My mom likes to share stories about dog heroes. She says I should find some role models so I will appreciate what a great home I’ve got.
“Here’s a story about a bomb-sniffing dog who served with the Marines,” she said, holding up the newspaper article. “Now there’s a dog who’s got good reason to be scared.”
Gunner, a sweet-looking German shepherd, had PTSD. He was going to be discharged from the Marine Corps as “excess property.” Meanwhile the family of a war hero heard about Gunner. They had lost their son and wanted to help this veteran dog. They drove from upstate New York to South Carolina, after signing papers saying they wouldn’t sue the government if anything happened.
Apparently Gunner still needs a lot of extra love. He’s terrified of thunderstorms. He likes to sleep in his crate. Well, our housemate Ophelia still likes to escape and I prefer to be in my crate when Cathy goes out. I don’t know what to do with myself so I stand and wait for the door to open.
Gunner and I both started new lives. I must have been a country dog once, since my mom adopted me from a shelter near Bellingham. I was born to be a city dog and never looked back. And Gunther seems more suited to being a house dog, although he probably served well before getting PTSD.
“Gunner’s probably grateful to have a good home,” the mom says. “You should be too. You’ve never even served in the Marines and look at your great life.”
C’mon, mom. Marines don’t take mutts. Otherwise who knows? I think I’d be perfect in combat. The action would have to stop while everyone turned to me and said, “Oh she’s so cute.”
Fortunately both the mom and I are too old to be drafted, although my mom says, “Drafting old people would make more sense than drafting kids. I’d rather die in combat than end up in a nursing home.”
I see her point but I also see it’s past time for my walk. Ahem.