Oof. This
post will be really tough to write….
If you’ve ever purchased a home, you’ve learned that a “charming cottage” is realtor code for “old and small.”
Apply that knowledge to the descriptions some rescues post of available dogs, and you might begin to understand how I was lured into adopting Maya. The online post described her as “sweet” and “shy” and a “Beagle mix.” Your heart is already melting. I can feel it. So was mine. But… the post was accompanied by a shadowy photo of her taken from very far away. Hmm, I thought. They couldn’t have taken a couple of mug shots? No, because this is what Maya actually looked like when anyone came close to her:
What I found when I drove an hour and a half to meet her was anything but how she’d been described.
First of all, Beagle? Nope. Not one single allele on her DNA. Eighteen different breeds, primarily chihuahua and Jack Russell terrier, but no Beagle.
Sweet and shy? Not at all sweet. She would prefer you never touch her, and would be much happier if you would just let go of that leash and allow her to follow her wild ancestors into the woods to live forever away from the presence of noisy, terrifying humans. Oh, but hey, if you’re going to force the issue with her and keep that leash on, please know she had the power to bite it in two pieces quicker than Maudie can snap up a dead worm off the street.
Not at all shy, either, just absolutely terrified of everyone and everything. Go away. Just go away everyone.
Who adopts a dog like this?
I must say in absolute truth that I am forever grateful to my friend, Jennette Yates, who suggested, when I confessed my hesitation about bringing such a dog into my pack, that I may be “uniquely qualified” to take on Maya’s challenges, since I had taken on those of Sgt. Thomas Tibbs and had brought him around to being the sweet boy he turned out to be. Listen, I’ve done a lot of things in my life. No one has ever deemed me “uniquely qualified” to do anything. So maybe this?
Maya was a
pain in the ass from the beginning, like a roommate you keep trying to be friends with
but she leaves dirty dishes around the place and never cleans the bathroom all
while demanding that everyone else in the house be quiet and leave her alone.
Maya bit through a harness the first day I brought her home and two leashes before I finally got her leash
trained. She never—ever—came when she was called. In six years, she never took
a treat from my hand, though she was offered them several times a day. Every
day. High value treats. Expensive ones. Six years. Oh—except her nightly dental
chew, which she would snatch out of my hand because she wanted it so badly, her
lips pulled back so she wouldn’t touch my fingers.
But… oh, how my troubled little girl loved Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. He met her like the gentleman he was when I brought her home, and she wagged her tail for him (not for me, not for many, many months), and the two decided they would be best buds. For that, she was worth every penny, every hassle, every chewed leash, every rejection. Once I finally got her walking on a leash (before sunrise, before the rise of noisy, terrifying humans), that girl trotted along beside Thomas like the two were trained cart ponies.
I loved her for that. And I loved her impossibly soft ears. And her ability to somehow cocoon herself into a blanket so that only her nose was visible. And her deer-like leaps around the back yard at 4:00a.m. after she’d had a good poop. And (eventually) her early morning zoomies around the house with Maudie, the two of them absolutely terrorizing poor Jenny as they ran circles through the kitchen, dining room, and living room.
Mornings are eerily quiet in the house now.
Some months after I adopted Maya, I had my vet run blood work due to some issues I saw with her fecal material. He put her on an antibiotic, which cleared up that issue, but he also warned me that “there might be some issues with her liver.” Maya was never sick, not one day, after that… until she turned 12—or whatever age she actually was. Then everything broke down at once, her liver failed, and it was time to finally hold her head in my lap—for the first and only time, because she was sedated—and tell her goodbye.
This is the hardest and best thing we do for the dogs we love. We give them as much as we can—safeguards against disease, exercise, good food, soft beds, far too many treats, and a peaceful end to their suffering when it is time. Yes, it’s heartbreaking, and my heart is still trying to heal from the grief and guilt of not being able to do more for Maya, not being able to bring her along further than I did.
Will I do it again? Probably. Because, you know, it may be the one thing I’m “uniquely qualified” to do.
Rest in peace, my dearest, darling My. Run free and wild with Tommy Boy—no leashes!—until I’m there to join you.
