Maggie

We don't own a dog.

What we have is a dog by association. Maggie is my mum's miniature Schnauser. This arrangement is perfect because the kids see Maggie every weekend at the cottage and get their "Mom, I want a dog!" fix taken care of, and I don't have to tend to any pooperscooping. Win-Win. This is a photo of Maggie taken last Christmas chez nous.

Maggie is a great dog. She doesn't bark unless a chipmunk strolls by, she's a big sucky who loves to be loved, and she does a cracker-jack job of keeping the floor under the kitchen table clean. She does have one interesting personality quirk though.

She is utterly and absolutely petrified by fireworks. I'm not talking about the ones the neighbour sets off that make you jump out of your skin. I'm talking halfway across the lake. So far you can see the flare of the roman candles, but the "pop" is barely perceptible.

Maggie starts dithering with fear and tries to cram herself into the smallest space available. Sometimes this means standing face first in a corner on the back of the couch. Sometimes she wedges herself under a bed. This weekend, she decided the safest place to be was in the bathroom with me while I was working on the base for the vanity.

What didn't occur to Maggie this time was that it was 3:00 in the afternoon. That "pop" of fireworks was just Ron from two doors down hammering on his deck.

Idiot dog. Love her, but she's an idiot.