My dog Masha is the cutest. He’s a German Shepard, Doberman cross. He’s
getting old; I think he’s 14 this year. Which in dog years is more than
It was the winter of 1991, my brother V and I were just getting the
chicken pox. So to cheer us up, my mom said we could get a dog. V and I
pored over the pets section of the classifieds of our local newspaper.
I was the one who saw the ad for a free dog, just a few blocks from our
house. After a few quick phonecalls, we piled into my dad’s pick up
truck and headed over to pick him up.
When we got there, my brother and my dad
went inside to talk to the owners, while I stayed in the car, thinking
of names for our new dog. A few short minutes later, they came back
with this cute little dog, who was terribly frightened about
getting inside a car. V said his name is “Masha” and told me
to pet him to calm him down. Poor thing was shaking. He was super
friendly and energetic, but it turns out the owners didn’t want him.
Masha was too hyper, and he wanted a calmer dog.
I used to play with Masha all day. I’d feed him all kinds of dog food,
always worried that he’d get bored of the same old kind of canned or
dried food. Always mixed it up and hid a few biscuits and other
assorted treats with in the food. I’d force him on a leash and attempt
to take him around the block. But it was more like we alternated
between dragging each other around the block. He’d always eat shoes –
he had a particular penchant for sandals. He had so much energy that he
would run around the house and chase after bunnies. He was scared of
cats and he liked to kill mice. Summers, he’d be humping everything in
sight, legs, little children, anything that moved.
I remember one time, when a visitor decided to bring his own dog, a
little Pomeranian, to play with our dog. Masha walked up to him,
sniffed him a few times, lifted up his leg and proceeded to pee on the
poor little dog. Heh heh. That’s my boy!
Now, with time he’s gotten calmer. He doesn’t move as much anymore.
These days, rather than run around the house, he’ll just look up from
his cozy little spot in front of the house (pictured above) and then
turn away, back to sleep. When he walks, I see his joints are stiffer
and he sometimes trips. Everytime I leave the house and then come home,
I look to see if he’s around, wondering if he’s okay. I know he’ll die
soon, and it scares to me to think how hurtful that will be.