Large amber eyes stared at me from the page of the glossy book. I was totally mesmerized by their softness,
as well as their knowing, nurturing, and intuitive gaze. What was this breed of dog that, just by looking into these eyes on the page, stirred my emotions and gave me a feeling, a consciousness, an affirmation of pleasure and delight that I had always denied myself. I read the fine print below the photo: “The Weimaraner, ‘An Aristocrat.’” The book gave a brief description of the breed, a gundog, originating in the province of Weimar, Germany, where aristocratic dog breeders had set out to develop a new type of all-purpose dogs.
I knew nothing of gundogs let alone their purpose in life. From that point on, I scoured the library for more information on the breed. I was totally besotted. Time and time again, I gazed into the amber eyes that looked back at me from the page of the book. It was an extremely private experience; I was not willing to share this with any other person. It was phenomenon, and an intrigue, I wanted totally for myself. I indulged myself in the warm feelings and emotions. Thoughtful eyes, those ballooned out ears, and the soft grey coat that shone, beamed, and radiated warmth and sincerity to me from the pages.
I started to fantasize about having a companion such as this beautiful “Grey Ghost,” as they were commonly known in Germany. The more I learned about the breed, the more I dreamed about what this special dog and I could experience together, how our relationship would be, where we would go, and what adventures we would encounter along the way.
As my fantasy progressed, I gave her — this dog — a name. It was Gretal. I was in love. I finally saw a reason to persevere with my life, to get on with the grind of day-to-day living. But first, I had to implement my plan of purchasing a Gretal, that special companion who would be beside me with sincerity, spirit, and a non-judgmental attitude, accompanying me through thick and thin. This was a special aspect of our relationship that I had fantasized about for hours, days, and months on end. Now, I was ready for it — if not fully prepared, either financially or with my partner and young family. Still, this was mine, my need, my sense of security and peace of mind. It really had nothing to do with anyone else — or so I would have liked to think. Unfortunately, things didn’t quite work out that way. Still, I had an extremely large obstacle to conquer — a husband.
Welcome Home, Gretal
Acquiring a Weimaraner puppy, a Gretal dog, was going to be a battle. It would be struggle to make sure that she shared in every part of my daily life and the home comforts and respect that she was entitled to, as well as everything that I wished to partake and share with her. I was headstrong and self-willed enough that I was going to make this happen. I would have this dog, this relationship. I would make this fantasy work, no matter the consequences. It was my fantasy, my survival, and my life. Sounds great in theory, doesn’t it? I realize now that survival and determination are my greatest skills, and yet, at the time, I let my family convince me that I was rebellious troublemaker, a loose canon. How wrong, cruel, and misplaced were those perceptions of me.
Eventually, I raised the issue of a Weimaraner puppy, handled the criticism and the drama shoveled onto me, survived it, and rang a Weimaraner breeder in Brisbane. She told me that she only had one female left. The litter wouldn’t be weaned for a couple of weeks, but I could come down and see the puppies at my earliest convenience. Which, of course I did. I had never seen this breed of dog before, and I was full of excitement and apprehension. Just because I liked their picture in a book didn’t mean that I would like them in the flesh. What would this dog really be like?
Deep down, I already knew what they would be like. I’d had enough time to fantasize about this breed that I had a gut feeling about them, and I was right. These puppies were everything I had dreamed about. I bonded with the only girl puppy left the litter that did not already have a deposit down on her. Sounds very materialistic and mercenary, doesn’t it? But, that is the way dog breeders run their business: Money up front or no puppy. Who cared? I was in love. I hastily paid my deposit, stole another hug, a quick kiss on the soft grey nose, and a gaze into the soft blue eyes, and drove back to Toowoomba in a dream. Yes, fantasies can come true, with determination and a lot of will power — and quite a bit of manipulation and coercion.
A Dream Comes True
Finally, the day arrived. The past two weeks had been hell on Earth, although I understood that the puppies had to be vaccinated, wormed once more, and thoroughly checked by the vet. I have no memory of the trip to Brisbane, or what transpired between the exchange of monies and paperwork. As I mentioned before, in my fantasy, I had named the puppy Gretal. I had not mentioned this to anyone. When the breeder handed over her registration papers and pedigree, there was that name: Jaffira Gretal Supreme. Gretal’s mother, Shaffrey Giselle, had the name of one of my favorite ballets when I was a child. I couldn’t believe it. Dreams do come true. This was meant to be, and I had been right and justified in standing up for my rights and my objectives.
It had been decided, with much kowtowing to my husband, that Gretal would sleep in the kitchen. There was a warm wood stove, a soft bed on the floor, and a door to the rest of the house that closed, blocking her off, isolating her from any human contact. This of course didn’t sit well with me, but at least I knew she would be physically comfortable, if not emotionally. She had just been taken away from her littermates, her mother, and the only humans she had known. Now, she was to be totally isolated. Still, she was in the house. Knowing that made me feel better about the whole scenario. Certainly, it didn’t make Gretal feel any better about her lot. That first night, she screamed, shrieked, and threw herself against the door, vomited, and pooped all over the kitchen floor, which, fortunately, was covered with newspapers.
I went out to the kitchen and sat with her, much to the disgust of “you know who.” And, deep down, I knew that she would have to get used to the idea; isolation in the kitchen was the only way. I would have preferred her to be in bed with me, there I would have known exactly how she was coping with the big move in her seven-week-old life. But, I knew that was out of the question. Unfortunately, at that time, I was still sharing a bed with him, much to my disgust and dislike. A Gretal dog would have been a much more nurturing, peaceful, and good companion.
Nights two, three, and four went the same way: Noisy, with loads of wet and goopy newspaper underfoot by the morning. Gretal was not a happy or contented dog. Eventually, from memory (or lack there off) Gretal settled down, and the nightly sleep routine became more peaceful for all concerned, family included — at least while we were in that house.
Tags: dog story, Gretal, part one, pet dog, Weimaraner
