By some trick of doggie geneaology, I missed being born a Dalmation, the breed who rides on a proper fire truck. I’ve got a different gig. When that man with the sunglasses yells “Atten-hut”, I half-sit half-stand on my mixed breed hind legs.
When my tongue lolled out, my mother used to say that now my face was going to stay like that for the rest of my life. But I’ve just run clear across the parade grounds to sneak into this photo opportunity, so naturally, I’m panting. This is the the United States Air Force, you know, and these are my guys. They just finished washing the bivouac, the tires shine like their newly polished shoes.
Hixon, Hershey, Cyril and Donald keep the trucks running on this base. The Corps doesn’t pay much, but they earn enough to buy me a decent collar and to keep food in my bowl. They found me covered with mud in a ditch. And they don’t never mind that I speak German.
Mary L. Barnard
Editor’s Note: Leave it to Mary to write from the point of view of the dog! Her love of dogs rules (she owns 2 rescue angels herself) as well as her sense of humor. What seals the deal for the reader is the title. His German name makes perfect sense when you read the last line of the story. Such a little touch results in a big payoff for the reader. Woof-woof!