Technically it was April 14th, but we were too busy eating burgers to post something up on the blog. Griffin’s seven years old, and has been with me for almost four of those years.
Doberman rescue pulled him out of a city SPCA, where he probably would have been put down. The statistics for some breeds just aren’t in his favor, and he was one of the hundreds of nice, well-behaved dogs who wind up in shelters all the time. People going to adopt animals have choices. Lots of them. Look up the statistics on the animals turned into shelters, it’s bloody depressing. Older dogs, dogs of certain breeds, and black dogs have it stacked against them. Griffin was three years old when he was dumped, a Doberman, and a big dog. Lucky for Griff, a rescue pulled him out of the shelter, put him in a foster home, and got him all the vet care he needed.
I have no idea why he got turned in. I suspect he might have been a victim of foreclosure, he was dumped in 2008, and most rentals won’t accept Dobermans. His former owner walked in, handed over the leash, and walked out. April 14th might’ve been his shelter turn in day, not his real birthday, but who cares. Vet says he’s around 7, so he can be 7. Since the founder of the Doberman breed was a tax collector, I like the irony of that date too.
When I brought him home, he checked out where his bed, food, and water were before deciding to settle right in as if he owned the place. Other than a brief episode of trying to hike his leg on the futon, which was easily cured, he’s been a great dog. Good with people, good with kids, loves other dogs. We joke that he’s the canine equivalent of living with a really chill human sometimes. As long as he’s in the same room and a part of whatever happens to be going on, he’s a very zen dog. He’s got a spinal disorder, probably Wobblers, so I count every year that I’m fortunate enough to share with him as a blessing.
Happy birthday, Griff.