Celebration of Life, Maya Angelou Murphy

 

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:

When I sent an email inquiring about her, I was told again that she was sweet and shy, and “really beginning to come out of her shell.”

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. Years later, she would meet Maudie in the same way--"Hello, friend!"--and trot happily beside her as well.

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.

It's all fun and squirrel chases until....

I did something stupid yesterday. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I do something mildly stupid every single day, those little idiocies I usually shrug off with a chuckle and a shake of my head. At home, when no one’s watching, I am the classic absent-minded professor, walking around with my head in the clouds, pouring boiling water into my bowl of cereal instead of into my tea mug because I’m distracted by life or composing a poem in my head or simply not awake yet.

Generally speaking, however, I don’t consciously choose to do something that might lead to harm for myself or my dog. Especially not my dog. Yesterday I did. If either one of us had come to harm, I would have had a hard time forgiving myself. There was a moment in time during which that thought occurred to me, and I reversed direction in time to keep us both safe. Whew.

Here’s how the drama played out:

I was excited to hike a new trail. As I was getting ready to head out in the morning, however, my son called, and I ended up leaving a half an hour or so later.

All was good, though. We found the trailhead, and as soon as we determined no one else was on the trail, I unhooked Maudie's leash and she was off chasing lizard after lizard after lizard (plus one bunny and one field mouse that was right under her nose). As always, she didn’t catch a thing.

Down the trail we went until we found the wash with a trickle of water running through. Maudie trotted along happily, splashing in and out of the water, sniffing everywhere, running ahead, coming back to me, living her best life. We walked about a mile and a half until we came to a drop off. We could have gone around it, but I looked at the time and the sun and determined it would be wise to head back, since we were already out later than I had anticipated.

So I turned back. Which was when we got lost. And then I got us more lost because I tried to cut over through the brush to an intersecting trail I thought for sure must be there. Critical rule of hiking: NEVER cut trail. No matter how tired you are, how lost you are. Never, ever leave an established trail.

We had walked east from the trailhead, then connected with the wash and turned south. The problem was, I hadn’t stopped to mark that connection in some way. On the way out, I had seen Maudie dash ahead, and as I stepped through some foliage, I laughed to see her already pushing her snoot into the gently flowing water. (She's always the first to find it.) We were in a deep canyon, and I was fascinated by the burrowing owl nests built into the vertical clay earth. Normally when we turn direction or step from one trail to another, I stop and look behind me, either noting a landmark or creating one by stacking rocks so that we can find our way back.

[Side note here: Maudie will always know the way back to the car. Also, Maudie will never leave my side. If I say, “We’re going this way,” she says, “Whatever you say, Mom. I’m with you no matter what.” And boy howdy, she means it.]

As I recall yesterday’s events, I believe what happened was this: On our way back, I expected to easily find the connecting trail, so I was paying more attention to Maudie’s silly antics and less attention than I should have to where we needed to take that path through the woods that led us up and out of the canyon. Then suddenly, Maudie was off like a shot, barking and yelping as I chased after her. She disappeared into a thickly wooded area, and my heart pounded as I shouted out the command that brings her to my side. I heard a rustle, held my breath, and there she was, panting but unscathed. Whatever she chased was bigger than her; she wasn’t chasing for fun. Whether it was a coyote, a bobcat, or whatever, I will never know, but I clipped on her leash and hurried up the wash to get away from the area, thus passing that all-important connecting trail.

I didn’t realize for at least a quarter of a mile that I had gone too far. Or had I? We turned and walked back. I still did not see the way out. Did I not go far enough? We turned around again and walked farther back along the trail—until a downed tree stopped us. That’s when I knew for sure I’d missed the connection. So once again we turned around, and once again we walked all the way back... as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the temperature inched from the 60's into the 70's.

And then I saw a path… or I thought it was a path. A coyote trail, perhaps. But maybe if we followed it….

I pushed through brush as I left the trail, tromping across dead leaves and branches—an absolutely stupid and dangerous thing to do when it’s rattlesnake season. Maudie, trooper that she is, plunged along beside me, undeterred by our having to bushwhack.

That’s when I found myself up against the canyon wall. My eyes followed the narrow coyote path up the side of that wall and over. I looked at Maudie.

“We can do this,” I said.

Did I mention the canyon walls were composed of clay and shale? All around on the ground were large chunks of composite that had broken off and fallen into piles as rain and wind had deepened the canyon. Undeterred, I found a handhold and pulled myself up onto a narrow shelf. Maudie tried to follow, leaping up and falling back. I waited for her to try again, then grabbed her collar and hoisted her up beside me. Now if we could just…. But no. After twenty minutes of scrambling and near rock climbing, every handhold crumbling like a soft cookie in my hand, I stopped. Turned around. Leaned against the canyon wall. Took a breath.

And that was the moment—the moment I looked down and saw that we were 30 feet above the canyon floor, my feet barely braced on loose soil—when I realized how stupid I had been. What if I fell? At the very least, I’d be very, very dirty, dust in my eyes and—more critical—in my broken lungs. And if I were injured? What then? No one knew where I was. No one was expecting me later. How long would I have to wait for rescue? And what of Maudie? The sun was moving toward its zenith. I never intended to stay out this long. I’d brought a bottle of water for her and one for me, but we had consumed most of our water already.

With a sigh and a quiet apology to my dog, I slowly angled down into a sitting position and slid my way back down, getting covered with dirt in the process but making it safely back to the canyon floor, where I stood with shaking legs, petting my dog and apologizing again. We would walk south again as long as it took to find that narrow opening. A quarter mile later, we did.

Before we left the wash, I made Maudie lie down in the water, and I splashed her belly and chest with water. The temperature was in the mid-70’s by then, but we would have no shade for the long walk uphill back to the car. She tolerated the attention well, as if this were some new crazy game we were playing. Twenty minutes later—after six or ten more lizard chases on her part—we were back in the car and headed home.

When I say this dog would go anywhere with me, I really mean it. She trusts me to be a good leader, and I take that trust seriously. Yesterday I made a rash decision that could have resulted in dire consequences. I am determined not to be that stupid again, for her sake, and for mine.

Before I leave you with this honest confession (and a sweet photo of my ride-or-die companion), a note to the scolds out there: Please suppress your admonishments. Yes, I know the first rule of hiking is "always hike with a friend." I do. I hike with Miss Maudie. If I had to arrange hiking dates with my human friends, I would rarely get to hike. For the sake of my mental health, I'm willing to take the risk, but keep in mind that 99% of the time, I abide by the other rules--only hike on established and well-used trails, don't hike at night unless in a group, and always hike with more water and supplies than you need. I'm on it. I promise. Now good night.

Home safe, tired girl

 

Pupdate

 

As is evident from the above photo, Miss Maudie was not at all happy with her vet appointment on Monday. We really just went for vaccinations, but the doc had to check her out first, and someone in the room (I’m not naming names, but there were only three of us in there) snapped at the good doctor who had been so gentle and careful with her. Oops. Thus the muzzle for everyone’s safety.

We did get those vaccinations, finally, but before that, the doc and I had a long chat about Maudie’s left hind leg. When she had her first vet appointment a year ago, I had the vet who saw us at the time x-ray her leg because I noticed that every third bounce in her gait was a skip—as if she had a peg leg. That vet (who no longer works at this hospital) examined the x-ray and found nothing.

This vet found something. (Shout out to Banning Veterinary Hospital in Banning, California, for keeping that digital x-ray as part of her chart so we could quickly pull it up and look at it together. Dr. Sobotka (who worked patiently with my spicey dog, bless him forever) stared at that x-ray for many long moments before finally saying, “I think I see the problem.”

He pointed to a shadow on her left femur that I would never have been able to discern, comparing it to the opposite leg.

“She has an old injury here,” he said. “Unfortunately, since it healed on its own, there’s nothing we can do to fix it.”

It’s okay. I didn’t cry. Well, not then, anyhow. And anyway, I already suspected as much, watching her run, knowing that she had clearly been kicked in the past. (See my post of December 17, 2025.) But I had to ask, so I did, if the injury would be consistent with someone kicking her. Yes, it could have been that, he told me, his voice as sad as my face probably looked.

Whatever. We already know that someone threw this dog away after they were cruel to it. Karma is a bitch. Not my dog, though. She’s a little sweetheart. (Even if the vet tech did have to enlist help from the back to hold her down so they could immunize her. Sheesh!)

I gave Maudie an old older lady name because it is my intention that we will grow old together. So we’re starting on that journey together, both having leg issues. Dr. Sobotka suggested massage for Maudie’s leg, encouraged our hiking (yay!) while warning that one day (like me) she would begin to have some pain from arthritis in that spot, at which point we can start her on some meds to help with that. We take one day at a time, and after every hike I will be scrutinizing her gait to make sure we don’t attempt anything too rigorous for her. We’ll be fine.

Oh, and one last suggestion from the doc (after I inquired): Maudie needs to lose weight. Yep. This little chowhound has gained eight pounds in one year. So much for using treats to help socialize her. We will cut back on everything, and I promised the doc that when he sees us next year, we’ll both be five pounds lighter (insert grimace here).

Now if I can just get my neighbor next door to stop giving Maudie bacon….

After the vet visit. Poor baby!

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.

Christmas Miracle with Maya

 

It happened. I’ve been waiting patiently for nearly five years. But it finally happened. Maya wagged her tail at me.

Yes, of course, she has wagged her tail before.

She wags her tail when it’s breakfast time.

She wags her tail when it’s dinner time.

She wags her tail at Maudie.

She wags her tail when she goes out to potty.

For crying out loud, she wags her tail after she poops, so happy is she!

But she never wags her tail at me.

Until last night.

I came into the den (where she bides her time) to perform our nighttime ritual—me crawling onto her gigantic bed, petting her ears, stroking her head, telling her she’s perfect just as she is, and shielding her when Maudie comes barging onto the bed to get some of the love.

Lo and behold, last night, as I bent down to join her on the bed, the little white tip of her tail thumped on the bed.

OH. MY. DRAGONS.

It’s been nearly five years since I brought her home—skinny, shivering, never ever making eye contact, flinching and cringing at my touch. Maya hated everything. Except Thomas. She loved Thom from Day One, would have been happy never to see me again.

Slowly, in tiny baby steps, she recovered enough for me to care for her daily without her being terrified. But her level of trust was minimal.

Until Maudie. In one year, Maudie has changed everything for Maya, has shown her how to be a dog, how to be happy while walking, how to receive and even look forward to love.

So last night, she looked up at me with her sweet face and said, “Yes, Mama, I see you coming to give me love. I’m looking forward to it.” 

Christmas. Miracle.

Thank you, dog gods.

A Brief Reflection

 

This is what I know:

Sometimes it’s not the huge problems that get us down, it’s the accumulation of many successive small ones.

Also what I know:

One dog, one leash = easy peasy.

Two dogs, two leashes = a tad more challenging (especially if Dog Two is still learning how we do this, how we walk on one side of Mom, how we don’t pull out in front of her and suddenly slam on the brakes or back up into her because, while it may amuse the neighbors to see her fumble and nearly fall and dance around to regain her balance, it is not—it is never—the correct thing to do).

Two dogs, two leashes + one bag of poop = a bit of a struggle. Does the stinky bag go in my right hand, the one not holding the leashes? It’s 40 degrees, though, and I was planning on keeping at least one hand warm in my pocket (because adding gloves to this leash-training scenario—and I do have gloves—really warm, really expensive gloves—is just out of the question). Or do I try to hold two leashes and the stinky bag of poop in one hand?

Did I mention there is also wind? And that’s it 5:30a.m.? And dark? So yeah, it’s the pre-dawn hour, and we’ve had high winds for days, and the gusts are blowing Dog One’s little floppy ears up so that every few minutes one of them folds over, exposing her ear canal, and the wind chill makes it I-don’t-know-how-cold-but-way-way-too-cold and I know how my ears would feel (but I’m wearing a knit cap plus a hood), so I stop each time to flop her ear back down to protect her tiny ear canal. But we’re training, see? So that means this:

“Maya, wait. Good girl. Sit. Good girl. Maudie, sit. Wait. Good girl. No—wait. Good girl.”

When they are both seated and waiting and I have set the bag of poop down and fixed Maya’s ear and picked up the bag of poop and secured both leashes (with very cold, very stiff hands), we begin again. Moving forward.

Then Dog Two sees a bunny.

Sigh. I am grateful that I did know that this little cattle dog will chase any and all small animals running—or flying. Had I seen her in action, I would have dismissed her as untrustworthy around The Queen Feline, and I would not have adopted her. Whew. Ignorance is bliss.

Not in this moment, though. In this moment, as I try, with freezing fingers, to hold her and Dog One and the bag of poop, ignorance is… well, it’s clearly evident.

As the bunny goes into statue mode and Dog Two rears and lunges and jumps at the end of the leash like a Blue Marlin on the line, I whisper, sotto voce, “Maudie! No chase!” That’s as loud as I can correct her, of course, because I do like my neighbors and a few of them like me and it is 5:45a.m. by now.

When the bunny’s brain has finally shifted from “Freeze!” to “Flee!” and it dives under a bush, we can move forward again, Dog Two still hypervigilant, though, searching every yard for the rascally…. Well, you get the picture.

It’s about the time when I fully regain control, priding myself on being an adequate pack leader, Dog One and Dog Two trotting nicely along, the bag of poop swinging back and forth with their stride, my right hand just starting to warm up after the bunny encounter, that my nose starts to run.

If you’ve hiked or dined with me, you know this: If it’s cold, my nose runs. I am never without a pocket pack of tissues because, if the air is cold, if the AC in the restaurant is set below 72 degrees, my nose is running.

Here’s the existential dilemma in this scenario: How long would you keep walking before stopping to blow your nose? I mean, you see what this entails—both dogs stopping, sitting, the bag of poop set down again, a tissue extracted, the mission executed….

How long would you keep walking, snot beginning to flow to the edges of your nostrils? (Okay, sorry for the visual there, but can you feel how uncomfortable it is?)

I go another 30 feet, then with an exasperated sigh, it’s this again:

“Maya, wait. Sit. Good girl. Maudie… Maudie… no, sit. Sit. Wait. Good—no, sit. Wait.”

Finally, we’re moving forward again. For a half mile, down the back side of our loop, around the corner, and around the next, we are golden—the wind is at our backs, there are no bunnies, and my nose isn’t running.

Until we turn the corner for home. We are six houses from home when my nose begins to run again, and I am eyeing the distance, and considering my options, and that’s when we see—okay, I don’t, but Dog Two sees—a small animal dart across the street.

Whining and yipping, she bolts to the end of the leash, and because I didn’t see the critter, I wasn’t ready for it, and I almost—almost—drop the leash. Which in this case would have been very, very, very bad. Why? Because as soon as it all registers—the small animal running, the heavy scent in the air—I realize that the critter she wants to chase is a skunk.

Holy smokes.

In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Aslan tells Edmund, “We can never know what would have happened.”

No, we cannot. But I have a pretty good idea in this case what would have happened had I not held onto my silly little cattle dog. But I did. I held onto her all the way back to the house and in the door, whereupon I immediately grabbed a tissue and blew my nose and exhaled loudly in enormous relief as I unleashed my hounds.

This is what I know:

Nine times out of ten, at least in my life, expecting a task or some endeavor to be routine will not be so; it will be fraught with small challenges that need to be faced and dealt with in the moment.

What I also know:

It’s all about moving forward. Unless you see a skunk in the road up ahead. In which case, it might better serve to pause and consider your options. But when the danger has passed, keep moving forward.

Three trees and a dog

 

I park in the lot above the meadow in Bogart Park. It’s early and cool. As I step out of the truck, the quiet settles on me like the light embrace of a beloved friend.

This is how I know it’s October: The slight bite in the air. The scent of wood smoke that drifts down and hovers in the meadow. The tone of the leaves rustling; soft and lilting in mid-summer when the leaves are new and tender, it is a crisper sound now, as they dry and die and fall.

Maya alights from the truck eagerly, her nostrils twitching. She knows where we are, where the trail begins, and she heads that way at a trot before I’ve barely had time to close the door and hit the lock button.

Finding the trail, she pulls to the end of her twenty-foot leash and takes the rolling hills as if they are red-carpet flat, while I laugh, struggling to keep up as I tell her, “My, slow down, honey.” But she is thrilled to be out here, so I let her charge on, and my tempo increases as my boots kick up dust.

She slows when we reach the big hill. She doesn’t like this trail because she cannot see around the corners as we wind up and around on the climb, but she comes along beside me as I reassure her. Halfway up, she veers over to a single-track trail, a deer path that she has asked so many times to follow. Every other time, I have said no. Today I tell her, “Okay, My, let’s go your way,” and once again she is charging along. I gently slow her down; I have to watch her feet and mine for rattlesnakes, as it is still warm enough to see them out.

I know where this trail goes, and I know it will double the distance of our walk today. But it is a trail I have taken before with Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, and one I have loved—though not chosen—for several years.

We wind down to the far side of the hill, Maya surprised to find the trail opening up and skirting an expansive meadow. She glances often to our right where she can hear the penned sheep that sometimes graze here.

Then we come to the first tree.

 

A fire in the fall of 2016 burned much of this side of the hill down to rubble. Black ash is still visible in the soil along the trail. But look at these oak trees. Strong. Steadfast. Beautiful. How old is this one? How many fires have threatened it? Still it endures.

The last oak we pass before taking the steep trail back up toward the parking lot boasts a picnic table beneath it. Maya waits patiently as I snap a photo… and I imagine myself sitting down with a book or a notebook and a snack, whiling away a few hours in the shade… in the quiet… in the solitude.

 

Maya does that all-over dog shake—as Frost’s “little horse” did when the poet stopped to watch the snow fall in a similarly hushed and serene place.

I, too, have promises to keep.

So we tackle the last arduous climb, then pause briefly in the shade to catch our breath before heading back to the truck and civilization.

There is another way I mark the path into October, and that is by the shorter days, the diminishing light. At one time, October was my least favorite month. As the darkness came on, my spirits would flag, my anxiety rise, often leaving me depressed until January.

No more. The cure for darkness is light. So I will be out here as often as I can be, letting Maya charge up the trail (as long as it’s safe to do so), pushing myself to walk farther each time, to take the longer route, the steeper trail, to hear my heartbeat pounding, to know that I am still alive, still surviving, and will be when the light returns once again in spring.

Regarding Dolly: An Update

 

Just a quick post here to honor a dog and her human.

Three years ago, in August of 2021, I took my neighbor Linda on a day-long jaunt to find a dog. Her beloved pug mix, Abbey, had passed away some months before, and she and her husband were feeling the absence of a dog’s magic in the house. You know, that quality they have of somehow brightening everyone’s spirits. So Linda asked me to help her find the right dog.

We went looking for “a younger dog” and came home with a fourteen-year-old. Yep. You can read that story by clicking here.

Linda and her husband Bob took that old dog that had been uncared for (and unbathed) for so long, and they scrubbed her up, brushed her out, gave her warm, soft bedding, and started feeding her cooked chicken breasts every night. I kid you not. (Thus the roly-poly Dolly you see in the photo above.) I remember Linda telling me at the time that they were committed to giving her a great life for whatever time she had left, whether that be days or weeks or months or—if they were lucky—years.

And years it was. Nearly three exactly. Dolly passed away this week at the age of seventeen. Seventeen, y’all! And that dog…. Boy howdy, was she a happy girl in her last days! Oh, not at first. She was quiet and reserved and withdrawn (and very wary of Bob). But her humans were patient. And they had chicken. And daily love and encouragement. And that dog finally began to respond, so much so that she found her happy feet. I will never forget stopping by one day and Linda telling me: “Every evening after dinner she goes into the den and dances around.” Dolly might have been too old to do zoomies, but she was never too old to dance.

A good lesson for all of us who are easing into the silver muzzle stage of life, I reckon.

Ahhh, adrenaline

For the uninitiated, let me say this: There is nothing that kicks off your sympathetic nervous system response with some high octane adrenaline like seeing three hungry adult coyotes charging down a slope toward you and your not-large dog. Boy howdy. Pro tip: Do. not. run.

If you take off running, you will not gain the experience of seeing how the lead coyote splits off from the other two so that he can head you off while the other two chase from behind. It's amazing, really. They do this without verbal commands or hand signals or walkie talkies. They simply know to hunt prey this way, and it's quite fascinating. And kind of scary.

So I stood still on the trail, Maya close beside me, but I kept my eyes moving back and forth, watching the lead guy, watching the other two. As I did this, I began talking in a voice loud enough and deep enough to make the 'yotes nervous, but I kept the lid on my urge to do some excited shouting because I didn't want to terrify my dog. She knew, though. Maya knew. She'd seen them, too, so when I started making loud growling sounds--something she's never heard me do before--she understood that I was doing this to warn off the very big creatures who had come running toward us.

Also for the uninitiated: Coyotes are damn smart.

So we watch the lead guy peal off and run parallel to us and then ahead of us, crossing the trail and abruptly stopping to hide behind a tall shrub. I know he's there because I've kept my eyes on him, and now I can see the tips of his ears above the foliage. He stands as still as I had moments ago, waiting. Watching.

What to do? We walk straight toward him.

I mean, I'm not going to turn around and go back in the direction of two coyotes, and this is the only trail out, so we're going to--I'm going to--chase him off. Which is what I do, tossing rocks into the shrub, growling, shouting (but not too loud), "Go on, 'yote!"

And he goes.

But we do not stop watching, Maya sniffing the air as we pass that shrub, all senses alert, me ready to reach down and scoop up my thirty-pound dog if I have to. But the coyote disappears into the brush.

Next item on our hiking agenda: Get the hell out of there and back to the truck. Sadly, Maya is now limping badly on her left front paw. When I find a sandy section of trail surrounded only by low foliage, I bend down to check her foot, grateful that finally, after three years, she will let me touch her feet when she picks up a thorn so I can pull it out. There is nothing in her foot pad this time, though, as I suspected. When we stopped on the trail to watch the coyotes, I realized too late we were standing near an ant's nest. I suspect she's been bitten. She licks her paw over and over, then looks up at me. I know exactly what she's thinking. It's this:

Can't you make it better? You always make it better. This hurts. Please make it better.

But I can't. Not out here. So we limp slowly down the trail, me promising to get her home as soon as possible while ever vigilant lest the coyote reappear.

We've gone fifty yards when I realize I left my hiking pole in the trail when I stopped to examine Maya's paw. We have to go back for it, back toward the coyote's hiding place. Maya limps slowly beside me, I finally pick up the pole, and we reverse direction, heading back up the trail toward the truck. It's a long slog. We were nearly to the farthest point out when we saw the coyotes. Now we've got a mile to walk back. And even though it's only 7:30a.m., it's getting hotter by the second.

We stop every time we find shade. Maya immediately crouches, turning her paw up to lick it over and over. My poor girl. We walk on.

Slowly, though, the pain in her paw starts to subside. She limps less and less, and by the time we get to the final steep uphill, she trots ahead of me. She knows the truck is on the other side. Safety assured. We've made it.

Before you ask: No, I don't carry pepper spray. The coyotes would just sneeze it off. I, however, would need to call 9-1-1 for a rescue because my lungs would immediately shut down. No, I would never carry a gun and shoot a coyote. Just no. Coyotes don't attack adult humans. It's only Maya I need to worry about. Because a coyote will hide in the bushes and leap out to steal a small dog off a leash. For this reason, I am hyper-vigilant when out in the hills with her, scanning the sides of the trail ahead for snakes or predators, scanning the ridgelines for coyotes (which is how I saw these three right at the exact moment they saw us). FYI, I often slip a pocket knife into my backpack or hiking pants if I think I may be in a dangerous situation. But we were just out for "a quick walk in the hills before it gets hot." Sigh....

Maya is fine. I am fine. The coyotes are fine but probably still very hungry. For a while. The hills are covered with rabbits and voles. They'll get breakfast, don't you worry about them. I'm just glad the menu didn't include Maya.

Thank Goodness for Dogs

 

I’ve been busy lately, finishing the last book in my Dragon Singer Series, getting it formatted, ordering books, moving all the furniture around in my house to accommodate new floors, cleaning everything as I moved it, cleaning it again as I put it back to remove the layer of flooring dust.

It hasn’t been exactly stressful, but it has definitely upset my usual routine. Dear Reader, if you’re familiar with the particular quirks of mental illness, you know that those of us with anxiety are at our best when we can follow a general routine that includes making calming, self-care spaces for ourselves.

For eight of the ten days my flooring guy, Jorge, was working, my routine was shot, and I was quite proud of how I managed my anxiety during those days. Until the last day. On the last day, I had simply reached my limit. I needed to have the quiet sanctuary of my home returned to me, and finally, by day’s end, it was.

Let me tell you what kept me sane in the interim: Maya. Even though Jorge was showing up at 8:30 every morning, and even though that meant having furniture (+books, knick-knacks, etc.) moved and the room ready and the pets sequestered by that time, I still walked Maya every morning. We’d head out around 5:30, 6:00a.m. and do a mile in the hushed darkness.

Sometimes, as the sun was coming up, we’d see bunnies munching on the new spring grass. Or quail, power-walking for cover in the gully. Or an awesome sunrise. Or the mated pair of Canada geese winging silently overhead. One morning, just as we strolled under a very tall pine tree, a great-horned owl called “Hey!” (which sounded like “WHO?” in his language) from the top of the tree. The hoot was so loud in the stillness, Maya and I both startled. Then I laughed. And Maya strained on the leash. (“I don’t know what that was, but we need to get to safety, Mom!”) Even on the day it was lightly sprinkling, we went out, both donning raincoats, unbothered by the damp when we knew we would be warm and dry upon our return.

On those walks, I sucked in the clean, fresh, cold air (since residual dust continued to swirl around my home for days), and I used the time to remind myself that (1) the day would be long but not unending, (2) I maintained control of the process; if my anxiety rose to a dangerous level, I could always ask Jorge to leave for the day, and (3) I am extremely fortunate to be able to afford this upgrade that I’ve been looking forward to for so long. (And “so long!” old carpeting.)

Gratitude. Gratitude in everything. The clarity of the stars in the pre-dawn sky, the sharp call of the resident Cooper’s hawk as it awakens, the ability to still do a brisk walk—look, Ma, no sciatica!, the progress of the little dog trotting dutifully alongside me (even though she’d rather be hiking or back in her nice warm bed).

Speaking of Maya’s bed: The first day Jorge worked, I kept Maya in my bedroom and stayed with her (and Jenny the Cat) most of the day. As the days progressed, I felt comfortable leaving the room to move things and clean, but checked on both of them frequently, often just lying on the floor next to Maya’s bed, stroking her head, rubbing her back, and kissing her soft puppy ears. (Okay, yeah, she’s nine, not a puppy. Her ears are still that soft, though.) This, as much as the long early walk, helped to keep me calm and “regulated,” as the current mental health jargon goes.

So thank goodness for dogs. Everyone should have one. Or two. Or three. Stay tuned….

Prey Drive

 

She's definitely still watching for dangerous, snarling dogs.

First, before I palaver on about prey drive in dogs, I want to express how grateful I am for the many friends who reached out to me last week when I had Stevie the Willful Dog here. It was an impossible situation, and extremely stressful. Beyond that, Maya, Jenny the Cat, and I were still grieving the loss of our big anchor, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Then the emergency situation with Stevie arose, and we were thrown into chaos for a number of days. If you called, sent a text, messaged me on Facebook, or simply commented with kind words when I posted about having to rehome her, thank you. I appreciate your caring and support more than I can say.

Next: Please don’t worry about that cute (and sassy) little lass. Stevie has moved on to a home with stellar humans who have great pack leadership skills (and no kitties, now or in the future) where she will be loved for the duration of her life. Happy ending!

As for my pack: Stevie wouldn’t work because she has a very high prey drive. A number of people have asked me what that is, so here is a brief explanation:

Puppies, kittens, coyotes, bobcats, lions, tigers, and other predatory animals are born with the instinctive drive to chase smaller moving animals that scurry or fly. Thus, you can attach just about anything (including a paper wad) to a long string, drag it across the floor in front of a tiny kitten, and be entertained endlessly by the little fluff ball’s stalking, jumping, and attacking.

In the same way, if you roll a ball in front of a puppy, chances are the puppy will at least follow it, though dogs have been domesticated to the extent that some puppies will just sit and watch the ball roll, not really engaged beyond curiosity. Other puppies, however, will somehow know that balls are for chasing, and a few puppies will be convinced from a very young age that balls are for chasing and killing.

When a dog is young, this behavior can be encouraged (“Get it! Get it! Good boy!”) or discouraged (“Good job getting the ball. Now drop it.”) Dogs, like children, learn during play. If you give a toy to a dog with strong prey drive, then cheer the dog on while it growls and shakes its head from side to side, you are encouraging the same behavior that coyotes and wolves use to kill their prey. That rapid head shake snaps the neck of the rabbit or squirrel—or small dog. Or cat.

When I went to meet Stevie at the shelter, I was able to see her interact with several other dogs, big and small, and she was good (although a bit overbearing, due to her lack of manners) with all of them. But that particular shelter does not “cat test” (which means taking the dog into an enclosure with cats to see if there is “interest” of a predatory nature), so I knew I would have to be cautious when introducing Stevie to Jenny the Cat.

Good thing I kept her on a leash. Her response was to lunge forward, stand on her hind legs, snarling and barking, trying to reach Jenny where she sat on my dresser. Yikes. I closed off the hallway with a gate so Stevie couldn’t get to Jenny, and the next day, after Stevie had some time to adjust to the house, we tried again. Same result. And later? Same result.

Yes, over time and with training, I could have extinguished the behavior in Stevie. But until that time, I would not have been able to trust her in the house alone with the cat. Which would have meant that Jenny—who claims the house, the yard, the patio, and the front porch as her domain—would have to be locked away in the bedroom for the weeks or months this correction would have taken.

That was not acceptable for either one of us.

In addition to all that, the entire point of bringing in a new dog is so that Maya will have another anchor, another big sibling to help her feel safer and more confident in the scary, peoply world. Maya found Stevie, with her need to jump and play, and her lack of good manners, as irritating as an annoying little sister.

My goal in getting Stevie out of the shelter was to right a wrong that had been done to her. In the end, that goal was met when Stevie was embraced by the folks who will now take over her training and care. Win-win. And when dogs win, my world is a happier place.

How Maya is Grieving

 

Maya Angelou Murphy

A number of people have asked how Maya and Jenny the Cat have been doing since Thomas left us. Both feel his absence, for sure, and I have no doubt that they sense my sadness as well. Consequently, Jenny has slept with me every night since our last day with him. I believe cats sense when humans are ill, and she interprets my sadness as a state of being unwell. (Purrl, before her, could also sense when I was physically ill or deeply sad, and she would crawl under the covers in those times and place her body against mine, purring as a mother cat would do with kittens—even though Purrl never had any of her own.)

Maya is another story altogether. Thomas, it seems, was her assumed body guard. When Thom could still go for walks, I would sometimes walk them together around the block, and Maya would actually be happy and excited on the leash. (In case you’re unaware, unless we’re hiking, Maya hates going for walks—because it’s just “too peoply” out there.) In the morning, with Thomas here, Maya would run into and through the kitchen, then tear through the living room, looking for things to play with, hopping and wagging her tail and barking if I didn’t get her breakfast ready fast enough. It was hilarious and entertaining every morning.

At the time of this writing, Thomas has been gone for two weeks and two days, and for two weeks and two days, Maya has gone right back to the safety of her bed after we come back in from the back yard. No running through the house. No hopping. No playing. She looks for him in the kitchen, and when she sees he isn’t there, she simply retreats to the den and curls up again.

This makes me very, very sad for her. She had come so far, but seems to be withdrawing again. I’m giving her extra love, of course, and simply going to sit with her often. But she has lost her rock, her anchor. (It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t realize that looking to Thomas for protection would be like Dorothy looking to the Cowardly Lion to do the same.)

As some of you know, months before I lost Thom, I had begun looking for a dog companion for Maya, a confident dog that would help her continue to recover and make her feel safe on walks, perhaps draw her out to interact with me more. And I wanted to get a new dog settled into my pack before Thomas left us, so that his passing would be easier on Maya. Alas, that did not happen. But, to that end….

<Spoiler alert: Big Announcement ahead>

On Friday, I adopted a dog. Before you go thinking that I rushed out to my nearest shelter and impulsively grabbed a sweet dog to comfort me in my grief, let me assure you it did not happen that way. Like, at all. This dog’s story—and I do know the entire back story—is so complex and complicated that names will be changed to keep the guilty from being publicly shamed, and I won’t even be able to share all of it here. But in my next post, I’ll give you an update on my new little girl, Stevie (not her original name), and I’ll tell you as much as I can. (If you want the full story after that, you’ll have to call me and be sworn to lifelong secrecy.)

For now, I can tell you this: Despite everything that has happened to her in recent weeks, Stevie is filled with joy and enthusiasm. Her tail never stops wagging. She loves everyone she meets—people, dogs (cats, I hope). She’s got sass and spirit (thus her name; that’s “Stevie” from Schitt’s Creek, not Stevie Nicks, though she would do for a namesake, too).

That’s all I know for now because she isn’t even home yet. She’s still in dog jail. I can’t pick her up until her spay surgery, and that can’t happen until Tuesday because of the holiday. Oh my dragons! Hasn’t this dog endured enough?? But wait—you don’t know that part of the story yet. More to come, but let me conclude by sharing one more thing.

You may be thinking that I’m all excited about bringing a new dog home. The truth is, I am 20% excited and 80% terrified. New situations and changes in routine are very difficult for me, to say the least. I function much better when things are the same, day after day—calm, steady, predictable. This is part of my mental health journey, and though I am aware of it, that doesn’t make new situations any easier. I know. You’re thinking, “New dog! Yay!” and I’m over here wringing my hands and worrying about whether my new girl will chase Jenny or pee on the carpeting or somehow (heaven help us) escape the yard. But I felt exactly this way when I brought Maya home. Well, no, with Maya I was 10% excited, 90% terrified. OK, maybe 5% excited. Really. Same with Thomas. And look what became of that.

So if you call to get the whole scoop on Stevie and I sound flustered, just reassure me that the sun will rise the next day, Jenny will come out from under the bed eventually, and Stevie will add another dimension of joy to this home that has been far too quiet without the tip-tapping of Thomas’s feet on the floor. Stay tuned. Here we go…. And may the New Year bring a new dimension of joy to your life as well (preferably a rescue dog, but that’s just my own bias speaking).

Celebrating Sgt. Thomas Tibbs

 

My sweet boy died on Friday. I started crying Thursday, midday, during my phone call to schedule an appointment with Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice, and didn't stop fully until.... Well, that hasn't happened yet, but at least I'm having long moments without tears. Not right now, though. Right now I'm crying.

Of course I've known for months this day was coming; his health issues were worsening, his arthritis pain becoming more and more difficult to manage. He wasn't comfortable... but he was still enjoying treats and cuddles, so he lived with discomfort, and I lived with anticipatory grief... a lot of anticipatory grief....

So I'm trying to let that go, now, and just celebrate his life. My god, the boy started out (at intake with Upland shelter) looking like this:

He was six years old, covered with mange, and starving. The shelter had him from June to January, treating his medical issues and trying to get him to engage with humans. Then I brought him home. At first, he was frightened of everything, even the cats. Except his bunny. He loved his bunny.

In the first couple of years, he spent a lot of time curled in a ball--much like Maya did when I brought her home. His recovery was very gradual.

I walked him every day, sang to him every night, and showered him with love. Finally, after five months, he wagged his tail at me. Two years in, he finally let me give him a belly rub. After I retired in 2016, he began to love other things--riding in my truck, going for hikes... and Purrl.

And of course, in recent years, Lamb Chop.

To me, he was a miracle. Ten years ago, he hated being touched, had no idea how to play with toys, and there was absolutely no joy in his life. While he never did learn how to play with toys, he did love chasing treats, and he gradually came to accept then welcome pets and ear scratches and back rubs. Oh, how he loved back rubs. And, up until his last days, his big tail wagged every day.

What a gift he was! My hiking buddy, my emotional support dog, my daily validation that love is indeed powerful. In fact, I learned more about true, unconditional love from Thomas than I have words for here. 

Thom's story is amazing, so of course I'm going to write a book about him. I started taking notes for that project last year. I will begin writing the book in early spring. I hope it honors him--and all those folks it took to get him out of the horrific situation he was in and safely into a shelter where kind volunteers never gave up on him. Bravo to them. And bravo to Thomas for overcoming so many fears. Good boy, Thom.