My kids talked me into it. Firmly planted in Social Security-land - indented into the Lazy-Z-Boy - my kids convinced me that I needed a dog. "It'll add years to your life," they said. "We'll help you!," they said.
It kinda made sense.
Conservative has always been my dog approach. A Springer Spaniel was my first. Greta, Lucy and Ginger - all Golden Retrievers - followed. Lick your face dogs. Each spanning a decade - almost 40 years had passed - and I had never scratched my dog itch - a German Shepherd. I had always wanted a German Shepherd.
Turns out that German Shepherding ain't so easy. There are "types". There's the mellow, pretty American types, and there's the European types (they will bite you in the ass). The European types are the Porsche's of dogs - more pure to the original, German Shepherd ideal.
Enter Marge.
Margie is a WGSD (West German Shepherd Dog). Her daddy is Serbian. She is bred to work (bite bad guys). She will not let you in my shop. She will not let you hug me. She follows me into the bathroom. She predicts my every move. She has my old back. Everywhere I go.
She is an object of my love, and everyone that she allows into her circle. John, Mel, Judy, Robert, Josh, Jenny, Chuckie, Rose. Ain't many people. Maybe 10.
She loves your pouches, for she is our shop dog. She comes to work everyday. Guarding your fabric. Protecting your design. Pestering me every time I get on the press.
All this time you thought it was me. Not so. Marge is in charge.