I doubted this dog would be a good fit.

Not like Ginger, who had run to the window when she saw
me at the Wisconsin Humane Society. Ginger, who snuggled
next to me while I talked to the adoption counselor. Ginger, my
first dog.

But two weeks ago, Ginger had collapsed.
She was 10 when I adopted her
and 15 when she died. Still, her death
caught me by surprise; my daily routines
were so tied to hers.

There could only be one first dog. My
friend Kristin is as much of a dog person
as I. In her sympathy card, she gave me
the poem she wrote about the death of
her childhood dog. A few days later,
she asked, gingerly, if I’d be interested
in dogsitting. Her sister Jessica was
pregnant and also had a husband, two
young children, two dogs, and a cat.
She was looking for new homes for the
dogs. Kristin thought I might like Maiah,
their eight-year-old Border Collie/
Labrador mix. Jessica described her as
“tan and white… very smart and a bit
neurotic.”

No pressure.

I agreed, if only for the distraction. Every sunny July day
reminded me of all the walks I wasn’t taking.
On a Saturday morning, Kristin arrived at my house, along
with Jessica’s family and their dog. They gave me a faded blue
flying disk. “She loves Frisbee,” Jessica said. It didn’t seem like
Maiah played much: at 60 pounds, her body looked overstuffed,
a mismatch with her sleek head. After a few minutes of fetch,
everyone left. Maiah and I kept playing, more for my comfort
than hers. I had no idea what else she might enjoy. The day of
dogsititing loomed ahead.

My friend Keith and I walked to the
grocery store, bringing Maiah along.
At one point, he asked, “Are you
gonna pick that up?” He pointed at the
brown lumps on the sidewalk. I hadn’t
noticed; I’d never seen a dog that
walked while pooping.

After getting home, I was exhausted
and got in bed for a nap. Maiah lay
next to my bed, panting. “It’s OK,” I
said. She panted and I didn’t sleep.
Instead I took her for another walk.
We ran into Mike, the mailman. He
said, “I loved her,” when I told him
Ginger was gone. I tried not to cry.
Maiah sat. “But this one looks nice,
too,” he said.

Maiah and I walked a few more
blocks and said hello to our neighbor
Meg. Maiah lay down on the lawn,
unafraid of Mickey, Meg’s grumbling Sheltie. “You two already
look like a pair,” Meg said. I didn’t feel like we were a pair. But
at least Maiah could relax; I wasn’t sure I could handle a Border
Collie’s energy.

My parents came over for dinner. Even though I was 37 years
old, they still weighed in with their opinions, which I couldn’t totally ignore—they’d be the ones stopping by during the week
to feed and water the dog while I was at work. Maiah lay on
the floor, panting.

“It’s too soon,” my dad said. “And she’s too fat.”

“Well, we have control of that. We can walk her.”
“So hyper,” my mom said.

True. She had a big personality. And she peed on the floor.
Keith asked, “Do you have enough Resolve?” He meant the
carpet cleaner, but I was thinking more literally.

Still. All the panting and peeing, they seemed like things
a dog might do when she was trying to figure out her place,
when she craved the attention of an owner. Though our bond
hadn’t been instant, I felt the hint of an attachment. I wasn’t
ready to say no.

A few weeks later, she visited me once more.

And stayed. I named her Papaya; it rhymed with Maiah but
was a sign that she was truly mine now. We all deserved a
second chance (or more).

She’s challenging. I give her stability, and she rewards me
with crazy antics. She helps herself to cookies, strudels, and
donuts, removes a cactus from its pot, sprinkles paprika on my
carpet, pulls bookmarks from my nightstand reading.
But she’s no longer incontinent, and she pants less. Our
walks have slimmed her down to 46 pounds.

So even though Ginger was irreplaceable, I still had room
to love another dog. We’re a pair now, sticky Papaya and me:
She curls up against my back when I sleep, kisses my chin
when I wipe her feet, and “shakes” by curling her paw around
my arm. She leans against me as I brush my teeth, reminding
me of our bond. It’s the gratitude of an old dog that has finally
found her home.