When I was ten years old, my father caved in to my pleas and took me to get my own dog. Together we drove in the family station wagon far into the Michigan countryside.

We stopped at a farm run by a woman and her ancient mother. The farm didn’t grow wheat or corn. It didn’t even have cows or horses. It had just one thing – dogs. Dogs of every size and shape and age and temperament. They had only two things in common: each was a mongrel, and each was free to a good home.

“Now, take your time, son,” Dad said. “Your decision today is going to be with you for many years to come.”

I quickly decided the older dogs were not for me and raced to the puppy cage. “You want to pick one that’s not timid,” my father coached. “Try rattling the cage and see which ones aren’t afraid.”

I grabbed the chain-link gate and yanked on it with a loud clang. There were about a dozen puppies. They reeled backwards, collapsing on top of one another in a squiggling heap of fur. Just one remained. He was gold with a white blaze on his chest, and he charged the gate, yapping fearlessly. He jumped up and excitedly licked my fingers through the fencing. It was love at first sight.

I brought him home in a cardboard box and named him Shaun. He was one of those dogs that give dogs a good name. He mastered every command I taught him and was naturally well behaved. I could drop a crust on the floor and he would not touch it until I said it was OK. When I called, he came. When I told him to stay, he stayed. We could let him out by himself at night, knowing he would be back after making his rounds. We could leave him alone in the house for hours, confident that he wouldn’t have an accident or disturb a thing. He raced cars without chasing them and walked beside me without a leash. He could dive to the bottom of our lake and emerge with rocks so big they sometimes got stuck in his jaws. He loved riding in the car. He’d sit quietly in the backseat beside me on family road trips, happy to gaze out the window as the world zoomed by.

Best of all, I trained Shaun to pull me through the neighbourhood dog-sledge style as I sat on my bicycle. My friends jealously watched as he carefully guided me down the street, never leading me into trouble.

Shaun even had the good manners to back himself into the bushes before squatting to poop. With his rear end hidden away, only his head peered out. Our lawn was safe for bare feet.

Relatives would visit for the weekend and return home determined to buy a dog of their own. They were that impressed with Shaun. Actually, I called him “Saint Shaun”. The saint part was a family joke, but we almost believed it.

Shaun had been born with a curse – no one knew who his parents were. Because his breeding was unknown, he was one of the tens of thousands of unwanted dogs in America. Yet by some stroke of good luck, he became wanted. He came into my life and I came into his. And he gave me the childhood every kid deserves.

Saint Shaun of

Скачать книгу

MARLEY

Contents

Preface The Perfect Dog

Preface

The Perfect Dog