For some reason, despite spending the earliest years of my life with a Great Dane, I am scared of dogs. All dogs. In fact, screw dogs. When they bark, a terror tremor goes through my chest and puts tears in my eyes. Once, a group of friends and I were walking home from school when a black dog, small-medium sized, ran up to us. I actually jumped onto my friend’s shoulders. Jumped. Climbed right up her like a tree, clung there and cried while she ran me away from said evil dog. It probably all started that day I went to my Grandma’s party and the adults all got drunk, and stood on the second storey balcony, below my cousin and I were trapped against a wall by a hideous Jack Russel. We screamed and cried but the adults just laughed drunkenly and jeered the dog.
But today, a little someone came bounding into our yard, and stayed there all day keeping us happy. I didn’t feel scared of him once, and actually wish he would come back.
So there you have it, the first dog I have ever enjoyed the company of since the Great Dane passed away. He was sweet, calm, playful, and even knew commands. When the dog catcher guy came to get him, a small tear may have threatened to fall. Bye buddy, I don’t know your name but I do know that you were an awesome guy, and you’ve made me realise not all dogs are bad.