The black German shepherd-mixed puppies ran around the tiny backyard, play-fighting with each other and vying for our attention. Some seemed to beg me to pick them. There was one fluffy oddball hiding underneath an old weathered lawn chair, it avoided eye contact with us at first, but I eventually coaxed him out to say hello.
"This one. We'll take the shy one," I told the woman fostering the dogs. We knew he would probably be the most difficult to find a home for.
He stayed a nervous animal, one that was barely comfortable going for walks past the mailbox. A large fluffy dog always cautious and sometimes overcome with anxiety, but I understood him all too well. Even with his quirks he was the most gentle soul that I've ever known. Despite his size and wolfish appearance, he never once growled or snapped at anyone, dog or human. Surprisingly, he absolutely adored my children and let them climb over him like a living black beanbag, even though we tried stopping them from doing that.
His name was the first word for both of my daughters.
We said goodbye to him at six years old after a long battle with cancer. We spent thousands trying to save him, but at least we had a chance to say our goodbyes to him in our own home. The sad look in his chocolate brown eyes let me know that his fight was over. I had his head on my lap when he passed away on a cold dreary day, I stroked his downy midnight black fur long after he was gone.
Another year has passed and I still love you, Dunkel.
(He liked to howl after a bath)
