VALLEY: Maggie's first trip to the river

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July 14, 2010

Anonymous The Journal-Register The Journal-Register Wed Jul 14, 2010, 03:16 PM EDT

MEDINA —

The old saying is that there are two sides to every story. Most likely, you’ve heard that before. In today’s column, I’ll demonstrate just how accurate that adage really is (if, indeed, it is an adage). And you, the readers, will get to decide which version is more believable.

Here’s the situation: My new dog Maggie and I are still getting acquainted. The two of us recently traveled north to our cottage on the river. Just a guy and his faithful (hopefully) companion on a mission to bond the way that only man and beast can do. And according to Disney, that should take just less than an hour and a half.

What I offer is my version of what happened. It is intermingled with Maggie’s view of the same event. (Yes, this dog has the ability to communicate through the magic of “From the Valley”). And without further ado, here we go.

I packed the truck, hooked up the boat and trailer, and off we went. It wasn’t long before Maggie, who had settled into the front passenger-seat, snuggled over and started licking my leg. This dog really digs me, I thought.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down, Oh-Mighty-One-of-Misinterpretation!” That’s Maggie — as anticipated — interrupting the story.

“What’s the problem, Maggie?”

“You think I ‘dug’ you? Dude, you had two-day old pizza-stench on your shorts. I’m a dog — get it? I was trying to find the remnants of pepperoni and cheese. That’s the way we dogs roll.”

“Can I continue my story now?”

Let me explain that my wife didn’t make the trip because she had left for Washington, D.C., on a work-related project. That’s the reason for the less-than-fresh laundry. Besides, I’ve an inner slob always anxious to manifest itself whenever she’s away. Give me the opportunity and I’m the second coming of Boxcar Willie. But, as usual, I digress.

“Quite the man you are. Blaming your wife, Kathie, for everything — especially when she’s not around to defend herself.”

“Be quiet, Maggie. I’m not blaming her for anything.”

The first night there, I let the dog sleep inside the camp. The short time I’ve had her, she’s been leashed outside to her doghouse. I didn’t have the same luxury of room at the camp. And because I wasn’t sure what her toiletry habits were, I kept one eye open — worried that any movement she might make, may also involve a bowel movement.

When morning came, I couldn’t have been more proud of that little rascal — she’d “held it” all through the night. She wagged her tail anxiously as I slid the door open and let her outside. She took two steps out, onto the carpeted deck, and promptly dropped a crap the size of Toledo right next to the gas grill. What do I say to her? Good dog? Bad dog?

“Are you serious?” That’s Maggie chiming in, again. “Don’t act like I ruined a good carpet. That oil-stained, weather-beaten piece of rag you call a carpet was as disgusting as it gets. I did you a favor.”

“Yeah, right! You did me a favor. Dog poop is a wonderful enhancement to any decor. Did you also do me a favor when you jumped through the screen door?”

“Heh, heh, my bad there! Sorry ’bout that. But really, dude, you should never turn a vacuum cleaner on next to a sleeping dog. Scared the hell out of me!”

“Well, excuse me, Maggie, but the deal is, I had to use the vacuum to clean up the dead fish that someone, somehow, managed to drag in and gnaw apart and spread into a million pieces.”

“I’ll bet it was your wife, Kathie.”

It wasn’t Kathie.

Nonetheless, for now — that’s the way it looks from the Valley.

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