She was not the dog we wanted.

Her name was Andi (the female version, with an “I”), and she was our dog for seven and half years.

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My late husband and I had buried our Rottweiler, a dog I had before I met him, a week earlier, and we were “just looking” at German Shepherd puppies (my favorite breed) at the local Animal Shelter when we turned a corner - and there she was, the wrong age (5 months, “give or take,” hardly a puppy), the wrong size (large), the wrong hair (long and shaggy), the wrong breed (which ended up to be no breed at all), the wrong sex (female, not male). The kennel assistant told us she was a German Shepherd mix. There must be some special training that enables people at the Animal Shelter to lie with a straight face. She was standing on her hind legs, bouncing up and down, staring at my husband. I don’t know if she even noticed me, and that’s how it was for their entire time together. She was his dog (and he was her person) from the first time they saw each other.

She was, to put it mildly, a handful. She had no name, had obviously never been disciplined, was an escape artist, and no one seemed sure where she had come from (although we were told she had been seized as part of a dog fight ring, was a stray, had been dropped off, had been “adopted” and returned twice). She didn’t trust anyone, probably for good reason.

Andi was terrified of us for the first several days, and she lived under our bed, sneaking out to eat when it was dark and she thought we were asleep. That terror turned into fear, then suspicion, then uncertainty, then trust, then love. One thing never changed - you could not touch her with a stick, comb, brush, ruler, scissors in your hand without terrifying her. We worked with her constantly over the years, but that never changed. We resigned ourselves to living with a dog with the worst hairdo in the world. She was the Phyllis Diller of dogs until the day she died. Her eyes were deep brown and when you held her chin in your hand and looked into them you could see that her early life had not been easy. My husband always said he could see into her soul.

Our acre and a half backyard was surrounded by chainlink fencing. She dug under it. We fastened landscape timbers all around the outside of the fence. She pushed those aside and again dug under the fence. We countered with landscape timers fastened all around the inside of the fence. She countered by climbing over the fence. (If I hadn’t seen her climbing over, hind feet searching for a foothold, I wouldn’t have believed it.) We countered with an electric fence inside the chainlink fence. She heard the buzz, kept walking and got a shock, which caused her to howl and urinate.

My husband ran down the stairs to the deck, meeting her on her way up. He scooped her up, all 60 pounds of her, and carried her inside, apologizing the whole time. He took her collar off and threw it in the garbage, went outside, pulled the breaker, deactivated the fence, came back inside, took her face in his hands and said with tears in his eyes (and my late husband was 6'2" and a big man), “Never, never again will anyone hurt you. Never again. They will have to go through me.” No one ever hurt her again. The underground fence came out, a 6 foot privacy fence went in, Andi was secure. Of course, by that time, in true Andi fashion, she no longer was interested in leaving.

We always said Andi was a free spirit. If you called her she stopped, looked at you, tilted her head, pondered whether you were serious - and then trotted over. The whole procedure took a minute, more or less, and it never changed.

My husband’s health deteriorated and he went on dialysis. Andi was confused because his schedule changed. She no longer waited on her perch on the back of the sofa for him to come home from work. She didn’t seem to understand his new schedule, and when he came home she seemed even more confused by the new medical smells on him.

He had a very difficult time in dialysis from the beginning, and he would come home, sit in his recliner, I would warm a quilt in the dryer and wrap it around him. He would sit and quietly watch television for an hour or so until he recovered his strength. Andi watched from the kitchen. This went on for two weeks, through eight treatments.

In the third week he came home and sat in his chair, I brought the quilt in - and she jumped into his lap (all 60 pounds of her), and you could see how tense she was. I wrapped the quilt around both of them, and she relaxed and leaned against him. She began to know the schedule, and they sat quietly together that same way every time he came home from dialysis. Somehow she knew he needed the comfort she provided.

My husband was hospitalized frequently, and she waited and worried and was ecstatic when he came home. He kept telling me everything would be all right. I knew better.

Three years later he came home from dialysis, sat with Andi, stood up and collapsed. I hung her photo on the bulletin board across from his hospital bed so he would see it if he opened his eyes, and I went in every day and told him how much we all missed him. I told him stories of Andi’s latest adventures (burying my wallet in the backyard, getting trapped under the deck). I hope he heard me.

He died Christmas Day night. I remember little about the days before he died and even less about the day he died. I do know I came home and sat in his recliner for the first time ever, wrapped the quilt around myself and cried for a life cut too short. I cried for myself, for my loss, my loneliness, my fears. As I cried, I felt her paw on my leg. Slowly and cautiously she crept into my lap, this big, shaggy dog. I wrapped the quilt around both of us, and we sat in that chair until the sun came up.

I slept in the living room, on the sofa, for over two months, Andi at my feet. When I found the strength to go into the bedroom she followed - and slept next to me on the bed, and that’s where she stayed. Every night I repeated my husband’s words to her - “It will be all right.” She never went back to being the handful she once was but grew more and more quiet as the years went on.

She slept on a blanket at the foot of my bed, no longer able to jump onto the bed, and one month short of her eighth birthday I bent over to say good morning to her - and found she had quietly died during the night. The necropsy showed cardiac arrest with no specific cause. I think she grieved to death.

When I left her at the vet’s office that last time I whispered in her ear, “Andi, it will be all right.” I hope somewhere she and my husband are sitting in a recliner, watching television, united at last.

Yes, she was the perfect dog for us.

What an awesome story. Thanks for sharing, it made me cry. I will never understand people who can be cruel to an animal. I am a firm believer in owning rescued pets instead of buying bred puppies. There are so many animals in need of just a chance to show how wonderful they can truly be. In my experience, rescued pets tend to have the most loving and gracious spirits about them because they are so grateful and seem to "know" what your rescue has done for them. The truth is, it is US who are truly blessed to be able to love them.

Thanks again

Judy you are amazing for what you have done for Andi. I can not put into words what I am feeling. You gave her a wonderful life and she gave you and your hubby trust and love back.
I bow before you and say thank you for this and for sharing it. I hope I can be as great to Owen as you were to Andi.