My Friend Frida

PHOTO:KCS

While I was casually sipping a glass of wine watching the evening news on TV this week, Frida lifted her head from her pillow on the floor and turned toward the flat screen. Somehow, and I'm not a dog expert, she was attracted to a story about Major, the Biden's German Shepherd.

Maybe she was simply adjusting her prone position on her dog bed. But I don't think so.

Major had misbehaved, had nipped at at White House security agent. The event was later reported in detail, a top-level item a notch or two below the Royal Family brouhaha, which didn't phase Frida.

As a kindred German Shepherd, Frida had more than a passing interest in Major's behavior. Harry and Meghan's bombshell interview with Oprah could wait. Her ears go up over dogs not people.

We learned that Major is a rescue dog, as is Frida. We've lived with an array of rescue doggies that could fill a catalog of stories about breeds and what it's like to have a dog in the house. 

In addition to several frolicking Labrador muts, we have shared quarters with a floppy burnt-colored Afghan named Tres, kind of an airhead dog, and a Queensland Healer-mix with one blue eye named Mudshark, who became a Westside Santa Cruz celebrity for her roving escapades that included Houdini-like escapes that defied belief. (She's another story.)

We had a Lab-mix named Skyla who turned out to be a bona fide bar-hopper. We would receive calls late at night that Skyla was hanging with the crowd at the nasty Asti, a dive bar on Pacific Avenue. One night I had to drive across town to Callahan's, an Irish biker bar, where Skyla had followed her booze-loving nose.

No, I didn't have a snort before driving Skyla home. I wanted to, though.

I grew up with a Poodle named Mitzi who sat on my lap and ate ice cream for dessert.

Throughout the years, I've always had an unspoken desire for a German Shepherd. Although I've never had one for a pet, in my mind, a GS is a real dog, from its pointed ears, to its fury coat, tapered nose and intelligent brown eyes. 

Rin Tin Tin was the model dog, a war hero and movie star. Singing cowboy Roy Rogers had a GS named Bullet that ran like an antelope after him and Trigger, Roy's Palomino. I preferred Rinty over Lassie, the revered Collie who had her own TV show.

My interest in dogs has always been secondary, however. I'm not a "dog person." I've always found fawning dog owners to be a bit obnoxious with their "dog talk" and attitudes that dogs are better than humans, even though it might be true and they're proving it.

Frida showed up needing a home, shortly after we had buried Skyla in our backyard. At age 14, Skyla required lots of patience and attention during her final years and I was ready for a break.

Barbara, however, must have a dog. But her experience with German Shepherds was limited. She would learn.

If Frida had not been a GS, I would have said "no way." After all these years, here was my chance to live with my favorite breed. So I agreed. 

PHOTO:KCS

Frida and Kevin at Pogonip Labyrinth. PHOTO:BBS

She was mangy, hadn't been cared for, neglected more than physically abused, we guessed. On our first walk, she pulled in every direction, a nervous soul in a world of cars and people, loud engines and sirens, bikes and skateboards, and lots of other dogs.

She lunged at those dogs. When I heard about the Biden's dog, Major, my first thought was he must have lunged at another dog.

We enrolled Frida at the K9 Clinic in Corralitos where German Shepherds are trained for police work, as well as how to behave with other dogs and people. Most important, dog owners learn how to handle their pups.

Frida began to bond with me unlike any canine I've known. That seems to be a trait of a GS. They are super loyal, especially to one person. I was that person.

I brought Frida to the Cove, a dog friendly beach in town, where she met other dogs, played hard, nipped at the waves but always trotted back to my side. German Shepherd equals loyalty.

If Barbara and I hug or dance, Frida becomes jealous. She jumps and nips at us. I belong to him! Although there is no doubt that she would protect Barbara if threatened. German Shepherd equals protector.

I met some cool folks at the Cove, dog owners who broke my silly, previously rigid attitude about their ilk. They were intelligent (who knew?) people who loved their dogs. I enjoyed watching the variety of doggies and their unique personalities as they made up their own games of chase and fetch.

Of course, I had Frida, the Queen of the Cove. How many times had I taken other dogs to the beach to have them run away from me when it was time to go? I just didn't have the right dog. 

Frida is a great traveling companion. We made a road trip to Santa Fe, NM, where I stayed with my friend Rod and his dog, Gary, a lively Smooth-coat Fox Terrier. We went downtown to the historic La Fonda Hotel on the Plaza where we strolled through the well-appointed lobby with Frida and Gary by our sides.

We were duly approached by the colorfully clad ladies of Santa Fe who had come to dine. "Oooh, how cute," they cooed. "What a beautiful dog!" they exclaimed.

I became exactly what I had rued: "a dog person." It involved many years and one dog to get here. I have no doubt that three-year-old Major, following a brief training period, will return from the dog house to the White House. Because he's a German Shepherd. They love to be trained. They want to work.

"What do you think, Frida?" I asked, studying her for a sign.

She rose gracefully from her bed and walked across the room to my side, as if to say: "What now dad?"

Did I mention she loves children?