You're Never Alone with Three Great Danes and a Brittany

When Dalai the Great Dane joined my family, my friend Richard shook his head sadly and said, “You will never have another boyfriend.”

When Richard’s right, he’s right.

Since all was lost on that front, I recently acquired a third. 

It didn’t happen quite that way, but it might as well have. Here’s the real story: I’m insane.

My life was relatively peaceful. Dalai the seven-year-old  Great Dane, Jasper the 14 month-old Great Dane and Poppy the 11 year-old Brittany, were all happy. They played, barked and got along as well as three dogs in a small house can. Equally important,  I was happy. Naturally I had to make a change.

One day I was on the Great Dane Fanatics Facebook page, ostensibly to see puppy pictures. A woman had posted that she was looking for a rescue puppy.

Sadly, there are a lot of Great Danes available for adoption that are about a year or older. This is because people are stupid. They spend a small fortune buying a Great Dane puppy and when it’s keeps growing they realize 1) that it is a GREAT Dane, not a miniature Dane and 2) they should have trained it. As I mentioned, these owners are idiots.

Most of the dogs are fantastic, gorgeous and deserve a loving dedicated home. Due to awesome, dedicated rescue people, they usually land somewhere safe.

There are several good Dane rescues in Southern California, and one that poses as a rescue, but is actually a puppy mill. (For real. It’s run by a former child actor.) Actual adoptable Great Dane puppies are unicorns; they are legendary, but only exist in people’s dreams.

I was reading the responses to this lady’s question, when the person that runs the best rescue in SoCal posted a picture of a puppy. A Harlequin puppy. A Harlequin puppy that looked exactly like my late, heart dog, Murray’s father.

My emotions completely overruled common sense. I contacted Rene, the head of the rescue. He mentioned he’d only had the pup for a few days, and hadn’t even put online yet.

In one of those moments that makes no sense, except that it happened, I filled out the application and sent it. I figured Rene would be deluged with responses - there are about a million people on that Facebook page. And they are all Great Dane fanatics.

 I assumed I’d never hear from him again. I never win anything.

After I hit send on the app, I took Jasper for a walk. It was lovely. After a ton of hard work on both of our parts, Jasper  had turned into a very nice dog.

By the time we got home, there was a call from Rene. We chatted for a long time, and he told me the dog - his name, soon to be changed, was Reggie -  was mine.

I said I could pick him up in a couple of days. He suggested I come by the next day. Which is how, on one of the hottest days of the summer, I found myself driving to San Marcos with a puppy-sized crate in the back of my SUV.

I arrived at the address on a quiet tidy street. It was a normal-looking house. It was also really quiet. The only sign that this was a Great Dane rescue were the pallets of dog food by the door. I rang the bell and was greeted by the sound of a tiny dog barking wildly.

The door opened and there were three stunning, white, hearing/sight impaired Great Danes  (breeding harlequin to  harlequin, or merle to merle effort to create puppies with spots often results in disabled dogs) and a tiny, Dashound, who obviously ran the place. Rene, brought up the rear. I barely noticed him.

The three white Danes were beautiful, perfectly trained and not for adoption. Any one of them was better behaved than any dog I’ve ever owned. Or met. Did I mention they were deaf and mostly blind?

Rene took me into the backyard, which, thanks to artificial turf, was also impeccable.

“Are you ready to meet Reggie?” he asked.

I nodded, and he put the pretty white dogs in the house and disappeared around the corner to get Reggie.

A few minutes later an enormous, gangly, elephant of a dog came bounding towards me. He was almost the size of Jasper, but with the clumsiness of a puppy.

When he spotted me, the pup ran behind Rene and barked at me with a grown dog bark.  He clung to Rene like Velcro. 

Rene went into the house to get the paperwork, and the puppy followed, slamming into the glass door with a crash. He picked himself up and crashed into the door again.

No doubt he really was five months old. No question.

I sat on the ground and ignored Reggie (soon-to-be JP) while I talked to Rene and filled out forms.

“I brought way too small a crate,” I said. The puppy sidled up to me warily. He ran away, and then rushed back. He tried to stop but instead fell into my lap and drooled on me. I scratched his ear. If he could have purred, he would have. Instead he drooled more.

“He doesn’t need a crate.” Said Rene. “I took him to the vet this morning to get microchipped and he was perfect in the car. Oh, he was 87 pounds. “

I gulped. Jasper was 50 pounds at five months.

He added proudly, “He’s going to be big. Look at those feet.”

They were huge. His legs were the size of Murray’s, and at 35 inches at the withers, Murray was not a small dog.

“I imagine he’s going to be between 160 and 180 when he’s done,” Rene added merrily.

I felt myself go pale, and it wasn’t because of the heat.

It was a good thing that by that time I was awash in drool and in love.  

As almost an aside Rene said, “He’s not terrific on a leash yet. His owner got sick and didn’t have time for him.” 

Okay then. I felt a tiny twinge of misgiving, but I shoved it away. He was so cute.

Between the two of us, Rene and I  maneuvered the dog into the car.   Rene was right. JP was a champ in the car. It took forever to get home, but he settled into the backseat, with his head on the console and occasionally my right arm. By the time we pulled into my driveway, four hours later, we were bonded. And I was soaked with drool.

.

A social life is overrated anyway. With three Great Danes I’m never alone.