Mia

So Mia and Maggie came home with me, and life was never quite the same.

Blissful? In many ways, absolutely.

Challenging? Definitely.

Would I bring home two puppies at the same time again?

Most likely NO.

Not long afterward, I became involved in animal rescue. The more I saw—the puppies who grew into dogs and eventually found themselves waiting in local shelters—the more I realized I didn't need to add to an already overwhelming pet population. When Mia and Maggie turned two, I had them spayed.

The girls grew up in a neighborhood where we walked every day. Before long, the neighbors knew exactly where the two white Labs belonged: with the dog lady.

They also became accustomed to seeing one—or both—of them occasionally running down the street with a leash dragging behind.

I could tell stories for days about those two Labs and what they put me through.

But this is Mia's story.

And Mia taught me something I have never forgotten:

If we listen, they will tell us.

Mia went everywhere with me. She regularly traveled to the farm and accompanied me on errands to Tractor Supply, Lowe's and anywhere else dogs were welcome.

She loved going.

But there came a time when something began to feel different.

Sometimes, sitting beside me in the passenger seat, Mia would look at me as though she had something important she was trying to say. In the evenings, when the other pups were settling down for the night, she would sometimes cry.

I noticed.

And I listened.

Although she and Maggie were littermates, as adults they couldn't have been more different. Maggie was perfectly content doing her own thing. She loved her walks, but she had little interest in car rides—certainly not anything much farther than around the block.

Mia wanted more.

I watched her for nearly another year before finally allowing myself to consider something that was very difficult: perhaps Mia needed a different life.

Perhaps she needed a family of her own.

The thought of rehoming her tore at me, but somewhere beneath the sadness, the decision also felt right. I decided to trust that if I opened the door, the right people would find her.

I listed Mia for adoption on a public site.

Then life intervened. My mother's health took a turn, and my attention went elsewhere. A couple of weeks passed before I remembered to check the responses.

There was a message from a couple in Chicago.

Chicago?

That seemed so far from home.

But we talked on the phone—more than once—and with every conversation, I became more comfortable. Kirk and Alana were wonderful people. Kirk had recently lost his Lab and was searching for that special dog who could become his companion.

Maybe Mia had been trying to tell me something after all.

We agreed to meet in Nashville.

So one weekend, with my heart in a very vulnerable place, Mia and I loaded the car and headed north to meet the people who might become her new family.

What happened in Nashville reminded me exactly who Mia was.

When we arrived at my friends' home, Mia greeted everyone as though they were old friends. We moved to the back lawn and patio to visit, and soon some neighborhood dogs wandered over to say hello.

Mia was a natural with people and animals. Before long, everyone was visiting and the dogs were entertaining themselves.

I looked away for only a few minutes.

Then I realized Mia was gone.

I hurried around to the front of the house and stopped.

There was Mia, making her way around the cul-de-sac—door to door.

She was meeting the neighbors.

I finally just sat down on the porch and watched.

It was magical.

At each house, people would come outside. Some were a little guarded at first, wondering about this big white Lab who had apparently appointed herself the neighborhood welcoming committee.

Then Mia would work her magic.

A wagging tail. A friendly greeting. A few moments of attention.

And when she was satisfied that everyone had been properly introduced, she would say her farewells and move on to the next house.

Someone else whose life she could fill with the same joy and happiness she had brought to mine.

My life had grown to include many animals, and perhaps what Mia had been trying to tell me all along was that she wanted something I could no longer give her enough of—one-on-one time with her person.

We had two days together in Nashville before Kirk and Alana arrived.

Those days were bittersweet.

When they finally came to meet her, Mia was warm and friendly with them, just as I knew she would be.

Afterward, she and I had one last evening together.

That night, Mia slept especially close to me.

I buried my face against her soft neck and cried. I thanked her for the years of laughter, companionship, joy and happiness she had given me.

Morning came.

Somehow, I found the strength and courage I needed to see the decision through.

And Mia?

Mia was amazing.

She greeted her new parents. She stood patiently while we took a photograph together.

And then, as though she already understood exactly what was happening, she ran to their car and jumped inside.

She was ready.

I waved goodbye.

And Mia began the next chapter of her life.

Sometimes loving an animal means holding them close.

And sometimes it means listening closely enough to understand what they are trying to tell us—even when the answer is difficult to hear.

Mia taught me that.