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  • Clarke Wallace

GOING TO THE DOGS

I never thought we’d ever run a house that would have as many humans as it has canines. That’s how things have worked out. And German shepherds, no less. Strangely enough, there’s the mother, seven-year-old Coffee, named by the breeder, and her daughter Rebelle. Our name for her.


How did we get this far? Circumstance.


We’ve always had a dog over the years, mostly of the same breed. It’s somewhat wild where we live and it’s good having them keep an eye on things.


I work at home, having done so for years. One of the dogs usually comes down the hall and plunks herself beside me. Then both. It’s something I’ve never taken for granted.


The delight now is to have both dogs around. German shepherds are a breed unto themselves. They are so darn bright. Loving. They anticipate what you’re going to say or do next.


They remain by the solarium door when we go out. On returning home, you can see two sets of ears perked straight up waiting for us to open the door. They greet us almost wagging their tails off.


Author’s comment: I’m looking at them now. Coffee curled up beside me on the office rug. Rebelle in the doorway. I’m not alone when I’m writing. I talk, quoting out loud dialogue I’m working on. I’ll stop and say to them, “Do you think that works? I’ll swear they look with their big brown eyes, and nod their approval.

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