It was on the day before New Year’s Eve, the December before last, that Maggie came into my life.

Maggie, said the woman from GRRAND, the Golden Retriever rescue organization, was about two years old.  Her owners had obtained her to use as a “breeder” and had dumped her when they’d finished with her.  When I met her, she appeared empty inside; disconnected; in shock.  She was also practically dragging the ground, having recently had a litter of eleven pups.

The story of Maggie over the subsequent months is one of rebirth, of the sun coming out again for a traumatized being who so deserved it.

What’s the connection?  Well, just in the past ten days, Maggie has suddenly, joyfully, insistently found her voice.  I hope that her story will help you find yours.  You, too, deserve it.

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In November, almost two years ago now, I had to say goodbye to Molly, the sweet little black and white terrier who had been my companion for twelve years.  We’d been through two houses together; she’d been with me when my kids launched themselves into the world.  We’d endured treating her kidney failure with subcutaneous fluids; I had had to steel myself at an unprecedented level to administer these; the job seemed to me something like fearlessly poking a needle into a flattened football to pump it up.  Molly was unflappable and handled it like a lady.  But eventually, it wasn’t enough.

I was certain I would never get another dog.  I couldn’t imagine setting myself up for a loss like that again.

But there’s nothing like being welcomed home by a warm, living, breathing creature who’s delighted to see you at the end of a long day.  I missed it.

So when December rolled around, I decided to dedicate the month to finding an adult “rescued” golden retriever, one who was already potty trained since my schedule would not allow for this.  Further, I wanted a really special dog, one who could join me in my office and be a comfort to clients who needed her in that way, a bridge for others, and for the rest, a dog who could be seen and not heard.  My hope was to bring her home during the two-week vacation I planned to take over the holidays.

And so Maggie came into my life.

My career path included many years in therapeutic foster care, so I can say with authority that the screening process for adopting Maggie was vigorous indeed.  It included a home visit and I was required to replace my invisible fence if the organization was going to consider placing one of these precious animals with me.  They honored Maggie not even knowing her really.

Several times each day I scanned their website, reading the profiles of the dogs, looking for my dog.  And rather quickly, really, a phone call came to tell me about Maggie.  It seemed that she was a neglected dog who had been purchased by her owners to be a “breeder”.  They’d tired of this – or, perhaps the eleven pups she’d just given birth to were enough for them – and they turned her over to the rescue group.  Dumped her, really, leaving her uncomprehending at a strange place away from everyone and everything she knew.

Maggie, they said, had a temperament as gentle as could be, had the color of an Irish Setter and was already housebroken, everything I had wished for.  So I set out – the day before a New Year’s Eve party of which I was the host – to pick her up in Louisville, Kentucky.

I drove through a beautiful section of the city near the river and found myself in a new development of half-million dollar homes.  Maggie, it seemed, was going to have a drop in her standard of living.

My little Vibe was dwarfed by the circular driveway and the enormous house.  But when I rang the bell, Maggie, whose abdomen was almost dragging the ground from her recent litter of pups, came to greet me.

And so we met.  Maggie came with me willingly for a walk, although she didn’t really seem to know I was there.  There was a surprising feeling of disconnection about her.  She appeared to expect nothing from human contact, but was willing to comply.

This was not the friendly, gregarious spirit I had wished for.  I don’t know why, but something told me to write the check and bring her with me anyway.  So I did.

Maggie, who had not relieved herself all day, seemed a little antsy in the car after a half hour.  I pulled off the highway, leashed her, and she politely stepped out of the car and promptly threw up.  Maggie, it seemed, was not a traveler.  Also, she still did not pee.

Maggie was the perfect co-host at the party the next night.  After unsuccessful hours outside, I had finally driven her to a dog park the night before and again the next morning so that she could take care of her pottying needs.  At the party, she greeted each guest by walking up to them and politely sitting in front of them.  She was very quiet, didn’t try to take anyone’s hors d’oeuvres.  Maggie’s tail was sort of horizontal.

As I tried to convince her over the months that the back yard was her own personal potty, it became evident that Maggie could “hold it” for upwards of 27 hours.  I, who was working 70 hours a week and could not do this, sat in the back yard with her for hours on end, waiting for the moment that I could celebrate with her that she’d figured it out.  So not only was Maggie not a traveler, she was patently not housebroken.

I must have looked like a crazy woman to the neighbors, and I found myself imagining their judgments about how slowly this was going.  That made me defensive and angry, and I had to work triple hard not to take it out on Maggie who was clueless and even often cried a little when she finally had the courage to go.

As I tried to understand Maggie, I began to piece together her history.  She had a terrific fear of being in a “crate” – which is used for housebreaking dogs, many of whom adopt it as their personal den.  For Maggie, it was a prison, and it seemed very clear that she had been locked into a small crate for long hours, probably all day, and only let out at night, turning her into a nocturnal dog who didn’t wake up until after dark at 8 or 9:00 in the evening.  Placed in the crate, she seemed to enter a state of self-hypnosis.  She sat with almost regal dignity and acceptance, head held level, and left herself.  I did not use the crate again.  Beyond that, she was absolutely terrorized by rain and storms.  The dog who had stayed in the kitchen night after night, confined by gates, politely but urgently stepped right over the gate and fled under my bed when it rained.  I realized that staying in the kitchen had been a courtesy on her part.

The first evidence that there was another dog inside the shell that was Maggie on the outside happened about six months later.  One day, Maggie began to run in the yard, and her tail, always horizontal or pointed down, was pointing up!  Wagging delightedly, a dog’s most poignant smile.  Up until then, I had simply assumed that the tails of golden retrievers did not go up.

Through it all, Maggie was the sweetest dog you can imagine.  Of course, it must be said that she failed her therapy dog test twice, but it was out of friendliness.  The first time she went bounding into the testing room, despite our hard work on obedience training, and became, shall we say, over-friendly in an x-rated sort of a way with another dog, causing quite a splash in the otherwise sedate surroundings.  The second time she kept it clean, but the dog she chose to befriend took offense and, coated with authority in his therapy dog vest, growled at Maggie.  Maggie was held accountable, and both grand entrances resulted in automatic failures.  Only now am I able to begin to introduce her to my office.

She still puts herself into a trance when I leave for the day.  Far from greeting me at the door when I return, I have to go seek Maggie out.  Usually she’s unconscious and oblivious, three quarters of her long body under my bed.  So, Maggie is no watchdog either.  Were I to be accosted by an intruder, I could only shout with as much conviction as possible, “You just wait until my dog wakes up!”  If the intruder woke her first – well, they’d be good friends by the time I showed up.

Bit by bit, the real Maggie has come out.  She’s transformed from an underfed waif who was shedding her entire coat to a healthy filled-out dog shining and silky in a rich shade of rust.  Always friendly but in a detached sort of way, now she rolls over with babyish delight to have her belly rubbed.  She’s anxious about attention paid to guests – including my one-year-old granddaughter – fearing that they will take me from her.  Because, past losses notwithstanding, she has made a leap of faith and allowed herself to bond with me – and I have taken that leap, too.  She’s still anxious, and we have a solemn pact that she will not be locked outside ever.  I always open the door to her on her first bark, because this is still one of her fears.  She’s now able to manage storms without medication.

But it is in the past week that Maggie has found her voice!  Suddenly, she demands with a loud, confident bark, that I respond – usually saving this for when I pick up the phone or sit down to dinner.  Maggie, who has a love affair with Italian bread and freshly made pasta, now understands that “going outside” is not traumatic – it means bread! spaghetti! She’s excited about it.  Instead of going once every 27 hours, suddenly she is jubilantly barking to be let out five times a day.  And she’s rude; she steals, and she whines when she’s not included in dinner plans.

Not that that stuff is good exactly – but what it signifies is so very good.  Maggie feels safe being Maggie now.  She’s not shell-shocked; she’s not afraid, she’s not lost inside herself.  Of course I’ll have to work with her in a different way now; some obedience training is in order at this point in addition to the reassurances she needs.

Maggie has reminded me of so many things about what I call “lost voices” – personalities that have been suppressed in order to let their owners survive –

She reminds me:

• that quiet, polite compliance sometimes masks a lost voice
• that underneath a silent exterior are all kinds of emotions
• that an inability to play is a red flag of depression
• that safety, an absence of traumatic handling, gives living creatures a second chance at life; that it is only safety and patience, not demanding or cajoling, that frees a voice to emerge from that dark place in the soul where it has been buried
• that seeing the real personality emerge is the miracle that fuels my work, so precious that it defies expression; that it is an honor and a sacred trust to be part of the rebirth of another person – or creature.

Perhaps you’re reading this post because your voice, like Maggie’s, has been hidden away from you in order that you could survive some difficult circumstances.  If so, I hope you will take heart from Maggie’s story and will find a relationship in which you feel safe enough for your voice to naturally bubble up to the surface.

In finding your voice, you will change your life.

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If you’d like to read a little more about Maggie, there’s another post here.