Reframing Maddie (Part 1)
If joy had a sound, Maddie’s would be the sharp thunk of a tennis ball hitting the ground or its whistling sound breaking the air. She doesn’t just like fetch — she lives for it. Her eyes snap to the ball like magnets, her whole body vibrating with purpose. Just driven.
I’ve spent years working with fearful dogs — the barky, lunging kind who scream “stay back” with their whole bodies. Maddie barked too. She jumped. She whined and growled. Could it be fear too?
This was new to me - Driven and fearful
One: She was kind of… crazy with balls
Two: I had my work cut out for me.
Three: It was time to think outside the box.
This wasn’t a problem to fix. It is time for me to learn to meet her halfway - giving her choice, agency and breathing room without tempering the intensity Maddie she was born with.
Maddie didn’t come to me through a rescue or shelter. She came from immense loss. Adopted as a puppy, she had lived with the same family for five years. One of her people battled cancer. The other struggled with alcoholism. In 2024, they both passed away, and Maddie lost not just her home, but the only world she had ever known. She ended up with a relative, a man already caring for two dogs of his own. Maddie got food, water, a roof — but not much else. No exercise. No structure. No one saw her for what she was: a working dog without a job, a high-drive dog with nowhere to put her intensity.
Her story is fragmented.
We knew she was adopted as a puppy, but no one could say when. There were no vet records. No clear indication of whether she was spayed. And this was in a small town with only one veterinary clinic. The invisible dog!
At first, I wanted to believe Maddie had been deeply loved — that her people gave her what they could, even if life got in the way. But love — or what people think of as love — is often too abstract. Many believe loving their dog is enough. But if a dog’s needs aren’t met, love alone falls short. Maddie didn’tneed just affection. She needed structure, stimulation, and connection — the things that make a dog’s world feel safe and meaningful. And it was becoming clear she never really had that.
The only “care” she received in her later home was a giant bowl of kibble placed in the middle of the living room, left out all day for her to graze. Without a job or daily structure, true to her Lab’s endowment, she did what so many under-stimulated dogs do: She ate, and ate and ate.
We were told she needed to be gone by June 1st. But the shelters were full — bursting, really — and even if one could take her, the future waiting for her there was bleak. Maddie is black, overweight, and five and a half years old — traits that still, heartbreakingly, count against dogs in the eyes of many adopters. Big black dogs get overlooked. They get passed over. And often, they don’t get chosen at all. If Maddie was lucky because she is a Lab, she’d be the last one out. If not, she’d never leave at all.
Then the deadline moved. Suddenly, she had to be gone by May 27th.
So she came home with me and I gave her a new name, Maddie, formerly Trinity, a new start, a clean slate and a new chapter. One I hoped would include safety, joy, and the chance to finally be understood.
Maddie formerly Trinity
By the time I met her, she was a hundred pounds of barely contained energy with a fixation on balls and a leash walk that felt more like water skiing. She was timid. She cowered easily and ran away so she could make herself small - often jamming all 100 pounds of herself into a corner if things felt too unpredictable - sight of a man wearing a hat or anyone with a hat. She often urinated when unsure. It was clear that her former world was overwhelming and these current anxiety-laden behaviors are the proof.
I am glad she is here with me. With me, she could finally exhale and feel safe.
And for the first time, I could begin to understand the dog beneath all the noise — the displacement, the urgency, the unmet needs. Maddie didn’t arrive ready to thrive and I know she was trying. And that was enough for us to begin.