Growing up up with deaf parents, having a dog was sort of a challenge. We had a crazy Norwegian Elk hound ( that's what they passed her off as- but I think she was part sled dog-indian dog) with an unpronounceable name. Eleyska. Something we made up out of the World Book Encyclopedia. My mom thought it should have a Norwegian name, so dutiful little girls with the teacher mom looked up Norway in the book and found a town named something, Of course, not having a hearing parent to help us figure out how to pronounce the name, we came up with something like Ah LEESK a. A better name would have been "crazy indian dog". Deaf parents can't really command a crazy dogs attention. We had no training, and she didn't understand the deaf "NO!" which is very different than the Norwegian Elkhound NO!
She dug, she jumped up on everyone, it barked and ate the corners of the dog house, and then my mom's fabulous blonde furniture. That was probably the last day it ate any furniture ever, because then, one day crazy indian dog was gone. My dad said she ran away, but I knew.
Then, another crazy dog. This one was my sister's dog. Pepper. Pepper was a mutt faced mix of poodle, terrier and spaniel. If you could ever have a dog with a psychotic mix, this was it. Pepper arrived when I was about to leave home for college. Pepper also didn't understand the Deaf "NO" . She liked underwear. My sister's underwear. If there was a door, she would bolt. "It's a open door, I have to go, go somewhere, I don't know, but I'm going, I'm going to the street, then the neighbors, and I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't hear you."
So my formative years growing up with dogs, was with two crazy dogs that ate furniture and underwear. Gah.
Then I met my husband. He came from Alaska with a dog that was a pure specimen of Dog God. MAJOR. Major was a purebred AKC German Shepard. Sable mix, 120 pounds of muscle that had traveled the Alaska Highway, ventured out on Oregon and Alaska rivers, spent every moment of his life with his ex-Army Ranger that logged, ranched, built log houses, guided king salmon fishing trips, grizzly and caribou. Major was an Alpha male that lived his life for another Alpha male. They were a team. He was not a dog that would ever eat underwear. He was magnificent and knew it. When I met them, I was truly in awe of the Dog God. He was obedient, he was loyal, he listened. He would actually communicate. He was respectful. He learned to love me. Especially since I had a warm apartment, and I smelled like cookies. Major was a superior dog, and there will never be another like him.
As our life moved into marriage, the hole without Major was killing us. We wanted another dog, but there was never going to be another Major. We knew he was irreplaceable. We looked. We even called the Oregon breeder, but decided that we couldn't heal the hole in our heart with a clone. We found a new German Shepard dog for our new life together- RUGER. All Black and from the Gallatin Valley, Ruger was essentially the essence of his name. Ruger-- a badass firearm. Intimidating, a little too serious, a combination of my husband and me, starting out in life with a new baby and the oppressiveness of life challenges on our back. Ruger was the protector. We trained him in Schutzhund training, mostly as something for us to do as a couple , and partly to see what would happen if you trained a German Shepard to actually defend, protect, even maim. He eventually learned to be brave on command, even in German. We showed him off with his little German commands... "Platz" "Auz" "Blieb". A little Nazi-SS dog machine. He was loving, but he knew his job was to protect the homeland. He did that. No one got in our yard in the ghetto. He would KILL YOU. Because he was a little defender on four legs, he did not like being in the house. He was not a house dog, and even if you smelled like cookies, Play-Doh or Barbies, he really didn't want to be with any of us. His job was to stay out there with the rabbit he almost killed, and the garden that smelled like old sunflowers. Ruger had a challenge with his digestive system, perhaps from the stress of defending the homeland, it eventually got the better of him.
A couple of bunnies, and a cat (story in a future blog) later; we decided that the bundle under the perfect Christmas Tree, for the perfect eight year old daughter, for the perfect new house, was a perfect little German Shepard Puppy. A puppy with five sisters, a big overbearing brother, and a runty brother, from the Hi-Line Plains of Montana. Dad and daughter played with the puppies in the Havre K-Mart parking lot on Christmas Eve, and decided that the one that kept coming back to her would be the one we took home.
We named him immediately, Gunnar. The Alpine name of a sweet brother combined with fearless tank sniper who could take out an enemy outpost. We hoped that he would be a combination of the two.
Gunnar is best dog I have ever had in my life. He is loyal, obedient, brave in the face of squirrels, somewhat stubborn, and a true imprint of what our life has become. Settled. Major was my husband's dog, Ruger was the protector, and Gunnar was my daughter's dog, but now has become my dog. He sleeps by me, gives me head hugs( dog head in-between my legs) he talks to me via brown eye gazes, helps me mow the lawn, helps me with the garbage, defends my yard from squirrels. Once in awhile, he decides to check out the neighborhood and roams around, but he has never been the mean scary police dog that I have to worry about. Neighbors bring him home, or call me and tell me Gunnar is over here. He's the best dog, with the best reputation. I found him last month, in the park with a bunch of children, and a little girl who I would have thought would have been scared of a big German Shepard, tied a plastic bow on his neck, and was dragging him around the school yard. Gunnar was in heaven, tongue lolling out, following this little girl who smelled like shampoo and outside. I couldn't ask for a better dog.
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