On this day a child was born ...

No - not HIM - that was 3 days ago (how much eggnog have you had?). My child. My last and final furkid (please God), Manfred Albrecht Freiherr von Richthofen, a.k.a. The Red Baron.  

The Baron is 3 years old today. He and his "siblings" are getting a special dinner (Rahmen noodles for me, although I don't think their chicken flavour has ever met a chicken).

I have survived 4 months with The Baron, who I adopted 5 weeks after my beloved Pomeranian "Dandy Lion" passed. Dandy was the fifth furkid I lost this year, and I took his death exceptionally hard. I've always considered myself a big dog/wolf person, but after missing Dandy's huge personality there was a hole, although I expected it would eventually be filled by somebody needy. (I've found and placed two stray dogs since I adopted The Baron. Whew!) I wasn't trying to "replace" the incomparable Dandy and preferred someone of a different or no breed, but after trying to rescue away an intact male Pom puppy from an idiot woman who instead sold him, I was an easy target for The Red Baron whose former owner needed to give him up "immediately" - in fact, when I called her back after deliberating overnight about whether to take him sight unseen, her mother was en route to an animal shelter to relinquish him and was reached on her cell phone and ordered to turn around. (The Red Baron is used to close calls.)

I was thorough in my questioning of his former owner in an attempt to determine if he'd be a good fit into my family. I asked, for instance, if he'd ever been around cats and was informed with relief that he had been raised with a cat. I had neglected to ask if he liked the cat. A truce was eventually signed without bloodshed and my cats have forgiven me. The Baron and they live peacefully except that no cat is allowed on my bed while he and I are sleeping. He has his own pillow and baby blanket, but still manages to manoeuvre me to the very edge of a king-sized mattress every night.

The Baron was overweight, under socialized, and had been apartment kept in Hollywood. (For decades, I've tried to get one of my dogs into Hollywood, and instead, get one of their cast-offs.) He's lost weight and runs like a little tornado around the fenced compound, often in pursuit of a roadrunner who is taller than The Baron. He plays every day after dinner with Zinn (Weimeraner) and Kokopelli (wolf-dog) and displays all the pleasantry of a Tasmanian devil. Often, he hangs from KoKo's throat, so it looks like I have a wolf-dog with a 12-pound goitre in a pugilistic mood. He and Jewel (pit-bull-mix) are not allowed together yet, because of her history, but he has a private yard; they kiss through the fence with tails wagging, and kiss through a baby gate when indoors ... all good signs.

The Baron is not afraid of "anything" - except a stranger. He eventually warms up, especially if they have food. We don't go out often, but we both are offended when strangers refer to him as a Chihuahua (people are more accustomed to black-and-tan Miniature Pinschers and he's red). He's not the "same" as Dandy. He's bossier than Dandy, more complaining than Dandy, more "clingy" than Dandy. Still, he's wonderful and he's filled the void (although he's also a reminder of "be careful what you pray for").

For his birthday, I told him I'm giving him the rest of his tail back.

Jim

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