Tag Archives: dogs

Every once in a while, someone comes along and raises the bar for everyone in all competitive  fields.  Grant is such a competitor.  That’s him in the CreativeJamie.com banner up on the top left.  He’s truly earned his spot up there…  Grant is approximately 10 years old and of German Shepherd and Great Dane descent – and this guy likes to party.  Whether he’s swinging his tail to clear the coffee table or batting us with his paw for more petting, Grant makes his presence known.  He’s intelligent,  affectionate… and fearful of the unknown.

Grant's scared face.

The guy hates noises he can’t understand:  thunder, the blender and more than anything, the tweeting that smoke alarms make when the batteries need to be replaced.  Ask any German Shepherd owner and they’ll tell you that any day which features fireworks or a heavy rain is a bad day. Some days are worse than others.

When a person is around, Grant can go to them for comfort and protection from the unknown, but when they’re not… all hell breaks loose.  Put yourself in his shoes – you’re home with only another dog who is not interested in the threat you perceive, you hear a sound that you can’t understand and it scares the hell out of you.  Remember when you were nine years old and couldn’t get to sleep because of the things you imagined were right outside your door, in the closet or under your bed?  That’s Grant – except it’s real.

BEEP!

“What the hell was that?”

BEEP!

“There it goes again.  Was that real?  Am I imagining things?”

BEEP!

“No, it’s real – it’s beeping at regular intervals!”

BEEP!

“What the hell is that?!?”

BEEP!

“It’s going to get me!  Is it getting closer?  Fucking Christ, it’s going to get me!”

BEEP!

“We’ve got to get out of here!”

(I guarantee you that the other dog is asleep.)

“Hey!  Hey man, we’re got to get out of here!  The… whatever it is, it’s coming, man!  We’ve got to get out of here!”

“It’s not time to eat.  It’s not time to go out.   It’s time to sleep.  I know this because no people are here.  I might look out the window, but that’s where it ends.  Leave.  Me.  Alone.”

“We’re gonna fucking die, man!  Get off the couch!  We’re dead, man!  We’re so fucking dead!”

“…”

“I’ve got to get the door open!  Fuck, my paw keeps getting stuck on the molding – oops.  Fuck, that didn’t help.  Jesus Christ, we’re going to die in here!  I can’t get the door knob open!”

(He pulled the molding right off the door. I found teeth marks on the door knob.)

“Fuck!  The window on the door is our only chance.  Wake up, man, wake up!  Help me with this!

“…”

“I’ll push the window till I get through…  grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

Mission Accomplished.

He pushed the window right out of the door – I kid you not.  This pushed the storm door open and Grant leaped to freedom – fortunately, the window didn’t shatter, so he didn’t jump onto a pile of glass.  Our other dog was not interested.

“Freedom!  Horrible, horrible freedom!  But at least that beeping isn’t going to kill me!”

Some guy found him a few blocks away and called us; by the time we got home, Grant’s savior had managed to get him back in the house, but the beeping was still going.  The man held the storm door closed to prevent a second escape and waited for us.  Grant tried to signal to the man that this was not a satisfactory arrangement.

“You trapped me in here with the beeping!  Hey, buddy!  You!  Asshole!  Let me the fuck out of here!“

Now that the window was gone, Grant was free to cut himself up on the jagged, unfinished metal that served as the former window’s frame.

"Even I don't know how I cut my face."

7 stitches total.

One emergency room visit, three hours and several hundred dollars later, we were a family again.  6 stitches on one leg, 1 stitch on the other.  The cut on his face healed almost immediately.  It was amazing.

"I like my cone head!"

Look how happy he is on the car ride home from the hospital.  Yeah, he likes the cone head that keeps him from removing his own stitches.  We take it off when we can watch him, but we put it on when we have to leave the house.  As soon as I pick it up, he starts wagging his tail and runs over to me.

“Oh!  That’s mine!  Put that one me!”

CLUMP.

“Thank you!”

What can I say?  I love the guy.  He’s not your average dog, but he’s a good friend.  Until next time…  onward and upward, I guess.