Divorce is nasty. This ordeal is bad enough, but when participants also fight over splitting the sheets, the dissension worsens. Such conflict was the case when Chuck and Dee Dee rescinded their vow of "… until death do we part."
At some point after obscenities exchanged and objects hurled, one item of contention remained---Rex, a handsome, black-and-tan German shepherd. Ironically, this couple I'd long counted as friends did not fight over who'd get Rex; they fought over who'd have to take him.
Rex was still a youngster, but his weight, broad chest, and gigantic paws all testified he would grow to be a monster. My ending up with him was the result of visiting the wrong place at the wrong time.
Other trips to St. Petersburg to see my friends had been fun. Not this time. We sat on the front steps of their empty home, trying to bring something pleasant to this uncomfortable moment before parting. A Ford Ranger and a Honda Civic loaded with boxes and miscellaneous paraphernalia occupied the driveway. Oblivious to it all, Rex romped in the yard, shaking a Frisbee as if it were freshly captured prey.
"You'll love him," Dee Dee said. "He's a man's dog. Just ask Chucky."
Chuck kicked at a solitary tuff of Bermuda grass with the toe of his boot, took a pull on his Coors, and uttered a tone more anal than verbal.
I was still pondering this disparity of opinion when Rex dropped the Frisbee, sidled closer, and licked my fingers, a move that sealed the deal.
Dee Dee jumped from the wooden step and squealed like a teen at a slumber party. A moment later she'd packed Rex's belongings, an array that included a food and water dish, collar, leash, Frisbee, and an obscene rawhide strip dripping with slobber and reeking like rotting flesh.
"He's still teething," Dee Dee added with a maternal tone.
After goodbyes and empty vows to stay in touch, Rex and I boarded Lichen, my pond-scum-green pickup, and set out for home. The temperature was sweltering, typical for Florida in August, and Lichen's AC was on High, a 2/60 system utilizing two open windows and 60 MPH.
Despite the heat, my initial worry of how well Rex would handle the drive appeared for naught. Seemingly content, he sprawled across the passenger side seat and chomped on the rawhide strip. This benign demeanor was pleasing but it changed when we joined the northbound traffic on I75. Abruptly, Rex lost interest in his teething project and began turning circles on the seat as he barked and snarled at other vehicles. Dee Dee hadn't mentioned watchdog training. Was Rex a natural?
We left I75 at SR50, the final leg of the trip back home. This rural strip of two-lane asphalt was quiet, devoid of other traffic, but Rex continued barking and snarling. Couldn't a competent watchdog distinguish foe from fencepost?
A quarter mile from home, dripping sweat, dying of thirst, and questioning my sanity, I stopped at Ol' Red's Place, a roadside stand that featured boiled peanuts, smoked mullet, and cold beer.
Red was enjoying the shade of an overhanging oak, kicked back in a rocking chair, and eating a sandwich. Dee Dee hadn't mentioned dog commands, but before climbing from the truck, I gave Rex a stern look and said, "Stay!" Wrong word, as Rex immediately sailed through the passenger side window, made two bounds, and hit Red in the chest. His rocking chair collapsed to a heap of kindling and the remnant of his lunch soared skyward. Rex caught it in midair.
Petrified but not injured was my initial assessment of Red. I apologized and offered to replace the rocking chair, all the while explaining that Rex was a new dog I'd had less than an hour.
"Thank God," Red said. "I thought y'all were a holdup team."
Rex turned his attention to a table loaded with smoked fish as a minivan pulled in and parked alongside Lichen. For distraction, and to prevent further destruction of Red's meager establishment, I whistled for Rex and slung the Frisbee. He raced along the roadside berm, leaped into the air, and snagged the disk with deftness matching the NFL's best wide receiver.
A couple with two preteen children stepped from the van.
"Amazing!" the man said. "The kids would love having a dog to play with."
Rex returned with the Frisbee, but his attention shifted to a bag of potato chips the kids were sharing.
I clipped Rex's leash in place and handed it to the man. "Well," I said, "Rex is still a kid himself. Your children will love him."
Note:
At the time of this incident with Rex, I was working as a general contractor in West Central Florida. I already had a wonderful dog---Trilby, a young female German shepherd---but I took Rex because of my concern for his wellbeing, not my need for another dog.
I’d done some construction work for a local man, Jim, who bred and trained German shepherds, and this was how I obtained Trilby in the first place. When Jim had a litter ready for adoption, I expressed my desire for one, but I also admitted having no idea how to select the just-right pup. He said, “Let a pup select you.” With his guidance, I entered the enclosure and sat well away from the pups. In time each of them meandered over to check me out. One of them came back and stayed. This was the one I would name Trilby, which was also the name of the whistle-stop I called home.
I explained all this to the family that stopped at Ol' Red's place that day. I also explained that Jim would soon be holding dog training classes at our local fairgrounds. It was pleasing to see Rex again when these classes began. He and Trilby did well with the Basic course and then a few weeks later they both soared through the Advance Training course. When it was Trilby's "time," guess where I looked for a suitable daddy?
As Paul Harvey would say, "That's the rest of the story."
