According to Merriamwebster.com, a sanctuary is “a safe place where someone or something is safe and protected.” My bedroom has become a sanctuary.
Who is being protected? Maggie, from a certain black puppy.
My room is what we call “the Pippa-free zone.” Maggie is free to chew bones or take naps undisturbed. Occasionally the runt sneaks in, heading right for Maggie’s grimy stuffed animals, but she is promptly ushered out. Maggie always looks grateful.
Maggie and Pippa have fun playing, but for my canine daughter, sometimes enough is enough. She is eleven, after all. It makes me sad because she doesn’t act like an eleven-year old dog. Ever since Miss Pippa entered our lives, Mag just seems old. I guess it’s the same with people: Maggie will enjoy her senior years. The walks my aide and I take her on to get her out of the house, the part of our backyard where Pippa isn’t allowed to go (there’s a swimming pool)—these are Maggie’s greatest pleasures right now.
These, and time in her sanctuary with me. Away from Pippa.
I know exactly how Maggie feels. After all, I have two younger sisters.