When it comes to canines, comedian Bill Murray said it best: “I’m suspicious of people who don’t like dogs, but I trust a dog when it doesn’t like a person.”
It’s amazing what we remember about our childhood. 52 years ago – on February 20, 1969 – my childhood best friend – a dog – was born.
It was a Thursday afternoon and I was a spunky 4th grader at Valparaiso Elementary School in Saunders County, NE. I knew our dog, Wimpy, was due to give birth any day. After jumping off the school bus, I ran to the doghouse to check on her. There they were! Four newborns nursing away!
The three grey fuzzballs and one white pup survived. Eight weeks later, Dad ordered my three brothers and I to find new homes for three of the pups which we unenthusiastically obeyed. What was the criteria for the one who stayed? Boys being boys, we went with the biggest and feistiest male.
Our selection was a beautiful, grey German Shepherd that my oldest brother named Wolffang. Mom and Dad called him Wolf. A childhood friend addressed him as Wolffanger.
Wolffang was a dedicated and faithful servant and companion between my ages of 9 and 18. He accompanied me on many long walks in the country while I listened to Husker football on the radio. He was always present to greet me when I stepped off the school bus or arrived home in my pickup truck. He jumped on the hay wagon – no matter the weather – when we ventured to the hayfields to gather the latest alfalfa harvest.
Wolffang also used his guard dog instincts to growl and bark at unannounced visitors to the farm. If one of our farm hands would pick on me or wrestle with me, Wolffang was there to nip at his heels.
Wolffang bit me only once. And I deserved it. I was teasing him by pretending to be eat his dinner out of his dish. A quick entry of his teeth above my left eye drew blood. The cut did not require stitches, but a stern lecture from Dad about the lack of my use of the muscle in my head (that is not for print) was offered during triage. It was early in our child-canine relationship, but Wolffang had announced his one and only boundary: Don’t fool with my food.
One of my favorite Wolffang memories occurred on November 6, 1971. It was a cold but clear Saturday afternoon, and I had walked to a nearby lake while listening to Lyell Bremser described the Iowa State at Nebraska football game. The Cornhuskers were holding a 10-point lead late the first half when Johnny Rodgers returned a Cyclone punt 62 yards for a Nebraska touchdown. I screamed and squealed which frightened Wolffang. I spread my arms wide and gave him a big bear hug. However, anxiety caused him to tilt his head back enough that, as I lurched forward, his nose jammed the center of my throat. Swallowing hurt for the next three days. But I didn’t care. My Cornhuskers had beaten Iowa State, 37-0.
Wolffang left our family in the spring of 1978 during my first year of college. He did not age gracefully as his health issues took command by my high school graduation. I came home one afternoon to no greeting. I searched his doghouse, the barns, the cattle stalls, the fields, the ditches, and the ponds – to no avail. Somewhere all by his lonesome, he crawled away, found a place of comfort, and died.
For all he gave my family and for all he offered me – friendship, companionship, and a two-way love, he certainly deserved a better ending.
My hope is that you and your Wolffang have had as enjoyable a relationship. And that your memories are as poignant.