Wardrobe Malfunction

So there we were, me and the pups, making our usual lap around Osage Park when I saw two women up ahead. Each was walking a striking, straight from the movies, Rin Tin Tin stand-in quality German Shepard. 

We stopped to admire each others' dogs and talked about our shared passion for animal rescue. When they asked about Hazel and Aiden, I explained that they were retired ex-racers from Florida. I mentioned that although I'm absolutely, unconditionally devoted to Greyhounds, I've always had a soft spot for German Shepards. 

And it's true. Those were the dogs of my childhood, starting with a gentle black and white German Shepard named Lisa. She was so named because when I was born, that was what Mom wanted to call me.  However, Dad didn't like "Lisa," wanting instead to name me after his first girlfriend--really?  And her name was "Eileen," so I guess we know who won that argument. But when they got their first dog a few months later, Mom put her foot down: Lisa it would be. And for 13 years, Lisa was as much a part of my family as any two-legged version. 

When Lisa died at 13, my parents went to a breeder (because that's what people did in the 70s) and came home with Lobo. He was a goofy dog, a brown and black runt of the litter that turned out to have a bit of a destructive streak...and that was putting it mildly. From drywall and doorknobs to shoes, sofas, tables, and toys, lop-eared Lobo chewed his way through our home with the tenacity of an 80-pound termite. He was a sweet dog, loving and affectionate, but suffered from severe separation anxiety, a little-known condition in the 1970s to most people. In those days, canine resources weren't as readily available as they are today, plus Al Gore hadn't yet invented the Internet. And so, our family muddled through 12 years with Lobo, loving our crazy neurotic dog but always wondering what chaos we might return home to.  

Our final dog from a German Shepard breeder was an all-black beauty named Grizzly. From the beginning, he was Dad's dog, attaching himself to our father like green on grass. When Dad was in the hospital, one of his dying wishes was to see Grizzly one last time and the nurses agreed to smuggle him into his room. Sadly, Dad died before we could set our plan in motion. By then, I was a young adult and no longer living at home, but Mom would tell me how her mourning was made even harder by watching Grizzly mourn, too. The dog would wander from room to room, looking for his master, and sometimes Mom would find Grizzly in the garage lying next to Dad's yellow diesel Volkswagen, a car with a very distinct engine rumble. One day, while walking Grizzly in a crosswalk, a yellow diesel Volkswagen approached and was idling at the stop sign as they passed.  Ears up, eyes alert, Grizzly suddenly bolted and dragged Mom to the man's car, where he excitedly jumped up on his hind legs and stuck his big black menacing head through the driver's open window. The poor guy was frightened out of his wits until Mom tearfully explained the reason for the dog's erratic behavior.  Just a couple years later, our hearts were broken yet again when we lost Grizzly to bloat, a painful condition where the stomach twists and fills with gas. 

These were just a few of the memories that raced through my head during the 10 minutes we chatted about the importance of animal rescue and placing homeless pets. As I admired their majestic-looking dogs, I explained why Greyhounds had stolen my heart but said that I fully support any rescue organization. Noting their identical blue t-shirts that read, German Shepard Rescue of Northern California, I added how, given my history with the breed, I especially appreciate their organization. 

"Adopt, don't shop, right?" I said in the spirit of camaraderie.

"Oh, we didn't rescue these dogs," replied the one gal. "We support the group, but we went to a breeder."

Alrighty then. 

We said our goodbyes and, pausing only to pick my jaw up from the ground, I continued walking Hazel and Aiden.