Dog Gone Miss Maggie.

By ART LAWLER

June 11, 2008 10:26 am

— At first it was nuisance shedding. The kind that leaves dog hair flying around the house before landing in your mouth.
But as time wore on, Miss Maggie began to unravel with alarming speed.
Next thing you knew, I was sweeping up about a pound of her each evening.
As the temperatures rose, entire splotches of Miss Maggie’s coat of beautiful blond fur began to show up on the floor, the couch, the bed, you name it.
At this rate, Miss Maggie, who weighed 40 pounds three months ago when I got her from Friends of the Animals, figured to weigh about nine pounds by the Fourth of July.
Nothing to do but force Miss Maggie into the backseat of the car. I know most dogs love riding around, sticking their tongues out at all the passers by.
But not Miss Maggie.
She lowers her head, as if she’s on death row, every time she’s forced into the backseat.
By the time I took her out so she could be mowed by professionals, the back seat of my car was one solid sheet of fur.
By the time I got her back, she looked like a skinned rat. A big rat, to be sure, but still a nice, friendly rat.
I think she feels better now.
The truth be known, I’ve been worried about her from the beginning.
At times she seems awfully sad. I’ve bought her toys. I’ve made faces. I’ve tickled her.
Sometimes she’ll cheer up. Other times she just presses her head against the couch, and I have to pet her nose, eyes and head in one smooth stroke.
She never barks, as if somebody has taken the joy out of her voice box.
If she could sing, it would be something like the old spiritual: “Nobody knows, the troubles I’ve been through. Oh, nobody knows but me....”
Taking care of a live being after being alone for almost a decade, has turned out to be more confining than I realized.
Not that I’m complaining. I do get more exercise now. She’s a great companion to watch television on the floor with.
And she loves me semi-unconditionally.
Just as long as the dog food and water bowl remain fresh and full.
Once, while we were lying on the floor watching TV, I heard this ominous whistle sound coming out of her nose. Kind of shook me up.
It was a loud, long whistle.
Turned out, Miss Maggie was having a nightmare.
I woke her up, patted her back to sensibility, and tried to get her to tell me what was going on in her bank of bad memories.
She didn’t tell me, of course. The dog couldn’t even bark. How do you expect her to talk?
Anyway, I’ve got a theory, and it’s backed up by the people who mowed, off about 20 pounds of fur the other day.
We think somebody had one of those collars where you send volts of electricity into the dog as a kind of disciplinary action every time she barks.
I personally don’t care whether my Miss Maggie is highly disciplined or not, just as long as she lets me know when it’s time to go poo-pooh, etc.
She’s been good in that regard about 97 percent of the time, so far.
Here’s why she’ll never be a good watch dog, though.
A couple of weeks ago I wanted to make a fast trip down to San Antonio, where my son, and his two (soon-to-be three) sons live.
Garrison, the oldest at 7 plays coach-pitch baseball, and if I could get there by 4 p.m., I could watch my kid’s kid, which might just be even more fun than it used to be watching my own kid.
Anyway, I couldn’t go until the last minute because I couldn’t find a dog-sitter.
But just before I ran out of time, Jayson Larson, the editor of the Athens Review, agreed to watch Miss Maggie for a couple of days.
Great, I said. I’ll leave the keys on the corner of the kitchen table. You can lock up when you leave.
Everything went according to script until I saw a message on my cell phone from Jayson.
I was on my way up the parking lot to the baseball diamond at the time.
In San Antonio.
Turns out, Jayson was in a panic because, even though I’d left my key on the corner of the table like I’d promised, the house was locked.
So there we are. Me at a kid’s ballpark in San Antonio. Jayson, locked out of my house, and Miss Maggie unable to get rations and airing.
To make a long story short, they found a window that wasn’t locked (it is now, burglars), and he had his wife crawl through the window, fetch the key and resume the plan.
Now, put yourself in Miss Maggie’s paranoid mind while all of this is going on.
Strangers are breaking into the house for no good reason.
Due to her mysterious past, Miss Maggie naturally assumes the worst.
Jayson, his wife Brando, and his two kiddos, Cameron, age 7, and Kennedy age a 5, were there to kill Miss Maggie.

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