On a typical walk through the neighborhood, my seven-year-old shepherd mix, Peggy, has a way of making an impression. As we pass a young family, Peggy will greet them with a gentle pant and a friendly gaze, prompting the children to eagerly rush over for a quick pet. After we part ways, it’s not uncommon to overhear a surprised whisper: “That dog has three legs!”
It’s true, of course—but the reality of her condition is far less noticeable than it might seem. Despite losing her back right leg in an accident, Peggy has adapted remarkably well. Her muscles have strengthened, and though she walks with a subtle limp, she moves with an energy and enthusiasm that defy her injury. When she chases after her favorite toy, Ball, she runs at near the same speed she did before the accident, showing no signs of slowing down.
Peggy came into our lives as an eight-week-old pup through a rescue organization, and we quickly fell in love with her spirited personality. We named her after Peggy Olson, my favorite character from Mad Men, and for the first few months of her life, she thrived in the bustling energy of Brooklyn, exploring the streets, playing with her dog-walking buddies, and discovering the joys of city life.
But when Peggy was two years old, my partner and I made the decision to move to Montana, seeking a quieter life and a change of pace. It was here, amid the wide-open spaces of the Missoula foothills, that Peggy truly flourished. She reveled in fetching balls in the icy waters of the Clark Fork River, running through thick snowdrifts, and exploring the miles of off-leash trails winding through the mountains. Her adventurous spirit was fully alive, and she would chase deer with abandon—an enthusiasm that ultimately led to her tragic accident.
One afternoon, while in the care of a dog sitter, Peggy was struck by a car. The collision resulted in the loss of her back leg, forever altering the course of her life.
At first, I was devastated. My dreams of backpacking trips with Peggy by my side, a small dog pack on her back, seemed unlikely to ever come to fruition. But as Peggy recovered, it became clear to me that I had a narrow view of what a dog’s life could be. While I mourned the loss of what could have been, Peggy had already adapted to her new reality. She was no longer obsessed with chasing deer; instead, she found contentment in the quiet moments—sitting on the lawn under the towering pines, watching the world go by, and taking in the scents of the forest.
Our current home on Washington’s Lummi Island has only brought out more of Peggy’s delightful personality. She’s become increasingly stubborn in the most endearing ways. If we don’t let her spend several minutes sniffing the otter tracks that cross the road every evening, she’ll flat out refuse to continue the walk. She has discerning tastes when it comes to food, preferring broccoli ends over celery and pizzles over rawhides. Most of all, she enjoys basking in the sun on our deck, watching the herons and eagles on the shore, or following the sounds of loons in the distance.
Peggy still enjoys trail walks, but after about three miles, her back leg begins to fatigue. Despite this, she continues to gallop along in her distinctive, slightly lopsided way. This past winter, when three feet of snow blanketed the island, she insisted on being the one to break trail, plowing through the deep drifts with a determination that never fails to make me smile.
No, it’s not the life I once imagined for Peggy, but it’s a life that is rich, full of adventure, and deeply satisfying—for both of us. What I’ve come to realize is that Peggy’s best life isn’t defined by what she’s lost, but by the joy and resilience she’s shown in embracing what she still has.
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