It was 55 years ago.
New additions to our family arrived on February 20, 1969.
It was a Thursday afternoon, and as I hopped off the school bus and walked up the driveway, my kindergarten brother Gary — who had the luxury of afternoons off from school — was the proud messenger in announcing our dog Wimpy had given birth to four puppies.
All four were gray, fat, blind, and shivering.
Dad forewarned us there was no way we could keep all four, and true to his word, two months later three of the pups were taken to the Norden Laboratory kennels in Lincoln.
My three brothers and I determined we would keep the biggest pup. My oldest brother and Dad put the two largest canine’s side by side, and we debated for about 12 seconds as to which pup won the contest.
Now it was time to give our new family member a name. Since he was a gray German Shepherd that looked like a wolf, we named him “Wolffang.”
Wolffang escaped being sent to Norden’s kennels and survived his vaccinations and painful castration a few months later. He became a true companion and guardian. Our friendship would last for nine years until he suddenly disappeared during the spring of 1978, while I was in my first year of school at the University of Nebraska.
I spent several hours searching for him one afternoon but never found him.
Dad thought Wolffang probably crawled somewhere and died of an intestinal disorder. Dad claimed that when he butchered chickens, he fed the chickens’ feet to Wolffang. Dad believed the toenails from the feet probably tore up Wolffang’s insides, and he told me he regretted ever feeding Wolffang the chicken feet and admitted it was a sad way for a dog to go.
From 1970 to 1977, I took several long walks in the country while listening to Cornhusker football.
Wolffang was always by my side.
My companion and my guardian.
My ventures often took me to a small public lake two miles from my home.
No one ever approached me with Wolffang by my side. And that’s they way I liked it.
Wolffang also spent several hours with me, my dad, and brothers in the hayfields each summer. He walked along side the hay wagon as we picked bales tossed them on the old wooden wagons. Then he would jump on the wagon and ride on top of the hay while we cruised home.
I’ve had several dogs reside with me since Wolffang’s demise, including one of my favorites, Sam, a Golden Retriever who lived until the fine age of 13.
But there was only one Wolffang.