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Her name is Maggie Mae and when I say she is a little person in a dog suit, I'm not kidding. She communicates with more clarity and purpose than anyone in the downtown law office where I work. She is 26 lbs. of gray and white fluff which could be categorized between a Lhasa Apso and Cockapoo, but we'll never really know for sure.

She has always communicated with me. I'll never forget that hot July day, at the rescue center in Canoga Park, with temperatures nearing 90 degrees where I saw her in a cage. "Be careful", the shelter worker told me as I began to unlock the cage where this filthy, matted, flea-infested creature sat in complete misery.

Maggie Mae's rap sheet at the shelter said she nipped, she bit, she peed and pooed in the house and she didn't travel well. Not exactly a glowing recommendation for a potential adoption, but it was crystl clear to me. The human who had adopted her a year earlier brought her back for just those reasons. If indeed that was the case, this little dog needed me more than I needed her.

Ignoring the shelter worker, I unlocked the cage and slipped a cloth leash around her neck. I whispered to her that it was all right, and tugged gently. When we got out of the stuffy room, I sat down on the cement and looked in her precious, pleading eyes. Without a word between us, I understood. Maggie rolled over and showed me her little pink tummy. I had already known.

That was two years ago, and the Mags, or Her Majesty as we now call her, LOVES to go for rides in the car. If she wants to play, she brings me a toy and waits eagerly until I throw it. If Maggie is hungry, she goes to her bowl and snorts. If a treat is in order, she will stand in front of her treat jar for a full five minutes, (it usually doesn't take that long) until I notice.

She neither nips or bites nor pees or poos in the house. She spent the first week I had her lying on the bathroom floor (I suspect she had been locked in a bathroom), but that's ancient history now. Maggie Mae greets everyone on our walks with a happy wagging tail that brings a smile to the faces of even the most grumpy old curmudgeons we encounter.

This dear, precious creature, my own little partner, communicates best in the evenings though. Climbing up the steps to our bed (her legs are short so Uncle Danny built her steps), before I turn off the light, she snuggles up so close to me I can hardly breathe and moans and sighs. Pure, undiluted, no strings attached love.

Maggie Mae could teach some of the attorneys in my office a thing or two about real communication.

Learn more about this author, Diane Winters.
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