Super Dog Madigan

Let me begin by telling you this. If anyone looked in my window at night and saw me and Madigan, I am sure Madigan would end up back at the pound and I would be committed to a mental facility.  I will begin at the beginning.

Stashed deeply in my psyche is a dancer. Born no doubt from a traumatic period in my life. My parents-- not my parents, but my mother-- forbade me to go to high school when I finished the 8th grade. I would, she believed, become worldly and forsake her values. My threat to run away elicited my father's intervention. I could go provided I agreed not to wear shorts in gym class and not to participate at all in the Friday folk dancing.

The long jeans in gym was not so so bad. Two other girls in my class wore long jeans because of a skin problem. But the folk dancing-- that was hurtful. I was the only one-- the weird girl-- who had to spend her Fridays in a small closet researching sports and writing reports. By the end of my four years I knew the rules of all major sports and some so rare most people never heard of them.

I managed to get to college. Dances--no dances for me. So self conscious with my lack of skill I avoided dances. Only I knew my insistence that I did not care to dance was a painful lie.

Now as an old woman who even when young put 'learning to dance' on her busket list, I still cannot dance.

But Madigan does not know that. Late night -- several time a week- my Madigan dances with me. He stands on his back legs, lets me hold his from legs and we move slowly and gracefully to music sweet to the ear and easy on old feet. Super Dog? You bet.