First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Drew Shannon
I realize that my family are not the only people who have lost a dog. But I know we are the only ones who have lost Maya.
Maya was not your average dog. She was grumpy and opinionated. She had personality for days. And she was perfect just the same.
When we would walk Maya, a proud rescue Collie-Bernese mix (we think), people would stop us on the sidewalk, cars would pull over to ask about her. Everyone wanted to know how she lost her leg.
We would then be praised for adopting a three-legged dog. We were called heroes more than once.
What we didn’t tell them is that having a three-legged dog is actually quite a bit easier. Shorter walks. Can’t jump on people. Unable to reach the top shelves in the kitchen.
Maya’s challenges, on the other hand, related to her very strong desire to not have anyone near her while simultaneously insisting that she be in the middle of the action at all times. She didn’t like our kids playing near her but always positioned herself exactly where they were playing. A hypocrite of the highest order.
Walking my cat on a leash reminded me that city parks are sacred
But Maya always showed us signs of the deep love she had for our whole family. When I had morning sickness during my first pregnancy, Maya would lie with me and not leave my side. When we took our new baby on walks, Maya wouldn’t leave the stroller’s side if any other dog came near. And every day, she would patiently accept the rough dog pats from her human siblings.
When we got the call that Maya had failed her one-day trial at the boarding facility, we weren’t surprised. We were stressed as we had a dog-free trip coming up. But surprised? Definitely not. What they didn’t know is that Maya didn’t like people touching her, except when she did.
Maya was given the chance to have a second trial and passed. She grew on them like she grew on us. There is something about her that is truly irresistible. Everyone comes around to Maya. Even my mom.
Maya’s human grandmother was willing to put in the work. She was always sneaking her food. She would freeze the bones after serving ribs and wait for Maya’s next visit to give them to her. She talked to Maya like she was a person, in full sentences.
My mom’s love for Maya was often put to the test. There was the time my mom went to have a shower and Maya, with the house seemingly to herself, proceeded to eat an entire apple pie, a box of cookies and a tray of croissants. But my mom loved her anyway.
Learning how to live with our (hated) family cat helps me parent my teens
Maya would eat anything she could get into. A bag of quinoa, a box of Shredded Wheat, a bowl of Halloween candy, tins of tea that were hostess gifts for my bridal shower the next morning. We had to keep our kitchen garbage on top of the fridge. Nothing was going to stop Maya.
It perhaps became the most concerning when she figured out how to open a fridge. The first time she did it was when she was staying at a dog sitter’s house. She ate through their entire freezer of meat. It goes without saying that she never stayed there again, and this was the impetus for using professional boarding facilities.
Now that she knew how easy it was to open a fridge, she soon started opening ours. We put a baby gate up to block the kitchen entrance. Maya broke it and ate everything she could find, including a brick of cheese. We got another gate, she broke that one too, got into the fridge and ripped out the meat drawer to eat the salami. We finally had to install a tall steel gate that proved very ugly but strong enough to stop Maya’s worst instincts.
But it was Maya’s strong resolve that helped get me out of the house during the depth of the pandemic. I was home with a newborn, anxiety through the roof, and it was my daily walks with Maya that allowed me to start experiencing the world again.
Eventually Maya slowed down, as dogs always do. She no longer opened cupboards or the fridge. She couldn’t go on long walks. She lived on the ground floor, unable to navigate stairs. But right to the end, Maya would snatch your dinner right off the table if she could reach it.
The house feels different now. I can place a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table without having to worry. I no longer have to coax a sleeping Maya away from the front door so I can open it. I don’t have someone to eat the cucumber ends when I am making the kids’ lunches.
She lived to 14, much longer than we could have ever dreamed, but still not long enough. She had a great life filled with love and a filled fridge. She stayed true to herself, a grumpy old lady right to the end, even giving a little growl to the vet in her very last moments. I will miss her every day.
Mary Warner lives in Toronto.