Build a Little Birdhouse
When I picked Maizie up in Houston and began driving her home, she threw up seven times. She was clearly horribly confused and agitated: who was I, where were we, why was this room moving, where were her litter mates? And I felt terrible for her. I didn’t know what to say or do. I just kept saying her name. “You’re Maizie. We’re going to call you Maizie,” and she would stare at me with those enormous, black eyes.
Very quickly, within days, I was calling her Maizilla. Because she was a damn monster. To me - not Jay. Him she loved and she acted as though I were trying to interfere in their relationship, biting and scratching me. She was the only dog I’ve ever met who didn’t like me. I gritted my teeth and carried on. Once Jay said, “You’re going to get rid of her, aren’t you?” and I said no. I was determined to win her over and I did. It took him leaving for a few weeks but she adapted.
Sometimes when she pins me with that black-eyed stare, ten years later, I hear myself saying her name over and over, all alone and overwhelmed in my car, staying calm in the face of all that puppy puke. Then I spent six months with her treating me like crap, like a monster. Today I actually said it was a perfect name because she destroyed the Tokyo of my soul. It makes perfect sense to me, though it sounds utterly mad.
I love her. Like most of the family, she isn’t always easy to love. Only Roo is easy, but we go on loving one another anyway. She is my little emo goth kid, writing bad poetry and crying for a hobby. (When I picture her as human, that is.) She’s actually blonde and silver and pretty as a picture - and she will stare you into submission.
