I had a dog when I was a little girl – a mut that looked like a cross between a yellow lab and a pig. My two older brothers decided before we visited the vet that the dog was a boy (obviously) and therefore appropriately named the dog something really manly – Shep. Only hours later we found out that Shep was a She. I am still unsure of the extent of damage this had upon her self-esteem but I think it’s safe to say, considering her destructive habits, that it was indeed great.
I loved that dog. Truly. She was the only other girl in the house and our similar genders bonded us. But I never took on much responsibility for her care. My brothers walked and fed her for the most part and my dad called her home when she ran away to join the circus.
I did not realize how much I had missed as a dog owner until there was Winston. (duh. duh. duhmmmm….) *cue enter dog*
When Andrew said he had bought a Weimaraner the only reference I had in my head was those things on Sesame Street with dog heads and human hands. So I laughed while Andrew wrinkled his face in confusion and didn’t think anything of it.
Little did I know the oddities that came with owning a huge grey dog. I mean, how many of those does a person see in a lifetime?
Andrew would want me to mention at this point that we walk Sir Winston Churchill III twice a day. It’s really the only way to keep our house from being chewed apart…or our limbs for that matter. So we walk him and walk him and do so with the greatest expectation of enjoyment each day because walking 110 lb grey dog with royal sensibilities never goes without at least one comment.
First and most common is: “Beautiful dog!” Thank you all. Would you like to take him home and smell the flatulence this monster can exert in the span of one evening? I’ll say at this point that when you have a dog this “beautiful” that people don’t tend to talk to you until they realize that the dog can’t answer their question about how old they are or how much they weigh. Sometimes, and this is the rare days when I do my hair a put on makeup, I’ll get the standard, “beautiful dog” followed by a brief pause and then, “beautiful lady too.” I don’t care if I’m second to a dog that licks his own butt…I’m taking that compliment and I writing it down in my middle school journal.
Second and I think my favorite is: “He must be terribly old. He’s all grey”. Yes…that’s it. He’s an old lab…a really old lab. People dogs don’t grey all over like humans. They don’t live that long. He’s 3 1/2 and he could out run your dog any day.
Third and often the brightest part of my day is: “What kind of dog is that?”
“A Weimaraner”, I answer.
“A warmunger? That’s a type of Great Dane right?”
Fourth and final is: “Who’s walking who?” Actually, I think that the same old guy asks me the same question every time I pass him. Still it’s happened multiple times to which I always respond, “Still trying to figure that one out” but in my head I’m thinking, ” most dogs walk like…ten feet in front of their owners. Winston is always at my side. Most dogs would have charged you by now. Winston is now laying down in the grass while I finish this conversation”. Come on. Where’s the love people? This is a good dog.
Who’s walking the dog? I’m walking the dog.