We have a new puppy at our house. We've had him four months during which he has grown to 53 pounds, seven or eight times the size of my Toy Fox Terriers. They flee from him when he bounces gleefully, inviting them to play. His feet, as large as their heads, are intimidating so they feel more threatened than invited.
This is our third-and-a-half Doberman Pinscher. I say "half" because the first was half Doberman and half Bloodhound, a huge bear hunter that my husband George bought. He looked like an outsized black and tan hound. I wanted nothing to do with a hunting hound, but Brace was such an honest, loyal dog. I loved him. Brace loved babies. He stood over our son Jim's stroller and let Jim pull and fondle his long hound ears.
George brought home some tiny orphaned kittens who turned up sopping wet. I accused our oldest son of dipping them in the ditch. One day Brace walked by the window with a tiny black tail hanging from his mouth. I shrieked at him but found him gently washing that tiny orphan.
Brace was the reason we bought Chief, a purebred Doberman. When the government closed George's job and forced us to move, we couldn't keep him. I turned him loose.
During the 1970s, Jim acquired a Doberman Pinscher that he named Hezekiah, although we called him Kai. He grew to be a huge hundred pounds, an extremely handsome dog. He and Jim became inseparable pals for 13 years. They hiked, biked, swam and drove together. Jim never locked his Trans Am, leaving it wide open, certain that it was safe. He was devastated when Kai was gone.
The pup, Ezechia (Zeke), is just a boy who fills our living room floor with his toys. But he is smart and loving, so we have great hopes for him as he grows up.
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