We had a ritual every night -- Maggie and I.  She always wanted in the bed and I was determined that she’d sleep in her own bed.  The new green, faux lambswool pillow top that I’d bought her at Petsmart which laid on floor next to Peter’s side of the bed, the right side.  Always the right side.  Never the left.  I slept on the left.

When Peter first brought Maggie home, he had to tether her to the bed with the green leash so that she wouldn’t wander off and pee on the carpet.  The group house that we’d rescued her from had kept her in a crate.  Probably for 23 hours a day.  She arrived just as scared as perhaps Peter had. Both moved in with me on the same day.  Allegedly Peter adopted Maggie to save her from the confinement of her life in that metal cage on Capitol Hill.  But I also knew that some part of Peter needed someone else to move in with him, to keep him company, to ground him as we merged our lives.  I was all of 28 and he was a mere 23.  We thought we were old enough and the time was right, but really we were just kids that grew tired of having drawers at each others’ houses.

So along with the futon and some assorted clothes, came Maggie.  So afraid, completely untrained, but already utterly devoted to her savior, Peter.  After a few years, she no longer required the tether, but then demanded more.  I’d read for a few minutes until my eyelids grew heavy and then reach for the light, but before I could turn it off, Maggie would start pacing.  She’d head around the foot of the bed to my side.  She’d bark a bit, but not a full bark.  Merely a half-bark that was meant to show me her displeasure.  She wanted to be in the bed.  “Maggie, no, go to your bed.”  I’d say. But those long Beagle ears were immune to my suggestion. “Ruff” she’d say again and then add a slight jump on the bed rails with her front paws. “No, bed. Go to bed, Maggie.”  “Ruff” 

“OK, fine.  Damn it, Maggie.” I’d say as I pushed the covers back and stepped onto the cold wooden floor to lift her up to her spot.  And then the circling would begin, presumably a vestige of the time before dogs were domesticated when they needed to flatten the tall grass that would be their bed.  But in my house, it was probably her attempt to stake out the perfect spot on the feathered comforter between me and Peter, who was inevitably already asleep.  She had to touch both of us and would get up several times, circle, and then plop back down until the perfect spot was attained.  The true signal of such was when I’d finally hear her sigh, as if her work was done, and she was now off-duty. It went on that way, each and every night for 11 years.  

I’d try to stick to my ground but she’d inevitably win.  Her closeness was comforting and brought a sense of normalcy to our evenings.  Until it wasn’t to be any longer, that is.

She died in that bed right there between us.  We’d called the vet the previous night when we knew that the tumor in her bladder had gotten too big for her to be comfortable.  That last night was without sleep.  She got up, circled, and sighed only to do it again and again without the subsequent sleep.  Maybe she was circling that night for all the nights that she’d miss in the future. I don’t know, but we all dreaded the ring of the doorbell at 7:30.

I wish that I could say that it was quick and painless, but it was neither and all of us hurt.    Maggie cried out and tried to bite the vet.  She wasn’t ready to go, wasn’t ready to give up her spot.  My beagle, Mr. Enzo, two years her senior but always the submissive one, licked and cleaned her face after she was gone.  His last act of obedience toward her.

Peter had her cremated.  She arrived in a box the color of her fur.  So fitting for the beautiful blondie that she was.  Now she sits on the bedside table -- Peter’s bedside table on the right side.  Her spot is now fixed there on the table and in our hearts.  She’ll be there until one of us, Peter or I, die.  Then, she’ll go in the box with us.  No one wants to be alone.  Not Maggie and certainly not me.  

Four years later, I miss our ritualized fight, her endless circling, and final sighs signaling the end of another day.  And yet the days go on.