The silver rectangles were nothing but cheap steel sheets engraved with important words. When Maggie was a puppy, they secured her safety, assuming that whatever stranger found her was willing to give her back. I still remember the piercing ring those tags created as she galloped through the backyard. I can vividly picture the face she made as her front and hind legs worked in unison to propel her farther through time. Her tongue exposed to the warm air as she focused on the yellow ball that had just been catapulted across the grass for her enjoyment. Once nearing her target, she didn’t slow down to stick the graceful landing. She'd rather plow over the tennis ball first, and retrieve it on her way back to my father. She repeated this game until her body was defeated by the growing need for hydration, then would carry herself to her water bowl.. Maggie was a happy dog, and nothing could convince me otherwise. She was raised and cared for by a family who loved her immensely and provided her with everything she needed to live an amazing life. 

She was undeniably a beautiful dog. Her fur was a shade of dark brown, with irregular spots of white scattered throughout; almost like the puppy printer ran out of ink when she was born. Her ears were too large for her face and her eyes matched the mahogany wood on the dinner table. Her nose was rather impeccable, considering she could smell an apple slice or a spoonful of peanut butter from a mile away. She was the type of dog that you took goofy candids of and saved as your wallpaper, waiting for a stranger to comment on her beauty so you could share countless stories.

Maggie loved to play as all dogs do, but more importantly, she loved her food. It was Easter Sunday, and I patiently awaited for the sound of my parents footsteps, queuing the beginning of our festivities. Minutes passed before the echo of heavy feet traveled through the house. I sprang out of my bed and headed for the door, where I was greeted by my brother. We raced down the hallway and towards the baskets full of chocolates and toys, only to find Maggie prowling about a mountain of torn wrappers. My brother let out a shriek; his basket had been the one sacrificed, mine remained upright with a bow neatly tied. Maggie hadn’t realized her impact on Easter, and in complete honesty, my family was pretty angry at her. However, it’s made a great story over the years, and a perfect example of her gluttony. 

As Maggie aged, things in our house seemed to change. The backyard appeared to be getting larger by the day, and the toys near the fireplace seemed to solely collect dust. Maggie wasn’t sick, just lazy, and that’s how most people would describe her if asked. By the time our beautiful girl turned 6, the hardwood floor was Maggie’s favorite hangout because of the cool naps it provided, and her favorite time of day was 5:30 pm, where she was rewarded her special dinner. She loved her sleep and was most intrigued by treats. Maggie was a simple dog, but she was perfect for our busy family and we all loved her for her idle characteristics. 

It was a Friday after school when my dad shared Maggie’s news with me. She had cancer. My jaw dropped to the floor, but I don’t know why. Maggie had a series of small warts and lumps spread out across her body, and her impressive age didn’t help improve her health much either. My parents shuffled out of the kitchen and continued on with their business; it really wasn’t a surprise to hear about her sickness, what was hard was knowing it was true. I sat next to Maggie and stroked her fur for awhile, knowing that her time was limited, and I think she knew it too. I would like to trust that Maggie didn’t feel pain, and that she lived her last two weeks on this Earth happily, but I find that hard to believe. The misery she felt was transparent in her eyes and it killed me to know that she was hurting. 

Her last week was the worst. It all started when my father and brother left for spring break later that March. The wretched accidents that began took a huge toll on my family. We were forced to  clean up after Maggie two or three times a day, and the process was horrendous. As the week progressed, my mother and I prayed for Maggie’s health, but both of us silently acknowledged the elephant in the room: Maggie was ready for heaven. I remember that week I didn’t need an alarm clock to wake me up for school, the sound of my mom weeping outside my bedroom door greeted me each morning. It was a hard pill to swallow, but by Wednesday night my parents had arranged for Maggie to visit the veterinarian on the following Saturday. I glanced down at her as she lay on the floor, the struggle to maintain her breathe was apparent and heartbreaking. It was in this moment that I remembered the business trip I was supposed to leave for the next day, and I wouldn’t return home until Sunday. The idea that I would not be able to stand by her side and tell her goodbye while she closed her eyes for the last time nauseated me. 

That Thursday morning, I woke up and began applying makeup, that I knew would merely get washed off. My mom had already left for work, leaving Maggie and I as the only occupants of the house. There were 30 minutes before I needed to be ready, but I still sat on the cold stool in the kitchen and watched as she lay at my feet. She looked tired, but not the kind that you get from lack of sleep. She was tired of being here. The moment Maggie had stepped paw into our home, she was family. And for 14 beautiful years, she blessed our home with puppy kisses, foul odors, and furry clothes. However, all good things must come to an end and I knew it was selfish to prioritize my desires over her health. I didn’t want to bother her, so I sat on the cold stool and nudged her jaw with my toe as I tried to enjoy my last 30 minutes with her. For those long minutes I observed every trace of grey in her fur and counted the brown spots on her snout; wondering to myself if they have milk bones in dog heaven. 

At last my phone let out a squeal as my friend Preston shared his location in my driveway. I sat down next to Maggie on the floor and held her face in my hand as the tears began to uncontrollably race down my cheeks. I really believe that Maggie knew it was our goodbye, because she lifted her snout and gave me one last sloppy kiss on my nose. I drearily picked myself up off the floor and made my way over to the treat bucket in the mud room. Whether Maggie ate the treat I left in the kitchen or whether my mom picked it up upon her return home, I guess I’ll never know. 

That day at school was terrible. I groggily walked the halls, a piece of me missing. I dragged myself into my chair at 7:29 am, and let my head fall to the cold table. My first hour was a blow-off class, full of friends who hardly ever did the work. My eyes were a dam, working relentlessly to ensure that no tears could break the fortress; I didn’t want to be weak. It was a matter of minutes before Jenna turned to me and posed the question “Are you okay?”. It was in that moment when the barrier was broken and the tears began to spew from my eyes uncontrollably. Those three words caused the most pain for me that day, because in reality, I wasn’t okay. I was hurt, and a little broken. I cried into her arms, inhaling the vanilla perfume that coated her clothes. My breath was heavy and my body rose up and down as I tried to reclaim my calm. Friends watched in confusion as Jenna tried her hardest to defer the awkward glances and questionable faces. The following days were repetitive; I would cry when no one was around in an effort to enjoy my weekend with my friends. Maggie carried a weight on my soul and I thought about her constantly. 

On that Saturday, the room I sat in was filled with about a hundred people, some strangers, some friends. The man who spoke was middle-aged, and his presentation seemed ever-lasting. I sat in my chair as a prisoner of my own thoughts, thinking of every memory I had with my four-legged friend. An abrupt vibration of my phone disturbed my trance, and I began to peel the object out from beneath my thigh. The phone was heavy in my hand, and my eyes began to wander down to the luminescent screen. My heart sank in my chest as my mother confirmed the news in a brief text. I slowly returned my cell to its designated spot; I had never felt so alone in a room full of people. The color in my face had disappeared and I tried my hardest to focus on the middle-aged man with the everlasting presentation. Salty tears trailed down my cheeks slowly, but consistently, as I thought about our last goodbye. 

That Sunday upon my return from Grand Rapids, the house I entered didn’t feel like home. It didn’t smell like Maggie, but instead like febreeze and sorrow. When I glanced into the sun room, she wasn’t passed out on the couch taking a nap, it all felt awkward. After observing my surroundings a few seconds more, I noticed the changes. The big black cage had vanished with the help of my parents. The scattered rawhides that hadn’t been touched for months had finally been collected and thrown into the disposal. The dog bed that was barely ever used had been packed away and stored in the musty downstairs closet. The only trace of Maggie left in our empty home was a displayed photo of our girl posing in a sea of vibrant green grass on the front mantle. I wondered if my parents cried while they had loaded her belongings into these discrete hiding spots. I wondered if they thought that it would be easier to heal this way. 

This memoir isn’t about me, it’s about that dog, and how much of an impact she made on me in the years we were able to share. They say that you don’t choose the dog, the dog chooses you; and Maggie gives me full faith in this statement. There were many things that she taught me growing up, but the most valuable of them all was the beauty in simplicity. Maggie lived for the little things in life: family, food, and naps. With these three essentials, she lived happily for 14 years, despite the many inconveniences she faced. Maggie fought through hundreds of vet visits, daily pills (which she despised), and a couple of tough surgeries. Her ascension to heaven has reminded me to live like Maggie a little more, and enjoy life while I’m living it. Not a day passes where I don’t miss the silly growl she would make as she scratched her back on the rug, or the way she would squeal “BONE!” when you held one in front of her face. That is why I carry her tags. The metal scratching together holds millions of memories, and it is how I can remember my baby girl. Maggie was not just a dog, Maggie was my childhood.