Losing Maya

 

*SpoilerAlert!* I found her again. But not without significant emotional trauma….

Justover a week ago, I took my darling girl, Miss Maya Angelou Murphy, pictured above, on ahike in the Cienega Canyon Preserve. It’s a wild area out in the hillssouthwest of where we live, and I’ve hiked there often with her. We both loveit. She gets to sniff wild creatures on the wind and in the brush, and I get towatch for hawks, deer, coyotes, and other wild creatures.

Onthis particular morning, we’d gone less than a mile before looking up to see avery young bobcat playing in the trail about forty yards ahead of us. At thesound of my laugh, the big kitten bounded off into the sage and sunflowers, anda moment later we crept past that spot, Maya with her nostrils flaring, me withmy phone out, camera app on, hoping to see it again. No such luck. We walkedon.

"Mom! What was that big kitty thing?!?"

Themorning was bright and already heating up at 8:00, and the trail we hadtraveled in the past had become extremely overgrown, so I was just making up mymind to turn around and head home when Maya began limping. She’d picked up asticker in her left front paw.

Thispresented a problem. While it is no longer much of a struggle for me to touchher feet (to check them after a hike or to clip her nails) when she’s in her crate, she is still too wary to let me touch her paws or legs while we are outhiking. We obviously couldn’t go on, though, so I made her sit, and when she wascalm, I reached down to check her paw. She panicked, jumped backward, and slippedright out of her collar. Then I panicked, telling her “Maya! Wait!” a bit toosharply. But she stopped. (Good girl!) Hands shaking, I grabbed her scruff,holding it tightly with one hand as I slid the collar back on with the other. Iwalked her forward, and in the tussle, the sticker had apparently beendislodged, as she was walking without limping. Whew. Safe. Or so I thought.

Weturned to go home.

Ona previous visit to the preserve, I had dropped Maya’s leash when we were abouta half mile from the trailhead, and she had done beautifully, trotting ahead attimes, but always stopping when I gave her the “wait” command. On this day, whenwe were still three quarters of a mile out, I decided to try that trainingagain, but instead of dropping the leash in the dirt, I unhooked it. She trottedalong beside me in the trail, never going ahead, just being with me. It wasglorious. Until it wasn’t.

Becausewe’d seen the bobcat, and because the day was warm, my gaze alternated constantlybetween the trail up ahead (for coyotes or critters), the trail beneath our feet (in case ofrattlesnakes), and checking to make sure Maya was beside me. We’d gone a quartermile when I looked out, looked down, looked to my side—and she was gone.

Istopped and turned. She’d taken a side path, a single-track coyote trail thatled toward a steep ridge, and those crazy long legs of hers were trotting asfast as she could stride. She was already thirty yards ahead of me. Panickingagain, I called her loudly: “Maya! WAIT!” To no avail.

Here’sthe thing about feral dogs: You can’t chase them. In Maya’s first life, the oneshe spent in two successive, awful rescues, they handled her by chasing her—outof her kennel, then back in. When she sees anyone behind her on our walks, sheimmediately becomes anxious and strains on the leash, trying to run.

Inthis situation, I had to pursue her, but I knew I couldn’t run. I walked asfast as I could, repeatedly calling her. She ran up a hill so steep, I questionedwhether I could get up it—but I did. I had to. As I topped the ridge, I sawher, now fifty yards ahead, still trotting. She disappeared down a slope, andall I could do was follow, hoping she didn’t leave the trail.

Shedidn’t. As I reached the bottom of the downhill slope, I could see her toppingthe next hill. On we went in that fashion, with me losing, then gaining sightof her, willing myself to breathe deep, save my oxygen and strength.

Itopped a hill, and there she was, exhausted, lying in the shade under somebrush.

“Maya!Wait!” I snapped. And she was off and running again.

Islowed my walk, thinking, as the sun rose higher and I realized I’d brought nowater with me, I might have to follow her all the way to thefar end of the preserve, which was three miles along the ridgeline—and a blockfrom Interstate 10.

“Breathe,Kay,” I told myself. “What would Cesar Millan do?”

Well,he would adjust his energy, stay calm, and not utter a word.

Idid these things, as best I could, topped another ridge—and there she was again,lying in the dirt, panting. I stood in the trail, breathing and sweating andhoping, not saying a word. Slowly she rose to her feet. I didn’t move. Shewalked toward me. Quietly, calmly, I said, “Maya, come,” and I turned towardhome. She followed, right at my heels. After a moment, she moved beside me onthe trail. Ever so slowly and gently, I reached out a hand and took her collar, stopped, andsnapped on the leash.

WhenI knew I had her, I sank to my knees in the trail and sobbed. If she’d beenlost in those hills, she would not have survived. The coyotes would havemade a quick meal of her.

How I found her--without the leash, of course.

Thelong walk back in the hot sun, descending those steep hills on shaky legs, tookan agonizingly long time. Maya was overheated and kept trying to lie down inevery little bit of shade she found. I would have carried her—all thirty pounds—buton those treacherous descents, it would have been too dangerous. If I’dsprained or broken an ankle, our day would have gone from bad to really quiteawfully terrible.

Friends,I believe I have learned more from the mistakes I’ve made with my dogs than allthe YouTube videos and episodes of The Dog Whisperer (or Cesar’s other manyshows) I’ve ever watched. How did I fail Maya? By not realizing that, while I hadquickly moved on after the sticker-in-the-paw episode, she had not yet shakenit off—how I’d grabbed her, speaking sharply and holding the back of her neck.The trust of a feral dog is always tenuous. With Thomas, it still is, evenafter nearly ten years. Yes, we have our sweet moments when I brush him or cliphis nails or simply sit and rub his belly, and he is blissfully happy. But thenI might do something he sees as threatening—slap a mosquito or pick up myguitar or print out a document—and suddenly he is terrified, running through thehouse and seeking safety somewhere away from me.

That’swhat Maya was doing, seeking a safe place to hide. Eventually, she came to seethat she could run forever—or she could choose to trust me again. Boy howdy,did I get lucky this time.

Trainingferal dogs is not for the faint of heart or for those with little patience. Thejourney is often two steps forward, five steps back. The Universe gave Mayaback to me. I will be much, much more careful with her in the future.

Contemplating the long walk back to the car.