The Dog That Stole My Husband’s Heart

Here you are, without a speck of old-age, grey in your muzzle, not yet two years old. You are the dog that easily stole my husband’s heart. We waited a long time to get you because I didn’t want to have another Great Dane after losing the first one to mouth cancer. After

euthanizing the first one, walking into a house without ANY dogs was one of the hardest things I had to do.

People who live with Great Danes learn that much of what they do with their dogs gets done on a Grand Scale.  It’s that physical size thing that can’t help itself.  It is what it is.

We buy room-size crates, use raised dog bowls, buy vans or station wagons; socialize and obedience the hell out of our dogs because with these guys, temperament IS everything.

We know that regardless of where we go, the odds that our dog will be one of, if not THE largest dog in the room,  at the event, on the canal path … is certain.  I’d be lying if I said that we didn’t get a kick out of that.

What we hear:

“Where’s the saddle for that dog?”

“Bet it costs a fortune to feed him.”

“What kind of dog is that?”

You turned out to be what’s called a “soft dog.”  We learned, when we yelled raised our voices or accidently dropped a pan that made a huge bang when it hit the kitchen floor, that you would drop your head and back away.

You didn’t like anything loud.  And still don’t.

From the very beginning, you had a serious interest in playing canine soccer in the backyard. With soccer balls and tennis balls – especially tennis balls. You played and still play, by yourself if you couldn’t/can’t convince one of us to play with you.

My son uses photos of you as “chick magnets” on his Facebook page when he wants to do more than show you off.

You’re definitely the dog with his own harem. You live happily with female dogs but would rather not share with males.  And, that’s okay with us.

When it’s time to go to bed, you like company. You’ll stand in the center of the living room, catch someone’s eye and selectively bark — until you’ve achieved your goal.  One of us invariably heads upstairs with you enthusiastically bringing up the rear – or better yet, wedging your 160 pound body into a heel position as you lumber up the stairs alongside of your person.

You’ve proved to be a finicky eater. Just like when it’s time for bed, you like company. Not dogs.  People.  And, not just at home. When you’re staying over at Orchard Kennels, one of the staff has to stand alongside you while you eat – or you won’t.

You’ve welcomed puppies into the neighborhood, have kept an eye on things as you’ve characteristically popped your head up over the five foot, wood fence  that separates our side yard from the front yard.  This is you again, in those early years, when you could just get your head up over the top of the fence.

Our neighbors call to you as they walk by, hoping that you’ll pop your head up.

These days, we’re careful about how often you do this — one of your back legs is showing your age. It’s a bit arthritic which seems to be responding to the liquid glucosamine we’ve started mixing into your food.  Along with an animal probiotic powder supplement that the vet recommended.

They say that getting old’s a bitch.  They just forget to tell you that.  [gplus count=”true” size=”Medium” ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

    • htkhp says

      That’s the on-going chat I have with myself – about getting old(er) and its bitchiness …. It is that if you think it is. But, when i was writing that post, it was a great note to end on!

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