Most of the puppies were already spoken for, but Angela, the kennel owner, had one boy and one girl left.
“You wanted a girl? She’s in the orange collar,” she said. “We don’t name them—just coloured collars. Their first and only name comes from their family.”
Patrick and I had talked about getting a dog for a while, but it had always been just that—talk. I’d only moved back to New Brunswick three years before, and it wasn’t even meant to be permanent. Before that, I was a journalist in Toronto, bouncing from city to city with each new job offer. I had planned to spend just six months back home to take a break and reconnect with my family. Then, I met Patrick, who worked at the local TV station, and fell in love—with him, with local media, and with small-town life. For the first time, I was ready to put down roots. But getting a dog? That felt like the final step, the real commitment to staying.
Baby Maud Watt along the wharf. (Vicki Hogarth/The Courier)
I stepped closer to the enclosure lined with wood chips, where six fluffy puppies tumbled and wrestled. As soon as they noticed us, they froze, their eyes widening. Then, one pushed to the front, standing on her hind legs, her paws pressed eagerly against the gate. Her orange collar stood out against her wrinkled neck.
“Patrick!” I gasped. “It’s like she knows she’s ours.”
Patrick shot me a look—a mix of amusement and a silent reminder of the promise I’d made in the car: no impulse decisions. But the moment I laid eyes on her, my resolve vanished.
Everything about her made me smile. Her face was impossibly delicate, her eyes still soft and sleepy, but her energy undeniable. And her paws—huge, clumsy things—were so goofy, they seemed to have a life of their own. How had the other families passed her by? Maybe it was the orange collar—pink and red had seemed more popular for the other girls. But to me, she wasn’t just another puppy. She was our puppy. The second I saw her, behind those bars with her orange collar gleaming, it was clear: she was my partner in crime.
Angela reminded us that the puppies wouldn’t be ready to leave the kennel for another four weeks. “You can think it over,” she said.
Patrick let out a sigh, his expression softening. “We don’t need to,” he replied. “We’ll sign the adoption papers today.”
He took my hand as he filled in our names side by side at the bottom of the page. It was just ink on paper, but it felt like more—like a promise, a binding contract not just to a dog, but to a life together. I’d never stayed anywhere for too long, but this? This was different. This was home.
Patrick walking with baby Maud. (Vicki Hogarth/The Courier)
As Patrick paid the deposit, he turned to me with a mischievous grin. “If we come back around February 14th to pick her up, does that mean I’m covered for Valentine’s Day? And all future Valentine’s Days for that matter?”
I laughed, but deep down, I knew bringing a puppy into our lives would open our hearts in a way we hadn’t anticipated. In adopting Maud, Patrick wasn’t just making us a family—he was giving me the greatest gift I’d ever received, Valentine’s Day or not.
Four weeks later, we returned with a blue and green collar adorned with tiny whales, a fitting choice for her new life by the sea. The orange collar would stay behind. From that moment on, she was no longer just the orange pup. She was our Maud.
We named her after strong Maritime women: artist Maud Lewis, writer Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Patrick’s late grandmother, Klyne Maud Wilkins. The name fit. She was one of a kind.
The day we brought her home, the whole town seemed to come out to meet her. Countless neighbours, friends, and family dropped by to greet our new addition. That’s just how it is in a small town. Word travels fast, and we’re all connected. More than a community, we’re a family, invested in each other’s lives.
Vicki and baby Maud on Water Street. (Vicki Hogarth/The Courier)
A few weeks later, Patrick and I took Maud to our favourite beach near the Blockhouse in St. Andrews. It was still winter, and the town felt magical in its quiet tranquility. Maud, still small, was in my arms as we walked to the shore where she sniffed the salty air. The moonlight shimmered on the water, and the stars lit up the night sky.
Patrick squeezed my hand. “Would you marry me?” he asked. “I don’t have a ring, but I did get you this goldendoodle.”
I laughed, my eyes welling up with tears. “Yes,” I answered. “And we don’t need a fancy wedding either.”
“Thank goodness,” Patrick laughed.
“I just want to sign the papers and make it official,” I said. “We are family.”
Read the debut For the Love of Maud column here.
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