The Persistence of Dog

Our dog Maisy is my dog.

She is supposed to be my son's dog.  He picked her out.  He begged and begged us to get her.   He even picked her name.  We  brought her home thinking that Zane and Maisy would grow up together and be the best of friends. 

Nobody asked Maisy.

Maisy picked me to be her person.  She likely picked me because I'm the one who feeds her, but there is no denying that she is my dog. Where ever I happen to be, there she is.  She gets up with me at the crack of dawn, and falls asleep at my feet every night. She takes great pains to make sure that she is near me; if I step outside the front door to put the trash in the container, she yowls and barks until I come back inside. 

When I come home, Maisy comes to me first.  She parks herself right in front of me and sits rather patiently, waiting for me to acknowledge her existence.  She will wait while I put my things down, and then I pet her and tell her what a good girl she is.  I'm certainly not the only one in the family who does these things, but Maisy only seems to have eyes for me.

Maisy sleeps on my comfy chair, right on the pillow that forms the back of the chair.  She has been doing this since she was a tiny puppy, curled warmly in slumber around my shoulders.   These days, however, that tiny puppy weighs sixty pounds, and produces enough body heat to give me hot flashes. The cushion that she lays on is now mashed hopelessly out of shape, and no longer offers any support to my back. 

I don't care about these little personality quirks. Everyone has them, dogs included. And Maisy is polite about most things...except when she wants to be petted.  Then she is very persistent.  Downright stubborn about it.  She will put her paw on my knee. She will climb into my lap.  She will whine. She will "talk" to me with her growls and barks.  Maisy refuses to take 'no' for an answer, either.

I rarely get in that zone where I don't hear anything or see anything anymore, but now that Zane is older, it happens.  I am occasionally able to hyperfocus on a task, such as reading.  Until Maisy shows up, that is.  She starts off quietly with good intentions.  Maisy will approach, she will sit, sure that her devotion and politeness will be immediately rewarded. She will wait.

And wait.

She gets tired of waiting, of course,  her eyes on me, her attitude respectful.  So she inches closer. And closer.  And closer.  Suddenly whatever I'm doing is blocked by the darkness that is Maisy's head, her large skull obliterating whatever I was focused on completely. 

It's time to pet the dog.