Regarding Dutch

A girl's dreams are powerful things.  They can be overwhelming. 

Some dreams are small, some large.  Really large.

Meet Dutch:

Dutch
10 weeks, 30 pounds

He's one of the large dreams.


I did not anticipate writing about anything other than quilting when I began this blog.  Forgive me, but I have to say a few words about Dutch.

This is one of our first looks at the giant.  The girl in the photo belonged to the dog when the picture was taken.  They called him Sir Isaac.  I have no idea why; that's not even his name.  His name is Dutch, shouldn't that be obvious to all?

The photo is presumably to indicate the size of the beast.  Goal achieved.

Dutch and Fiance' Day One

It seems that, in some deep recess of my fiance's brain, dreams of an Old English Mastiff danced.  Perhaps she imagined herself alone on the windswept moors of England: lost, alone, afraid.  And then, a bull of a dog appears and carries her to safety.

Hell, I don't know what happened in her spaghetti brain all those years ago, except this: she wanted a damn giant of a dog.  That, I know for certain.

She says he looks like me.  As for me, I can't tell.  As for my Mom, she sees no resemblance.  I can always count on Mom to defend me. 

Seriously, what is wrong with this woman?  She thinks I'm a giant dog?

It's not like I haven't been called a dog before, but I just thought it was a personality thing.

Today, August 11, 2016, we'll meet him for the first time.  Of course, I'll pay for the privilege, but you've got to pay to play, right?

The Ride Home

On the upside, she's over-the-moon happy.  That bodes well for me.  They say that if Momma ain't happy, nobody's happy.  True.  The converse is also true: if Daddy ain't happy, nobody cares. 

That's probably why I'm so grouchy.

But, maybe it's just a personality thing.

As for me and Mastiffs, I was introduced to them by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  The hound stalked the moors breathing an unearthly fire and frightening men to death.  Seriously, Sir Charles Baskerville was literally scared to death by such a beast.

Should make an ideal pet.  Perfect for a seven year old boy, n'cest pas?

By coincidence, my fiance has a seven year old son, Gage.  If you've ever seen a tornado, you get the idea.  Interestingly, he's afraid of dogs.  Ideal.

"Hey Gage, look at the monster Mommy brought home to live with us... Sweet dreams."

What could go wrong?

Me and Dutch, Day One

I'm just being snarky, though.  Sherlock Holmes figured out Sir Charles' problem.  The fire wasn't unearthly, it was a glow-in-the-dark goo made of phosphorus that the bad guy smeared on the dog's mouth for the purpose of being scary.  The beast wasn't a beast; he was just large.

Think Scooby-Doo mystery.  It was like that.

Like, Zoiks!

To this day, I still remember when I read that novel.  I was but a tender child of fourteen reclining in my leather arm chair, puffing on my pipe in the study.  Ah, the memories of youth.

In actuality, I was in our townhouse laying on my bed in my tighty-whities (boxers now, thank you).  But, that's not as pretty of a picture, is it?  On the other hand, I did have an old souvenir corncob pipe.  There's always a bit of truth in even the most far-fetched story.

For what I think should be obvious reasons, I wanted a girl dog.  She wanted a boy.  I told you: she's goofy.

There's only just so much testosterone that one house can hold.  In addition to traumatizing the kid, she's going to pour more testosterone on the fire.  But, she's a force of nature.  No wonder she gave birth to a tornado.

She did offer an olive branch, though.  If I would consent to a boy, she would allow me to name the beast.  Joke's on her: We'd have gotten a boy anyway.  Force of nature and all that, right?

She then started throwing out names before I could even think about it much.  Isn't that just the way?  "Darling, if we get a boy, you can choose the name.  How about Max?  Zeus?  Thor...?"

She calls me darling when she wants something.

Dutch's Paw in Fiance's Hand

Then, she said just the right thing, "Gipper."  She said that because she knows that Mr. Reagan delights me.  But Gipper is a terrible dog name.  Still, it got me to thinking.  Brother Reagan went by a nickname all of his young life.  He only reverted to his given name when a studio executive in Hollywood suggested that Dutch Reagan wasn't the best stage name.

So, Dutch.  Perfect.

I've never seen a leg that large and muscular on any dog before, even a grown dog.  His paws are enormous.  Truly a beast in the making.

I'm sure that she sees herself riding with the top down in her convertible with Dutch sitting in the passenger seat, giant head above the windshield, gums flapping in the wind.  It's an appealing vision, I'm sure.



I see elephantine turds.  Perhaps I'm not as romantic as she.  Perhaps, though, I'm more realistic.

Still, he has a certain je ne sais quoi.

 

The Tornado Meets the Beast

Maybe the Tornado and the Beast won't be a total disaster.

As a matter of fact, he does seem to have at least one redeeming quality.

I think I'll let him stay for a bit longer.

TheCurmudgeon