The Second Coming of Maya

March 10th was on a Sunday last year. That was the day that Maya came back to us, caught in a live trap we had set near some neighbors' trash cans not far from here. Here's the story of her return: Lost and Found.

When we finally got her back, I knew I couldn't adopt her out and put her, myself, and new owners through the risky re-homing experience again, but I had never intended to adopt a dog as young as Maya again. Old dogs are good dogs, a truism that Maya proves every day. She's rotten to the core and I tell her so daily. She doesn't care.

Maya is probably the smartest dog we've ever had. She knows that humans communicate verbally so she talks to us, a lot. I'm not entirely proficient in her particular dialect just yet, but I'm getting there. She's not always really patient with me either. When she tells me something and I don't understand, she repeats it, louder and with more insistence, hoping it will sink in through my thick skull.

I give Trooper all the credit for successfully re-homing her at our place. He is worth his considerable weight in gold.

Small dog, big world, but she's queen of all she surveys.

For better or worse, she's ours as long as she'll have us.