Raven and Me

In late summer, 1956, I was bitten by a German Shepherd. I was six years of age. It was traumatic to me, especially since I had been farmed out to the Duff family in New Lowell, while Mom was confined to her bed in Toronto, to avoid any problems giving birth to my sister, Anne.

Their dog was chained up near the front door of the Duff’s house. The kids were teasing it, by putting a hat on his head. He was good natured with them, but he objected to my joining in. When I picked up the hat, he bit my hand, breaking through the skin and leaving teeth marks. (And, if you’ve been following my posts for a while, you would have read about this incident here.)

Anyway, fast forward to today: I walk Raven at least twice a day. She is a bit skitter-skat-ish, so it takes a lot of physical strength to hold her back if she gets spooked, or another dog is around. She mostly does what she’s told, however, because all you have to do is say her name, and she’ll stop in her tracks.

She thinks that she can scare me, especially when I’m locking the front door just before we go to bed. But then she sees it’s me, and she knows better than to bark twice. She is also deathly afraid of thunder storms. We persuaded her humans to buy her a thunder coat, to reduce the fear.

She’s only going to be with us for this week, as one of her humans is moving permanently to their bunkee near the French River, just south of Sudbury. I think I’ll miss her, but not the dog hair she sheds.

Still, I now have a better relationship with German Shepherds because of her. Thank you, Raven.