Poor Miss Maya is getting old – she came to me in June of 2000, when she was (supposedly) two years old. If that calculation is correct, she is now verging on fourteen, and it’s starting to show. She spends her nights curled upon the futon in B’s room – when we are putting him to bed, she heads in to his room, climbs up, and very, very carefully arranges herself into a doughnut.
Earlier this week, B came running out of his room, horrified because “Maya used the bathroom on my rug!” She was horribly embarrassed, B was upset, and I had to scrub the rug at 10 o’clock. The solution, obviously, is to take her out one more time before bed. Mr offered to do it, but he already handles the majority of the Maya-walking duties, even though she is (as he likes to remind me), allegedly my dog.So Maya and I found ourselves outside on a perfect night, taking in the view: