How my rescue dog has made me a more complete person in 6 months
Today is the sixth-month adopt-iversary of my fur baby, Maisie. It’s fair to say that when I first got her with my boyfriend, I had already checked off a lot of the boxes I’d have expected of my 28-year-old self. A writing/editing job I enjoy — check. A long-term relationship — check. A solid group of friends — check.
But adding a dog to the mix unexpectedly completed me in more subtle, less life-checklist-oriented ways. I learned a lot from her right off the bat.
And looking at where I am six months in, thanks to Maisie’s sudden, white-fur-filled entry into my life, I’ve grown because of her.
I’ve grown more humble
I’ve given up all attempts to be remotely glamorous (or even attractive to other humans) during our daily 7 a.m. trek through the neighborhood. What’s the point when I can still be comfy in my pajamas and frumpy bed-head, and when my key mission at this hour is to make sure that my dog takes a nice, healthy poop before I leave for work?
All I feel now is sweet triumph when Maisie finally squats, so I can crouch in someone’s manicured, Dilworthian lawn, my bag-wrapped hand extending toward the steaming pile like those claws in vending machines grasping for a prize that’s cheap, but still makes you feel like a winner.
Kudos to all the professionals in suits that I’ve seen doing the very same thing.
I’ve grown more patient
I used to think my dog deserved a strong, two-mile hike through the neighborhood each morning in order to be her healthiest, happiest, Great Pyrenees self.
Good joke. I condensed our walk to a mere mile once I realized that nothing brings her greater joy than sniffing every single leaf on every single tree, bush and sidewalk slab. That short distance takes a good 40 minutes most days. But I use it as my time to slow down, clear my head, think my thoughts before the day gets out of hand.
I’ve become more conversational
As an introvert, I’m drained by even the idea of getting chatty with every person I make eye contact with on our walking route. But Maisie turns into a 78-pound fortress of stubbornness that refused to budge as soon as she lays eyes on another dog. She will not move on until given the opportunity to sniff and wag and hop around like a rabid, leashed bunny.
I inevitably give in, and have made a point to get to know the people attached to the other dogs, whether hearing about the big meeting they have coming up at work or their advice for the best spot to take a dog swimming at the U.S. National Whitewater Center (apparently: through the hiking trails, to the right of the paddle boarding area. Look for the dog toys).
I’m (a little) less moody
No matter how frustrated I get with myself or with a friend, or with something that happened at work, I fling open the front door in the afternoon and there’s a fluff monster wagging her tail so hard her whole body is thumping around on the staircase. Just because I showed up. I bury my face in her neck and any tension melts.
I’ve grown more forgiving
I got so upset during the initial months that Maisie was getting accustomed to her new surroundings. We’d leave her at home and come back to random destruction — a broken key dish, a chewed-up book, a potted plant ravaged, with dirt strewn all over the floor. Why couldn’t she just chill out and leave the house alone?
Now that she’s more settled in and only occasionally (mildly) destructive, I find it all funnier and easy to forgive — the bananas she weirdly pulled from the fruit bowl and left intact on the living room floor, the vet bill she bit into and got bored with, the boot she carried to the couch and wedged in the space next to the window. It’s like she’s trying to say, “You left me behind, but LOOK, I’m in control.” Or, “Let’s do some feng shui.”
Now, I laugh more.
I’m less selfish about my time
Before Maisie, I devoted my twenties to a psychotic semblance of routine. Yoga, running and work in the mornings, followed by more work, friend time and family time in the afternoons/evenings. Everything I did was on my time, and there was ample time to myself.
Now, mornings are for Maisie. Yoga comes later, running comes if I have time, work is still work. And if I’m catching up with family or friends, I often plan activities that she can join in on, whether it’s takeout at my parents’ house with her crashing through their backyard with their dog, or coffee on a patio where she can nap while I catch up with a friend. (South End Grind even served her water this weekend.)
On a more constant scale, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my relationship with my boyfriend no longer revolves around just the two of us. Texts about dinner plans and social outings and “I love you’s” are interspersed with less-than-sexy notes like “Took M out at 3 but she hasn’t pooped yet.”
I’ve become less judgmental
I used to think people who took the time to create and manage social media accounts for their dogs were a little off-kilter. Then my boyfriend came home one day and said, “Katie, I did a terrible thing today. I created an Instagram account for Maisie.”
Honestly, nothing tickles me more now than getting a notification on my own Instagram account that says “@mademoisellemaisie liked your post.”
Is this the upside down? #MademoiselleMaisie
A post shared by Maisie (@mademoisellemaisie) on Apr 6, 2018 at 7:18pm PDT
I’m becoming more trusting of my own significance
Before Maisie, no living thing (beyond my miserable bonsai trees) depended on me for survival. She looks to me for her morning cookie, her breakfast bowl, fresh water, the jingle of her leash that signals her morning walk.
When I’m on my computer, she slaps at me with her paw like the only thing that could really possibly matter right now is that she receives love. And she is so easy to love. I imagine this feeling is what parents of actual human beings must feel, and crave in return.
Six months into this new life with Maisie, I see where I’m more complete as a person. Even when I’m late for a yoga class because she took forever to do her business. Even when I’m crouching in the grass grasping for her turds, and 92 percent sure I just dragged my scarf through just that.
Six months in, the sweet sounds of her snoring mixing with my music as I work. The furry warmth of her, inches from my elbow as I type. The day has barely begun, but in this moment, it’s already complete.
This story was originally published April 15, 2018 at 10:00 PM.