By MARTA HEPLER DRAHOS
mdrahos@record-eagle.com
---- — One year, three months, two weeks and six days.
That's how long I lasted before caving in to the desire to get another black shepherd.
Soon after our beloved old guy died, in fact, I knew I couldn't hold out. In secret I began to Google shepherd rescue organizations, staying up late to search for his face among the hundreds of dogs that looked like him and yet didn't.
My breath caught every time I came upon dark maple eyes shaped like hazelnuts, tall ears set at a certain pitch. They were daggers through my heart, like the occasional black shepherd I'd see on news shows, sniffing out drugs or bombs.
My husband wasn't convinced we needed another dog. We already had two, plus the cat that showed up one day and wrapped herself around his ankles, then wrapped him around her little … claw.
But when my aunt, who'd lost her shepherd at about the same time, began regaling us with tales of her successful new adoption, I finally snapped. I inquired about dogs as far away as Virginia and Wisconsin, but they were adopted faster than I could make arrangements to visit.
Then I found Jack.
We weren't looking for an older dog, let alone one with problems. But I needed a shepherd and Mack — which rhymes with Jack, so as not to confuse him — needed a home in which to live out the rest of his retirement. He was grossly underweight after eight months of abandonment and in want of spoiling.
I took a half-day off and we traveled a few hours to meet him. As soon as he galumphed into the lobby — a skeleton with fur and a good-natured grin — we were hooked. Hooked and reeled in, despite the white whiskers, despite the loose teeth, despite the limp that suggested the losing end of a car collision.
He landed us when he lay down and ripped apart the squeaky whale toy we'd brought.
Oh, he's not his late "brother" in all respects. He's sweet where Jericho was grumpy, well-behaved where Jericho was incorrigible. He'll jump on the bed if you ask, but he doesn't prefer to spend his day there.
As for the cat, though, it's true what they say about shepherds: if it moves, they'll chase it.
Now we've learned there's another reason for his weight problem: a malabsorption disorder that's treated with a special diet like venison and potatoes or whitefish and yams. Which, except for the smell, almost makes me happy.
Because now it's just like the good old days when we cared for a big black shepherd with special needs. A shepherd that, in spite of all his troubles, lived to be 15.
May we be so lucky this time around.
Reach staff writer Marta Hepler Drahos at mdrahos@record-eagle.com
.
