Foolish Me - Part IV
For the first time in many months, my house was calm and peaceful. We’d just given up a rambunctious puppy and were down to one dog, my cute little twenty pound Labradoodle, Vincent. But I was still itching to replace my precious Lucille whom I’d lost to cancer the previous summer. So, despite the many obstacles, including a scammer who ghosted me and my subsequent revenge plot against her, my quest to find a new dog continued.
THIS IS PART 4 of a FOUR-PART STORY
Maisie
I have a habit of going into a blur when I’m about to make a big purchase, such as a piece of jewelry or (gulp) a dog. We had been told a pure-bred Newfie was awaiting us in Mexia, and that was what we expected. Instead, what greeted us was a massive black-and-white dog with a sweet face, a Great Pyrenees.
The weird thing was, I didn’t care. I had driven two hours to get a dog and I damn well was going home with one. This dog, whose name was Maisie, was beautiful and big and I would love her. We loaded her into the car and began our drive home.
Once we got to my house, Maisie made herself completely at home. For the first day, she was perfect. The doggie doors fascinated her – freedom! She could go in and out at will. When she was outside, she barked. Continuously. Not just a little series of warning barks, but a full-out howl that started low and twisted into a high-pitched Ai! Ai! Yee! Yee! Yee! She barked indoors, too, voice full and throaty.
But it wasn’t just the barking that was a problem. It was her behavior. She was bossy. And she was a food hound. The gate we’d put up between the kitchen and the rest of the house was no obstacle for her – she’d simply get up on her hind legs and knock it over. Nothing was safe from her. We had a baby in the house, my five-month-old granddaughter whose face and chubby legs Maisie would lick possessively, and this added to her level of ferocity since she saw it as her job to protect the baby. The only person she was okay with was me, the lady of the house whom she seemed to think was her mother. She’d rest her heavy paw in my hand or over my body, and gaze at me adoringly.
I was smitten but no one else was, and when she went after my little Labradoodle, Vini, puncturing his flesh with one of her canines, my family leaned on me to get rid of her.
This was just before Christmas. Her previous owners said they would take her back, but I had no time for a four hour drive, and I was desperate because I knew that Maisie would destroy our table, laid with flowers, crystal, silverware, and set for fourteen people. So I hired a transport service. For a small fortune, I was able to lease a van and chauffeur that would drive Maisie back to Mexia in style. By then I had spent so much money on dogs that I could have bought something extremely rare and expensive. But I was out of the game. I’d gone through two difficult dogs and I was done. We’d be a one-dog family and peace would reign until I got another wild hare for something cute and fuzzy. What was wrong with me?
The truth was, I was just plain foolish when it came to canines and I would have to live with that. I couldn’t be trusted. I needed therapy. For now, I couldn’t go anywhere near a dog without strict supervision, an embarrassing fact that made me understand that yes, I was foolish, but I’d always have extra love to give. And because of that, I’d eternally keep looking for the next wonderful dog.