Gunther
There’s something to be said for leaving well-enough alone. Six months after our beloved Gatsby had passed, six months into the pandemic, six months after we had sworn we were not getting another dog for a very long time, my resolve began to wane. The children had been begging for a dog for months. We staved them off, reminding them, and ourselves, that no dog would ever be as good as Gatsby, that dogs are a lot of work, they tie you down. We wanted to be able to travel, to be free to roam on a whim. Selfishly, I wanted the free time to write, to exercise, to have one fewer creature to take care of, for I knew the brunt of the burden would be on my shoulders; but as the pandemic wore on with no end in sight, traveling was not an option, socializing was a risk, so we found ourselves staring down a long, isolating, Maine winter. Perhaps a dog would be a nice distraction, a reason to go outside in the cold, a warm body to snuggle on the couch as the snow drifted down softly.
I don’t take dog ownership lightly. I know it’s a big commitment, so I tried to think of a way to have a dog without it being a long-term endeavor. I considered fostering, but I didn’t trust myself to give the dogs up and I worried about it being hard on the kids. I tentatively began scanning shelter and pet finder websites, just to see what was out there, and was surprised to find that there was very little. In addition to the hoarding of toilet paper, hand sanitizer, meat, and paper towels, it appeared that the crazy hoarders had also taken all of the dogs. I get the brilliant idea to rescue a senior or geriatric dog. I do not want to have to train a puppy, and I would prefer a dog that isn’t high energy. A calm, couch potato is my wish, which leads me to Great Danes, a breed I love, a breed that made up a large part of my beloved Gatsby’s personality, a big dopey dog that maybe has a few good spurts of energy in a day but is content to lounge around for the rest of it. A dog that is verbal, intelligent, and enjoys just being in the presence of its people without making too many demands. If I can find a senior Great Dane, I think I’ll have solved the puzzle.
There is not a Great Dane available for adoption within 500 miles. The Great Dane rescue website I’ve stumbled upon has many Danes needing homes, but most are young, or untrained, or blind, or unsuitable for houses with children, or not comfortable with men; but then I find Gunther. Gunther is an eight-year-old Great Dane. His profile says he’s great with kids, great with dogs, great with people, house trained, just looking for a place to live out his life. Great Danes typically live to be around eight years old. He looks healthy enough in the picture. Perhaps it is because he is small for a Dane, weighing only 108 pounds. I see this as a sign from Gatsby, for he weighed 108 during his prime. I show my husband Gunther’s profile. My husband, who is not fully onboard with this whole getting a dog idea, is still heartbroken over Gatsby, but he sees Gunther and thinks maybe it will be alright. We will be doing a good thing, giving this dog a home to live out the last year or two of his life. Many people don’t want to adopt older dogs. They can have expensive vet bills and it’s hard to grow attached to something you know won’t be around for very long; but I see this as the perfect solution.
I fill out the lengthy application and wait several weeks before I hear anything. Finally, I receive a call, and the woman on the line tells me that we have been approved to adopt from their organization. I am put in touch with Gunther’s foster, and she tells me what a nice boy he is. She says he is very fit and seems to have no health problems. He’s fine with her other dogs and hasn’t had any issues with her toddler-aged granddaughter. Feeling good about the information I’ve received, I go ahead and pull the trigger. We are going to adopt Gunther. The first hurdle is getting him from Texas to Maine. The rescue organization often assists with transport, but due to the pandemic it is not an option. I look into buying Gunther a plane ticket, but the foster would have to do a tremendous amount of legwork to make this happen. I think about driving to Texas myself, but I would need to bring the kids and I’m not comfortable traveling across the country with them during the height of the pandemic. I finally settle on a dog transport company. It hadn’t occurred to me that such a thing existed, but it does. I research several, reading countless reviews, and finally settle on one. Gunther has to have special medical clearance from the vet and then he will be picked up and driven to us, with stops along the way to collect and deliver other dogs.
I do not tell the children that we have a dog coming. God forbid this geriatric dog doesn’t survive the trip- I don’t want them suffering unnecessarily. I impatiently chart Gunther’s progress as he travels through states I’ve never ventured into: Oklahoma, Kansas, Kentucky. He makes a tour of the eastern seaboard and finally, four days after his departure, he is due to arrive in our driveway. We break the news to the kids, then eagerly await in the dark, cool, fall evening, anticipation hanging in the air as the van pulls in. Gunther unfolds himself from the crate in the back. It is difficult to make out his expression. He yawns and stretches, pees, and beelines it for the house. We send the transport off and race after him.
The first thing made evident, is that Gunther is not 108 pounds. He is much, much larger. The second thing that is clear, is that he is in no way geriatric. He is spry, alert, and powerful as a horse. His enormous head clears our kitchen countertops. He trots from room to room, navigating his way up the stairway to our living room. We are surprised to learn, moments later, that he does not know how to navigate his way back down the stairs. He sort of just chucks himself down and lands in a heap, howling in pain and fear. My son starts sobbing. My husband and I wonder if we’ve just bought ourselves a trip to the vet for an ACL repair, but once we rearrange Gunther’s limbs and help him stand up on the slippery wood floor, he seems no worse for wear. We give him his supper and some water, take him out one more time, and after he has thoroughly inspected each of us in turn, he helps himself to the entire sofa and promptly falls asleep, his soft snores rhythmically breaking the silence.
Seventeen hours later, Gunther awakens from his slumber. I feel badly for the stress he incurred while being transported. I feed him, wait an hour to prevent bloat, and take him for our first walk. I clip the leash to his harness and set off down the driveway. Gunther begins to trot slowly. I jog to keep up. He picks up the pace and I am soon in a full run, panting, being pulled along like a skier on a tow rope. He continues trotting at this pace for two miles, never stopping once to pee or sniff anything. My lungs burn, my legs ache, my chest heaves. I am praying for a quick death when we arrive back at the house. Gunther goes to the door to be let inside, has a bucket of water, then collapses on the floor for a four-hour nap. He rouses himself only for his basic needs, and the next day is very much the same; but on the third day, he is risen, and now, all bets are off. When I take him for his walk, he is interested in everything. He terrifies an older couple by charging up to them and sniffing them, dragging me behind (still panting). On our afternoon walk, we encounter our neighbors with their dogs. He charges at their large chocolate lab and puts the lab’s head fully in his mouth. I cannot tell if he is attempting to play or if he is being aggressive, but no one is comfortable with this, so I drag him away. When he gets tired while walking, no matter where we are, he lies down. There is no moving him until he decides he is ready. As the days go by, our walks become progressively more difficult. He barks, growls, and lunges at any person or dog that is within 30 feet of us. People no longer smile and say hello. They glance warily, or often turn and go in the opposite direction.
In our large yard, he wants to run and play, but frequent foot traffic on the road prevents us from being able to let him run free. One day he breaks away and charges toward a woman and her golden retriever. I apologize and say he is friendly, though I am beginning to question if this is true with anyone but the four of us. She replies that while it’s great our dog is friendly, she is not, nor is her dog, and she walks away in a huff. I make an appointment with a dog trainer.
In the house with our children, Gunther snuggles, resting his head on a lap or a back, or whatever human body part gives him comfort. During the day he seeks me out, wedging his large body into the small bathroom, lying behind me while I cook, joining me on the couch while I write, stealing items out of the laundry basket while I fold the clothes. On our walks, I become more alarmed as his behavior becomes more aggressive, and it takes all of my strength and body weight to hold him back whenever we encounter another living being. He is scared of everything and everyone. I give him treats anytime we pass another person or dog, letting him know it’s a positive thing rather than a negative. My whole hand is enveloped in his enormous mouth, and he is sublimely gentle, never once nipping my fingers, his care for my safety a complete juxtaposition to his behavior toward any other thing we encounter. I start to walk him just as the sun rises so we won’t see other people, and in the middle of the day, while most are working. I dread seeing another human, fearing that I won’t be able to restrain him, and I am afraid that he feeds off of my fear, compounding the situation.
He has a checkup at the vet. He weighs 136 pounds and is 5-6 years old- not remotely close to what we were told, but I have grown to love his deep, howling bark, his curious eyes, his lovable ways, his gentle mouth, the way he steals the dryer balls out of the laundry, the way he talks when he wants to play. My children are attached as well, especially my son, who before and after school, lies on the floor with Gunther and buries his face in his fur. But then, the unthinkable happens. One sunny Saturday, I am leading Gunther down the driveway for our walk, and one of my children’s friends unexpectedly appears on a skateboard. Unprepared, I am dragged down the driveway where Gunther attempts to nip the child on her arm and face, which is nearly at his level. I heave him back at the last second and she is unharmed, but I am sick. It could have been a disaster. What if he’d bitten her face? Damaged her eye? Due to the pandemic, we have relatively few visitors to the house, but in normal times, there are kids coming and going all day. My husband was witness to the incident, and he is as grim-faced as I am.
I contact the adoption agency and tell them what has happened. I tell them that we cannot have a dog in our home that is aggressive toward children. They ask me if perhaps Gunther is leash reactive, which basically means that he feels vulnerable while on a leash so behaves aggressively toward any perceived threat. I agree to meet with the trainer before making a final decision.
The trainer does not give me good news. Given Gunther’s age and unknown history of trauma, she recommends that Gunther be rehomed. Had he been younger, perhaps he could have been rehabilitated, but she believes that his fear instinct will always win over any training we give him. In the meantime, she is firm in saying that for as long as we have Gunther, he will need to be locked up anytime we have guests in our house; that we need a fenced in area, he shouldn’t be walked in the neighborhood, and we should never leave our children alone with him. I am heartbroken. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This will devastate my children, and poor Gunther will be relocated again. I feel like an utter failure. Rather than bringing my family joy, I will now cause them more pain, yet another loss in a year full of losses.
I inform the adoption agency and they work on finding a foster at minimum, a permanent home at best. We do not know how long this will take. Despite the trainer’s advice, I continue walking Gunther as the sun rises on chilly December mornings, and, as the weeks pass, we settle even further into a routine. He seems to sense the sadness that I now carry with me, and he follows me around the house, keeping me company. I am not disappointed in the amount of time that it is taking for him to be rehomed. I enjoy this dog 22 out of the 24 hours of the day. The only time I don’t enjoy him is when we walk, for there is always the anticipation that we will have an encounter with another dog or human. I am beginning to hope they never find another home for him, thinking maybe I’ll fence in our yard, maybe he’ll get better, maybe we just won’t ever invite anyone over; but then my daughter’s friend unexpectedly visits our house. She stands in our kitchen as Gunther circles her, aggressively jabbing his nose into her leg, then follows her down the hallway, growling, and barking, impeding her movement. I quickly intervene, sending the girls into my daughter’s room with the door closed until I can lock Gunther up. His behavior is scary, and all the reminder I need that this situation will never work out. I would never forgive myself if something happened to someone in our home, and Gunther deserves better than to be locked in rooms for the rest of his life.
The text came in mid-December. A foster had been found, and if Gunther got along with their other Great Dane, the foster would adopt him permanently. The people lived in New Hampshire, in the middle of nowhere, no leashes needed, no children, and few visitors. We would meet at the halfway point on Friday, just two days away, and Gunther would no longer be ours. My son is so sad he comes home from school the next day. He only wants to be with Gunther, and he can think of nothing else.
On Friday, I, alone, drive him. I pack his bed, harness, leash, dishes, food, and toys. I leave my children and their tear-streaked faces at home. In the back of the car, Gunther sits pressed against my center console, facing the windshield, his head level with mine, as though we were two companions, passing the time in quiet conversation; but I cannot speak. I can only choke out occasional words through my tears. Apologies, consolations, lamentations…. words that will do nothing to fix this terrible situation and the feeling of hopeless betrayal as this dog sits there, trusting me, needing me, not knowing his world is about to be turned upside down again.
We arrive in the parking lot, and moments later, the man who would take this scared, gentle giant away from me pulls up in his truck. He is rugged looking: leather jacket, piercings, tattoos, maybe a biker. His girlfriend arrives moments later. I awkwardly start handing all of Gunther’s belongings to them. They seem surprised that there is so much. They likely think I’m one of those people who got a dog and changed my mind, who got bored or lazy and just didn’t want to deal with it. This could not be farther from the truth. My heart is breaking. The man asks if I rub oil on Gunther’s ears to keep them from splitting and if I give him pumpkin in his food to aid his digestion. I dumbly shake my head, but I am comforted by his words, because they mean that he spoils his dogs. This is the life Gunther deserves; one where he can feel safe, and run free, have a companion, and have oil rubbed on his ears and pumpkin in his dinner.
I hand the man the last item I packed, a letter I have written that describes Gunther’s likes and dislikes, his fears and loves. I hope that this letter will demonstrate to the man what his words relayed to me: that I spoil my dogs, that I love Gunther, and that I am giving him up because I love him, so that he isn’t locked away in a room, or scared on a leash, or put in a situation that could be deadly for a person or for him.
Finally, I lead Gunther out of my car and over to the man’s truck. He doesn’t want to get in. I have brought his favorite treats and attempt to lure him. He does not leave my side. I get his front paws up and lift his back end in. He tries to climb out before I can close the door. His eyes follow me as I walk around the front of the truck. He climbs to the front seat and presses his face to the windshield, his expression questioning, as though sensing that I am leaving him forever. I raise my hand in farewell and turn away for the last time, unable to meet his gaze again, sorrow and pain and shame coursing through me. I make it to my car where I finally let my emotions flow freely, tears streaming down my face, sobs racking through me. I remain there long after Gunther and the man have gone.
I make the two-hour drive home, tears blurring my vision. I collapse into bed, depleted, my eyes heavy from crying. I toss and turn all night, finally giving up on the idea of sleep as day is about to break. I walk to the cove and watch the sunrise, heaviness in my heart, the sense of loss lingering. We only got to be with Gunther for a few months, but his absence is felt keenly. I cry as I walk back to my house, surprising my neighbor with my blotchy-faced, early appearance.
In the kitchen, I check my phone and discover a text from the man who now has Gunther.
“So, Gunther opened the bedroom door in the night (was closed and latched so turned the knob somehow) and decided he was not waiting to introduce himself to Maggie. It appears it was intense and drama filled (dripping sarcasm). Well, I guess that went well. Two Danes snoring on the couch.”
Gunther had found his forever home, and now, I am weeping with joy.
