Maisy

We buried a dog this week, and not just any dog.  This was a 70 pound, bearded, coarse haired cur named “Maisy,” and for the past 13 years there was scarcely a day we were not together. 

Lee found her on Craigslist. We were, at the time, about three months into a one year agreement to not own a dog, but there was something in the photo of this girl that altered the plan. We went for an initial meeting and found her sitting bolt upright, propped by long front legs, looking regal. She was rail thin, had a urinary tract infection, in need of spaying. We took her home. 

When we got back to our house she leapt from the car and was on a dead run, exploring her new territory. She spied a chipmunk that streaked across the patio then disappeared under the dock at the edge of the pond. In flaming pursuit the dog launched herself full speed into the pond, then began an awkward attempt to swim while remaining vertical. It was a baffling display of thrashing but she eventually made it to shore, and my wife said, “That dog can’t swim.”  “Agh,” I responded, “all dogs can swim!”  It took some time but I was proven wrong— this dog, indeed, could not swim. With training she would eventually learn, but she would never learn to enjoy it. 

Maisy hated obedience exercises. When put on a leash for training she’d assume a dejected attitude as if cruelly reprimanded, and seemed thoroughly bored with the stop-sit-stay-come routine. It turned out she was listening— and learning— but from her perspective there were matters of much greater priority and urgency. 

In her youth she was built like a cheetah and behaved accordingly. She lived to run and ran with artistry, her head steady, legs sending her forward in long strides, covering great distance with impressive power.  Yet, she could turn on a dime, and with these talents would often overcome whatever she deemed as prey. When in a playful mood, she’d work herself into a frenzy spinning in tight circles with her butt an inch off the ground. She was speed and agility perfected. 

She was a sight hound with a hesitancy to use her nose because stopping to smell things necessarily interfered with running. She would barrel through fields of weeds, leaping high in search of anything she might flush, then follow in hot pursuit as long as she could see her quarry. She was interested in anything furred with one exception: she could identify a hawk at 100 yards and would sprint hell bent in its direction, eyes skyward. 

Her posture while sitting was abnormally erect, her spine nearly perpendicular to the ground.  We were never sure exactly what combination of breeds made her, but there was no shortage of speculation from casual observers. Irish wolfhound was often mentioned, as was Norwegian deerhound and Lurcher.  A DNA test indicated she was predominately Airedale, with Akita and other miscellaneous thrown in.  None of it really mattered.  She was a handsome girl, 95 percent sweetheart, and worked her way into my heart like no dog ever had.

She was a perfect traveler, even on multi-day trips. She’d sit or lie in the backseat without a sound or sign of restlessness, content only to be with us and to occasionally hang her head out the window and drool down the side of the truck.  We spent years adjusting our routines so she could be included, taking time for daily walks, making travel plans that allowed for her, forfeiting hikes and venues where dogs weren’t allowed. 

I sometimes resented her need for accommodation and her senseless disruptions.  There were evenings when her inability to decide if she wanted in or out of the house drove me to distraction. But then she’d walk up and with the most expressive eyes in the animal kingdom ask for hearty rubs behind the ears, and I would respond and she would lean into the pleasure with groans of contentment and all would be forgiven.  And then there were nights in bed when I’d look up to find her eyes locked on mine, watchful, with a loyalty beyond measure. 

She slowed down the last couple years, lost her cheetah behaviors as her hips were failing.  She began struggling with stairs and had to be lifted into the car and onto the bed. She showed only casual interest in nearby squirrels and rabbits, fell behind during walks. Then she quit eating. 

We made arrangements with the vet. One of our sons called for an update and suddenly I couldn’t speak. I don’t cry easily. I don’t cry at all. Damn this dog. 

Sir Walter Scott said, “The misery of keeping a dog is his dying so soon. But, to be sure, if he lived for fifty years and then died, what would become of me?” 

It’s different around the house these days. Something’s amiss first thing in the morning and the last thing at night and a hundred times in between. We’re not looking for another dog, we’re still looking for ours. 

She was still warm when we laid her in the ground. Still huggable. I scratched her ears one last time.