He was a good dog. The best I'd ever had. When I lived in Temple, before I met Lisa, he was the only companion I had. When he was a puppy, his ears were far too big for him, which made him look cartoonish as he walked around. I'd play hide-and-seek with him, ducking behind a door in the hallway and calling his name. He'd come tearing past, expecting to find me in another part of the house, then trotting back, quizzical and alert once he found out he'd been had. He'd always find me once he put his mind to it. We'd also play "find the treat" with him pawing at whichever hand of mine he thought held the dog biscuit. And he had the best temperament of any dog (or person) I've ever known. He was great with my little girls. Keela would scoop a big bucket of sand out of the sandbox, then dump it over Sigfreid's head. He'd sit there and happily take it, tail wagging, pleased with the attention.
Before I met Lisa, he had a certain phobia of strangers. I'd bring someone home, and he'd hide in the hallway, slowly creep his nose forward until he could see the interloper, then let out a comically-disapproving ruffff before hastily retreating back down the hall. He'd repeat this until the strange person left. Man or woman, it made no difference. The day I brought Lisa home, I warned her about this behavior. So naturally, Sigfreid trots right up to her, tail wagging, begging for attention. You can't tell me he didn't know exactly what he was doing.
This is my favorite photo of me with my dogs. The irony is too much. Sigfreid's the one on the left, Monkeyshine's the one on the right. She's already wondering where he is, and I can't quite explain that he's not coming back. Damn, I loved that dog.
Now Playing: nothing