I learned to move slowly, to signal to her that I was just going to pick up something or put something down. She still flinches at times when I touch her without warning her first.

4. She is wary of adults, but reactive to young children. Twice on the hiking trail she has lunged at and tried to nip very young kids with absolutely no provocation, just the kids walking silently past. It triggers something in her. I think I know what that is.

For the uninitiated, there is a children’s cartoon entitled “Bluey.” The main character is a blue heeler (or the cartoonish semblance of one). My great-granddaughter loves Bluey. Sadly, kids’ love of the show has caused parents to buy puppies “just like Bluey!” Except… your average cattle dog is nothing like the kind, mild-mannered cartoon character. Cattle dogs are sassy and independent. And they nip. Boy howdy, do they nip. I’ve had Miss Maudie 366 days as of today. She has nipped me at least that many times, if not twice that many. She has never done this aggressively; she nips when she’s happy or excited. Still. It pinches….

I suspect that Maudie was someone’s beloved puppy. Until she wasn’t. Until she grew up and asserted herself and nipped, whether out of joy or because someone was smacking or kicking her. Then she was dumped. Or, more likely, the “reporting party” that had her picked up by animal control, claiming she was a “stray,” had had enough of her.

Their loss. My gain.

Maudie is my ride or die out on the trail. She will stand between me and anything, big or small, be it bobcat, coyote, raccoon, or human. Her joy abounds—especially if there’s water, her favorite thing to find in the whole world. She loves that even more than dead decaying animal carcasses to roll in. (Ick.)

What she can do now:

Walk nicely on a leash with Maya.

Release a toy/bone/whatever at my command “Let me have it.”

Stand still when we see critters at my “NO CHASE” command (which must be given sternly, because damn it, she wants to herd those deer!).

Give kisses on command. (Thank you, Maudie!)

Return to me every time I call. (“Come by me!” is the command.)

Untangle herself from her leash at the command “Fix yourself.” (This is fun and amazing to watch.)

Jump into the truck (“Load up!”) and straight into the crate she travels in, turning around and waiting for me to zip her in.

Wait patiently for her food until I release her with the “Okay!” command.

Speaking of patience; she is the most patient dog I’ve ever had. I write in the morning. She waits. I walk her and Maya early, then eat breakfast, then sit down to work. She knows at the end of my writing session, she gets another walk. She will lie patiently for as long as it takes—until I stand up. Then she’s on her feet in seconds, wagging her tail, ready to go.

Maudie loves Maya. Like, loves her. Kisses her, nips her, nuzzles her, and did try to cuddle up to her at first but Maya snapped at her. Aww, poor Maudie!

Maudie hates Jenny. Disdains her. Lifts her lip and bares her teeth at her. Jenny will never cease in her effort to make peace with her. But that’s why I love Jenny; she reminds me daily that we can love those who don’t love us in return, who treat us in ways we don’t deserve. Hey, it’s their problem, right? Not ours. Good kitty, Jen!

Has it been 366 days of love and joy with Miss Maudie? No. It certainly has not.

She hoovers up as many things as she can get away with while we’re out walking, literally trotting down the street with her nose between her front feet. Her favorite day is the day after trash day. She has stolen food that people left on graves—cheeseburgers, chow mien noodles, green… stuff. She has managed to find at least two rotting rabbit bones and crunched them down before I could even give her the command to “leave it.”

Like other dogs of her ilk, she loves to roll in nasty stuff, the nastier, the better. (Her life motto seems to be “Anyone’s trash is my treasure.”) She is so smart, she has learned to drop back behind me on the trail so she can roll in something behind my back so that I don’t see her and stop her.

She is dirty more often than she is clean.

But hey, she will come right into the shower with me and allow me to bathe her, so there’s that.

And even when she’s naughty, she is at least entertaining. Even when she’s nipping me.

So here’s to whomever decided to ditch this dog: Thanks! She is loyal and loving and hilarious and beautiful. Your trash. My treasure.