Do you remember your first pet? Was it a bunny, a goldfish, a hamster, a cat, or maybe a dog? This is a tribute to my first pet.
Sam
When I was approximately two years old, my parents gave me an adorable German Shepherd puppy. I named her Samantha—Sam for short—after the lead character in one of my favourite TV shows, Bewitched.
Like Terriers, German Shepherds require a gentle but firm hand. When I was two, all I could offer my puppy was love. That was perfectly fine with Sam. She was born to be an alpha, and we quickly formed a strong bond. We were inseparable until bedtime. Sam had no desire to go inside, which was fine with me—I thought I could fit into her doghouse. My parents worked overtime to convince me this wasn't a feasible plan.
At an early age, Sam took a solemn oath to defend me against all dangers.
What dangers did I face at two? Well...
It may be hard to believe, but I wasn't always a well-behaved angel. For example, I hated having my hair washed. My mom was willing to try anything to make this task easier. She decided to wash my hair outside. I refused to cooperate and sought a hasty retreat. Mom grabbed me. Sam grabbed Mom. She wrapped her jaw around Mom's wrist. She didn't bare down. No skin was punctured. No bloodshed. Still, the jaw around her wrist was enough for Mom. From then on all hair washing was done inside.
Sam's dedication to my safety continued. She bit the paperboy because he dared hand me the newspaper. She bit--. Well, she bit too many people. It was clear to my parents that something had to be done.
Dad explained that someone was stealing a farmer's diesel, and said, "I told him about Sam, and he wants her."
But--! But--! Wow, but! "Sam is my dog!"
"Leanne, it's either this or we'll have to put Sam down. She's bit too many people."
Life on a farm or death? What a choice. I chose the farm. Saying goodbye to Sam was like having my heart torn out of my chest.
When Sam was settled on the farm, the farmer invited us to visit. I was worried. Would Sam remember me? As we reached the farm, I saw a happy dog running free. When she recognized our tan Pontiac, she raced over to greet us. I climbed out of the car, and Sam nearly knocked me over with excitement. We were all so happy to see each other again. She ran back and forth between the farmer and me, unsure of where her heart truly belonged.
"Have you had any more trouble with your diesel?" My dad asked the farmer.
The farmer laughed. "Are you kidding me? They won't dare. Not with Sam on the job." He gave her an affectionate pat.
Too soon, our visit was over, and we climbed into the car—"we" included Sam. She may have believed the farmer was genuinely a nice guy, but deep down, she knew it was time to head home. After some convincing, Sam finally agreed to stay with the farmer, and we decided we wouldn’t revisit her. Our presence was too confusing.
Sam had a lasting effect on my life. She transformed me into a special kind of person--a dog person.
written on Wednesday, January 29, 2025.
Photo by Byron
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I played games, went for walks, and generally had fun, but not at the expense of my writing. In fact, spending time apart improved my relationship with my craft, as is often the case with most relationships.
This week, I will bid a fond farewell—for now—to my largest writing project to date, which consists of 157,747 words. I have been working on this memoir since 2016. Its absence will feel strange, but I’m excited to see which of my many writing projects will capture my attention next.
