Maisie is mine. Or I am hers. Haven't figured out which yet. We're still new to each other. She's finally lying down on a pillow by the window after having spent the past hour since we arrived home from the shelter exploring every corner of the downstairs. I've been so nervous about this, despite wanting it badly. Even going to complete the adoption paperwork today I asked for another Meet-n-Greet just to be sure. I rubbed my forearms on her fur to see if I reacted. Nothing. But of course, once I gave the final okay to the volunteer and she went to grab the forms, I sneezed. I sniffled all the way through the signing, the paying, the awkward first walk on the leash. I feel like such a fraud. I've seen so many people with dogs, and I just don't know if I can be one of them. I mean, technically, of course, I am now, by virtue of owning a dog. But I feel like the Responsibility Police are going to catch on very soon and come make an arrest. I'm looking at a creature that will be a member of my family and be totally dependent upon me for the possibly the next ten to fifteen years. I know that intellectually, but I can't wrap my brain around it.
I've decided that regardless of my daughter's pleadings, I get to choose the dog's name. I gave up my first beloved choice -- Jezebel -- but I am not naming the damn dog Pearl, or Daisy. Her name is Maisie. Miss Maisie if you're nasty.
I figure, I'll be doing all the work, so I get to pick the name. I tried to be more democratic about it, hoping we could find a name we both liked. But I'm putting my foot down about it. Maisie. Maisie Mae. When I said her new name aloud at the shelter, it sounded like "amazing." I said, "You're Maisie" and I heard, "You're amazing" reverberate around the room.
I think I might be falling for her, though. She's been farting terribly since her arrival, and I'm not minding the stink.
