Maybe She'll Stay. Maybe She Won't.
Maybe at five years old, and chomping on one of her many tennis balls, takes a break after a game of catch. Plucked from a cardboard box as a puppy, Maybe gave the Hackett family almost a decade of hilarity, chaos, loyalty, and pure affection.
A teenage impulse of mine nudged my family into unexpected, unconditional love.
I stood in a dirt driveway with my friends surveying “free puppies” when I spotted her. She sat by herself, a black blur with a ratty muzzle. I swept her up, rubbed her tummy, said thank you to the people giving her away. Off we went with zero consideration for parental permission or responsibility. When the puppy and I got home, my mother was in shock, and my father was not pleased. When I asked them if we could keep her, my parents said, “maybe she’ll stay, or maybe she won’t.” Well, she stayed, and the name “Maybe” stuck from then on.
We had Maybe, an ever-willing ball player and confidant, for nine happy, bouncy years. My fondest recollection of Maybe has to do with my father. While sipping his Budweiser, the once-reluctant dog owner would toss her pretzels from the kitchen table. (Maybe was the only dog I knew conditioned by the “psssssch” sound from a beer tab.)
Maybe died suddenly. I wasn’t there to say goodbye. My father was with her at the veterinarian and buried her in our backyard. I was emotionally gutted for months and to this day hold that grief. But Penn Vet is coaxing me to again consider the special, unconditional love a dog can give. Maybe, just maybe, there’s another “Maybe” in my future.
Enjoy the issue.
Martin J. Hackett, Editor
mhackett@vet.upenn.edu