The Importance of Being Maggie, An Open Birthday Letter (May 16,2007)

May 16, 2007

My Precious MagaDog,

What do I write about a spirit that wiped the tears away after twenty-five years and allowed me to open my heart again to unconditional love? You have done this for me and so much more. And you've touched the lives of others-- and only in the most lovely and magical ways imaginable. You have taught me so much. Your independence and poise has made me tell people-- and it's true-- that you are my role model. You watch, listen, and demonstrate a gift for restraint-- this is the same gift that has made you a phenomenal therapy dog-- casting lines of communication to people who have needed you, children with autism and others who simply need cheering up. You were my lifeline those years ago when I was buried deep in anguish and depression. You knew exactly what to do then-- and you still do now-- just as you did last night, on your birthday eve. And that was just so perfect; you knew exactly what you were doing.

Happy Birthday. Now you are 13. I pray that you stay with us for many years more, but this plane of existence is so finite, too finite. You are my darling forever and I am grateful for every minute with you.

I love you forever,
Jill

Maggie on May 16th, 2007. A "teenager."

Noah, at age nine, broached the subject about bringing a dog into the family.

"I think I would like a dog. I could tell it my problems and feel better." Granted that Noah may have been ISO a live-in therapist was a bit of a surprise to me, but his request catalyzed something that I had sublimated for so many years, ever since more than a quarter of a century had passed. That was when my sixteen-year-old Welsh terrer, a dog that I literally grew up with, no longer roamed the house, the neighborhood-- or wherever-- chasing cars, terrorizing mail carriers, and making babies. When periodically he disappeared for three or four days, my parents were casual about it:

"Oh, he's probably found a girlfriend." (A comment that would horrify today's dog owner.)

That was suburbia in the 1950s and 1960's and my father named the black-and-tan mass of fur he "surprised" (read "shocked") my mother busy with two young daughters, aged one and two-- for the poor Irish farmer in the "Yip" Harburg and Burton Lane musical, Finian's Rainbow. Finian.

Nevertheless, for all Finny's faults and lack of training, I adored him. So his passing, at age 16 in 1971 threw a crushing blow and the idea of getting another dog never crossed my mind again. . .

. . . well at least not until 1993, when Noah first brought up the idea of adding a family member of the canine persuasion to the family.

Noah and Maggie in 1994. Both have grown a lot.

We attended the Annual Portland Kennel Club's annual bench show, a veritable "shopping mall" of the breeds.

Seven months later, along came Maggie. . . truly an angel-- the firstborn daughter, born Monday, May 16, 1994 at 6:00 a.m. of Ch. Joywood's Jamie of Goosedown (aka Junior) and Am. Can Ch. Joywood's Peggy Sue's litter of three girls and one boy in Milwaukie, Oregon at Barb and Larry McNamee's Joywood Kennels. Noah named her "Maggie Simpson." I thank goodness that The Simpsons had more of an effect on him than Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Mag-nifi-Cairn Terrier

Maggie celebrates her 13th birthday with élan!
Brava to Joywood's Maggie Simpson, CDX, CGC.
Loved by everyone-- especially by me.

What she is-- "She's all that!"

1) A great actress. Gracious, too. None of this All-About-Eve stuff, even when typecast as Toto in a production of The Wizard of Oz opposite a Dorothy who was jealous of her applause.
2) A woman who knows a good opportunity when she sees one.
3) Former and current calendar girl.
4) The most intuitive girl I know.
5) A snob-- with justification. (See #4 below.)

And what she's not:

1) A willing Earthdog.
2) A follower. Maggie has always marched to her own drummmer. When placed in a situation with other dogs, she seems to ask, "What am I doing in this ex-pen with these dogs?" She is not your garden variety Cairn terrier-- but would definitely assume family excavation duties should Geordie ever relinquish them, making her "first runner up" because she is not. . .
3) Pushy. At least not with Geordie.
4) A phony. They actually failed her when she went for Therapy Dog recertification. (Her first certifcation went nearly flawlessly but the venue had changed to what resembled an assembly line.) A woman-- aspartame-sweet--played the part of a handicapped person, complete with walker.

"Hi, there. What's your name?" she asked Maggie with an obvious air of condescension. Maggie looked her straight in the face and then turned her head slightly. She'd seen enough.

The woman's face changed. "I'm afraid I'm going to fail her. She seems to be stressed by these kinds of situations." Hell, yes! Maggie is totally put off by insincere posers and poor actors.

Sadly, it was their loss. This failure was precisely why she worked so beautifully with autistic children; they don't know how to be anyone other than who they are and Maggie knows this.

Unfortunately, these days any therapy work we do is surreptitious and done on the sly.

This will have to suffice for now. No doubt Maggie will be the star and subject of future entries, although Geordie has a tendency to usurp the spotlight more often than not. But it's Maggie's day. He was included in today's glorious walk on the path to the Canemah Cemetery.

Ruminant-From-A-Former-Life Maggie Grazes on Birthday Greens.Tis the Season!

The gate to the actual graveyard was open (and not vandalized either!) and Maggie and Geordie flew in pursuit of squirrels and other creatures. And even better, my older son, Alan and his girlfriend, Meg-- in for the Mother's Day weekend from Ann Arbor-- were along for the walk.

With eternal affection and adoration-- this is for you, Maggie. Not nearly good enough, but I think you'll get the idea. . .
Jill and Geordie
(Geordie has acquiesced to allowing me to add his name.)