Denizen of the Month: Grimm, the Greatest of All German Shepherds (Patreon)

Thirteen years ago, I took a detour to West Virginia on the drive home from my first Wiscon. It was a long way, but I knew it would be worth it. On a farm in the mountains, a German Shepherd named Breeze had given birth to a litter of nine. Breeze had been the name of my then-husband's childhood dog, who had died the previous year. And the Breeze in West Virginia had a little puppy with my name on it. 

The breeder had put colored ribbons on all the dogs. Originally, I chose the red ribbon. But the breeder messaged me and told me that Miss Red was honestly a huge handful, always trying to dominate the other dogs, and not a lot of fun to be around. I could have her if I wanted her, but Miss Light Blue Ribbon was much sweeter and though she was the smallest one out of all her brothers and sisters, she might be a better match for me.

Which is how I ended up with a tiny little black creature curled like a comma in my lap, snoozing all the way home from that farm. 

I named her Grimm. 

She was my best friend from the time I was 26. She was there through my whole life, all the books, all the husbands, all the joy and grief, all the moves, all the adventures. And she was sweet. She never wanted to be any trouble to anyone (except my golden retriever, who she loved to nip in the face every time she got excited, leading us to describe a certain level of joy as worthy of "gotta go bite Sage in the face"), and though she was never much for big slobbery affection, she taught me so much about other kinds of love. 

She hated the car because she felt like she was too big for it--that smallest of the litter ended up being a gigantic 105 pounds. She hated the car and the water, she could never stop worrying about what the water might be doing to me long enough to enjoy a swim. She loved food and me and sad people she could comfort. She was always afraid someone was going to step on her, though to my knowledge in thirteen years no one ever did.

And good lord, she hated children. 

I have no idea why. No child ever did anything to her. But the very concept of them put her right off. From the time she was six months old, they needed to stay off her lawn. We have a rope swing in front of our house that all the neighborhood kids play on, and if she so much as saw the branch move outside the window, she would bark and howl for them to stay off her property. When friends' kids visited our house, she could not relax. She herded them into corners, made sure they didn't fight, and stood between siblings if they so much as tried to tickle each other. We called her the Fun Police, because if you were having to much fun, she would instantly appear to check up on the situation and take down everyone's information just in case. Young people were so much work for poor Grimm. Though not young animals. She raised a puppy and a few kittens over the years, endlessly patient and loving, laying down on the ground so they could jump all over her. She and Toby always understood each other best, reserved and proper ladies that they were. 

She loved the police, though. Every time she herd a siren, she wanted to be on the case. Wanted to be Dana Scully, my big-hearted girl.

And if you were at my house, and something bad happened, or you were hurting, you would always, always, even if you had committed the sin of being a child, find an enormous wolfy german shepherd mysteriously, silently appearing beneath your hand, to look at you with her huge, soulful brown eyes and make you feel loved.

I loved her so much. It's easy to love the golden retriever and the samoyed, with their fluff and eager affection. But my favorite people have always been those who realized that the heart of my house was really and truly Grimm. And it was such a big heart. 

I'll always remember three or four Thanksgivings ago, I made a huge pot roast to take to my friend's house for dinner and left it covered up on the counter. I went upstairs to put on my makeup, and I heard a soft clatter, but didn't think anything of it. 

When I got downstairs, eyeliner perfect, the plate lay on the floor, and all five pounds of pot roast had disappeared into my German Shepherd. How do I know it was her? She was lying on the floor with a huge swollen belly, and I swear she was smiling in her gluttonous sleep. Finally full, at long last. We laughed at her for years on that, and the night before we went, I gave her pieces of pot roast made just for her, free and clear, no shame.

We knew it was time the next morning. She didn't want any pot roast. She didn't want anything. She could barely breathe. She didn't quite make it to meeting my baby. But she made it all the way through everything else important in my life, and there is such a hole in the house with her gone. Now that she and Sage have passed, it feels like a geologic era is over, and I don't know what comes next. They were always, always there, and now they're not. It's been a horrible few years in the Lab, my beloved babies leaving us one after the other. I miss them so much. I only hope I gave them all good lives while I had them, just as they gave me a good life while they had me.

Goodbye, Grimmy. I love you so much. I'm so glad I picked you, my light blue girl. I hope, wherever you are, that there is all the pot roast, and no children, and fun to break up, and lots of balls, and all the sirens and tough cases to crack that you could want. And I hope you're biting Sage in the face, and Toby is nuzzling your nose, and nothing hurts anymore. That first day in the car, I held you in my lap and said: "Oh no, I already love her so much." I knew I was in for it. 

You were the best dog. I will miss you forever. We buried you next to a sea lion and a baby seal in the pet cemetery. I don't know how I'll get along without you, my sweet baby. You were never, ever any bother. Not once. Not ever. The biggest of all possible hearts. I wish you were still here.