If she were human she’d already be a card-carrying member of AARP. She’d be a long time resident of Boca Raton, spending her days wondering why the kids don’t call more and eating dinner at the ungodly late hour of 4:00pm. But Maya is a Dachshund and, at 11 years old, she’s the human equivalent of a 77-year old woman, only without the 10% discount at participating Denny’s restaurants.

Maya was already old when we got her. Not that five is really old for a dog. I guess a better way of explaining it is that Maya was already aged when we adopted her from a breeder in Texas. Not aged the way a complex red wine is aged, or an intense, artisanal Gruyere that improves over time. Maya was aged by life; a life that my wife and I knew nothing about when she joined us in New Jersey. We still know nothing about it. At this point it’s a best guess that, based on her many debilitating behavioral ticks and overall fear of, so many things, Maya lived the life of an overworked, under-loved breeding dog. And the scars she bears from that life are as ragged and apparent as battle wounds. Except, of course, they’re not visible. But that doesn’t mean they’re not there.

It’s hard to watch Maya and not wish that I had known her when she was a puppy. Before she became what she became. But, every now and then, in far-too-fleeting flashes, I get to see that puppy. When she runs from the back door to the back fence so quickly that I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing. When she spins and dances like a ballerina every time I tempt her with her absolute favorite treat: a piece of American cheese (Maya is many things; lactose intolerant is not one of them). Or, when she wriggles like cold bacon on a hot skillet in a pile of deer poop. Yes, the cuteness quotient on that particular act has a very limited shelf life.

When I see Maya do any of these things it makes me happy because I know that somewhere behind those tired, sweet brown eyes—eyes that have seen things I don’t like thinking about—that puppy is still there. It also makes me sad because, with the passage of every day, I know I will see that puppy less and less.

I have to wind this post up now because I have to take Maya outside. With any luck, I’ll get to see a black and tan blur of a puppy sprint to the back fence.

Hopefully, she won’t notice the deer poop.