Pleasant Reminders

A few days ago we were driving down our hill on our way up to Portland to take care of some business and, as we passed a corner, Ann chuckled.  I asked Ann, “What’s so funny?”  She replied, “Oh just remembering . . . that time when . . . .”   I finished her sentence, “The 3-legged dog?”  And we both burst out laughing.  “Hans and the three-legged dog” is one of my favorite stories.  I love telling it and given that Ann and I spent the next 5 or so minutes talking about Hans and feeling so good remembering him it warrants an on-line recounting.  He deserves no less.

For those of you who don’t know, Hans was my German Shepherd.  I say “my” but he was actually ours, but to really get it right, I was his.  He chose me, at a pretty old age for a dog (nearly 2), and dumped Ann in the process of doing so (which comes up whenever Ann needs one more thing to poke me about).  And I remember the moment when he chose me - he turned the corner rounding the front of the truck, looked at me, froze, and we were joined.  Not many people can say that.

Hans wasn’t the brightest of bulbs on the block (not sure which was harder, his head or the rock he is resting on).  But he wanted nothing more than to be with me and to please me.  His instinct was to protect me, and it took a long while for him to understand that protecting me didn’t always please me.  

As you can see below, Hans was a big boy.  Pretty much in the 110-115 lb range once he fully matured.  And a bark to match.  He loved people, but was always suspicious of other dogs unless they were part of his pack.  So when we were out with him, most of the time we had him on a leash.  Yeah, there were fields we could take him to and let him (and Maxine, or Mina) run free.  And as time went on, he learned to obey - though reluctantly - to my voice commands, even in tense situations.  Those times I had to use what Ann calls my sergeant’s voice.  But he would respond.  Simple, easy commands. 

One day Ann and I were taking Mina and Hans for a walk.  We had them both on leash and decided to walk down to the bottom of the hill and make a big loop around the neighborhood to check out a new development that was going up on the hills to the west of us.

We were most of the way down the hill and had only a few more houses to go before we hit a long stretch of fence when, from a corner house, a three-legged dog stepped out of a garage.  We were familiar with the dog from sight - we’d see it from the car all the time.  It was about Mina’s size, and looked to be some kind of a mix, resembling a Rhodesian Ridgeback - short hair, brownish-reddish.  It belonged to an older woman, definitely retired, and from what we could tell, probably lived by herself.

I waited for a face to appear, or a voice to ring out for the dog to get back into the garage but nothing.  After a couple of seconds staring at us, the dog started running towards us.  (Yes, three legged dogs can run, not gracefully, but they can run.)  “Hans, easy.”  I dropped my hand down to the bottom of the leash, bent my arm a bit, braced my stance and bent my knees and hips ready to pull back on Hans if necessary.  Believe me, having Hans pull on you when you weren’t ready was not pleasant.

The dog quickly approached, then slowed down and stopped about a foot away.  “Hans, easy.  Good boy, you’re being a good boy.”  Hans knew what I wanted, and although I could feel what he wanted to do through the leash, he wasn’t reacting.  Mina on the other hand was nervous as could be and was moving to stand behind Hans.  “Good,” I thought, “he’ll just want to stand between the three legged dog and Mina.”

The three legged dog looked as if she was about as smart as Hans, which was not good.  She tried to walk around Hans to check out Mina (dogs always went towards Mina after taking a look at Hans), and Hans stepped to intercept her.  I let Hans move, me moving with him, because he was establishing what the rules were in a way I couldn’t. The three legged dog stepped back, Hans moved back.

The three legged dog then lowered its head a little bit, submissively, and then moved in closer to Hans.  Hans let her sniff his neck, head held high.  Hans then sniffed her neck.

Then the damn dog whipped her head around and grabbed Hans by the neck!

Hans immediately reacted, as did I as fast as I could and yanked upwards with all my might.  See, you don’t stop a German Shepherd, not a 115 lb German Shepard, from going forward when it wants to.  You can, however, divert its path and make it go upwards.  

Well, in that instance I learned a few things: 1)  I’m not nearly as fast as Hans;  2)  That’s why German Shepherds have that massive fleshy ruff around their neck, they can grab onto another animal even after the animal has a grasp on them! and 3) Hans’ mouth was big enough to have an entire dog’s head in it. 

Now, when I said I wasn’t strong enough to stop Hans when Hans really wanted to move, it didn’t mean I wasn’t strong.  I had yanked Hans hard enough upwards so that Hans was tippy toe on his rear feet.  That put Hans’ mouth right about my eye level and . . . well, I was looking eye to eye with a dog that had Hans’ ruff in its mouth, and its entire head inside Hans’ mouth.  Need I note that the three legged dog’s feet were dangling about two feet off the ground?  The dog’s wide-open eyes spoke that universal language that anyone with children knows - “Uh, oh!  I’m in trouble!”

I held them there for a few seconds, Hans still on his tippy toes, and the dog’s feet suspended from the ground.  It let go of Han’s ruff and I calmly said, “Hans, off!”  Off was the command for him to let go of whatever is in his mouth - a toy, a blanket, a biscuit, or, as we learned that day, another dog’s head.

Wanting to please me, Hans immediately let go.  The dog dropped to the ground.  I lowered Hans, and the dog scampered away.

By then the old lady had come out of the garage.  I was not about to put up with any crap and simply said, “Lady, your dog attacked my dog.  You better keep it on a leash or something bad will happen next time.”  I think I may have used my sergeant’s voice.  In any event, she didn’t say much of anything and just left.

We shortened our walk and found that, indeed, Hans had a couple of puncture wounds on the skin of his neck (voices of “It’s only a flesh wound . . .” floating in our ears) and was none the worse for wear.  I kept telling him he had been a good boy because he’d done all I could have expected from him.  And I think we took him out for ice cream later as well.  When a 115 lb pup like Hans does things right, you want to make sure you let him know you appreciate his efforts.

Hans and the three-legged-dog is just one of the wonderful stories he’s given me!  

Boy do I miss him.