Column: Even at 14+, our pup has the same old motto: "Gotta fly!"

In January of 2009, my husband, Paul, and I selected a puppy from a litter at the Kennebec Valley Humane Society. She was a tiny lab-pit bull mix, all black except for a stick figure in white on her chest. We named her Martha.

On the way home, we stopped at the pet supply store. I put Martha in the baby seat in the shopping cart. I picked up a bag of puppy food, turned to put it into the cart, and saw that she had wriggled down from the seat into the cart.

We should have known right then what a wild ride we’d be in for.

At fourteen and eight months, Martha is still a force to be reckoned with. She’s made a few concessions to age, but her motto remains: “Gotta fly!”

My favorite nickname for her is “Miss Sassy Boots.” I’m a senior too, and consider her energy, determination and fearlessness an inspiration.

In 2009, Martha was going home to a big brother, Aquinnah (aka Quinn), a large, handsome and stoic (except when barking at the mail carrier) chocolate lab. She immediately figured out that lying on top of him was the best place to be. She continued this habit even after she reached her full weight of about 38 pounds, and until Quinn’s final days in February, 2020.

Thank you, Quinn, for tolerating her and providing us with periods of peace.

It took me at least three weeks after we adopted Martha before I was able to get her into the master bedroom. Initially, I slept with her in the guest room, because it would take me 20 minutes each night to settle her down.

I am still asking her to “settle” today.

Every evening until she was two years old, I’d take her into the backyard and let her run in circles around me.

It might have done some good. Hard to tell.

I suspect Martha would still enjoy such a romp because she has frequent “galloping” dreams. Sometimes she also yips as she runs through slumberland.

But she knows she’s aging. She decided on her own, for example, that she was going to spend her days in the den, rather than the living room.

Then she decided she was no longer going to go upstairs to the bedroom to sleep. She would sleep in the den.

I assume she prefers the den for her daytime habitat because it’s off the beaten track. The living room is in the middle of a traffic flow pattern, as we humans move from kitchen to dining room and then upstairs. Martha sleeps a lot more now and apparently does not want to be disturbed.

As far as her choice of nighttime arrangements—well, there are a lot of stairs to the second floor.

And though Martha got an excellent report card at her last physical, she does have one issue—her back legs are weakening.

So far, these have been her only nods to age, although in the last few weeks she has allowed herself to sit down occasionally while finishing her meals.

Martha has trouble standing still for very long, but no trouble walking. She could sit while she waits for her dinner or treats, but she hates to sit. Instead, she just wanders around, her toenails clicking and clacking.

There are three stairs leading down from the kitchen to the den. She not only takes them at a leap, she bounces right up onto the sofa in a seamless motion. Most of the time. But she’s 14-plus. When she falls, she goes down hard, and it’s heartbreaking to watch.

I can’t fuss over her when she tumbles, though. She gives me a look that says, “What’s your problem, old lady?’’ Then she play bites my hand.

I focus on the positive. When she succeeds, I trill, “Gotta fly!”

There are three steps from the deck to the ground. She flies.

There are four steps from the front porch to the sidewalk. Martha tries to fly, but Paul reins her in as best he can.

We take Martha for a walk in the park every morning. Her excitement begins at least 15 minutes before we’re due to leave, although a half hour is not unusual. Her preparations involve doing laps around the kitchen island—her toes click-clacking on the Pergo—and standing stuffed between me and the sink as I dry my hair. If a cat comes by, she chases it.

Then Paul has to wrangle her down the steps and the two of us get her into the car. Martha, of course, tries to fly in, and that just isn’t happening anymore.

At the park, she’s off. She trots along like an eight-year-old. She sniffs incessantly. Martha is living her best life when she’s on the trail in a green space.

For months, Paul walked her while I tagged along, as I had had knee replacement surgeries in March and August of 2022. I had to keep my distance, as I didn’t want the unpredictable Miss Sassy to scramble in front of me and cause me to fall.

It was a proud moment this spring when I felt strong enough to walk my zany, lovable old girl.

She can be exasperating, but I treasure every minute with her.

As my 67th birthday approaches, I adopt her joyful slogan as my own.

“Gotta fly!” 

Martha, possibly contemplating her next "flight."