Lothar

The second order of business was to....

The big pup followed with a trusting uncertainty as I led him down to hall and into the shower stall. No doubt he had been washed before and knew what it was all about; but everything else being unfamiliar he could not know what was going to be about until it started.

And then... it was the usual long suffering hang-dog looks, as his thick fur was copiously soaped up and rinsed with the warm water spray from the shower "massager". Once out, he impatiently let himself be dried before shaking his coat and rolling around the house crazy-like as the cats flew to places unseen.

"So what shall we call him?" I asked. Michael had no idea. "Big Boy?" he wondered. "Nahh..."

We had recently been paid a visit by one of Michael's friends from Germany - a good natured twenty something guy with an insouciance bordering on unawaredness that was enjoyable precisely on account of its inherent happiness.

How about "Lothar?" I asked. Michael looked at the dog for a moment. "Yeah..."

"Should we keep him?"

Of course, it depended in the first instance on Mr. Fips, who held the veto; and Mr. Fips was manifestly not enthusiastic. Lothar was obliviously making himself comfy, while Fips had a look that mixed hurt, annoyance and apprehension. ... a typical FipsMix of doggi-emotion.

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"We'll have to see how they get along," Mike said.

But deep down we both knew there was another veto. The dark force of the landlord. Two cats, a dog and now a rambunctious lab puppy was pushing the limits by any measure. And besides, even with all our daily walkings, an apartment is no place for a lab

But for the meanwhile, Lothar was here and this was his home. Michael also noticed that Lothar was a tad hand-shy. He was too galumphy to have been seriously abused, but he had been hit it was clear. So we undertook de-conditioning therapy, routinely holding his head in our lap petting and stroking it very ostensibly. We estimated he was not more than six months old (five as it turned out) and that we could rehab him of whatever negative reflex he had developed.

From the first, the thing that was most endearing about Lothar was his doggie faith -- a willingness to allow himself unto hands apprehended and purposes unknown. It was not fear because he never cowered; nor was it resignation because he was too galumphy to have given up on life. No, it was a trusting uncertainty that was as much an exercise of hope, in its doggie way, as our own.

He made the most of his luck and once the cats came out of hiding, the human was now definitely the lesser fraction of my bed.

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