In my first post, I wrote about Sandy, a golden-something mix from my childhood. It would be many years before I would get another dog, but I finally managed to talk my husband, Mike, into getting a purebred Golden Retriever. We named him Einstein, after the dog in Dean Koontz’s novel, Watchers.
When it came to Einstein, Mike and I did most things wrong, starting with where we bought him. Not from a reputable breeder, but from an ad in the newspaper. Our first clue should have been where we picked Einstein up (a condo apartment). Our second clue should have been the fact that his mother wasn’t anywhere to be found. But we were young and excited about getting a dog. Who had time to do research?
We were to learn, too late, and much later, that Einstein was a puppy mill dog, but we loved him all the same, even after he failed obedience school. Twice. I can still remember the horrified look on one owner’s face when we were instructed to “switch dogs” with another owner. As I handed her Einstein’s leash, I overheard the hushed tone of her husband whispering, “Oh my god, you’ve got Einstein.”
Einstein settled down a lot when he was 15 months. Too much, in hindsight, though we were just so happy when he did that we didn’t think to question it. We just figured he was growing up to be a good dog. And he was… he never barked, growled, jumped up on people, or any of that. Not even when he was at his craziest. He just wanted to be loved and petted, to be part of our family. Einstein had grown up to be the perfect puppy.
Mike was out of town (as he often was during his working life) when one evening, as I was walking Einstein, I noticed a van following us. I started walking faster until the guy rolled down his window and said that he was trying to find a certain house number. The driveways in our neighborhood were long (ours was 85′ long) and it was dusk. I bought the story but hustled my way, dog in tow, to our house.
I was inside the house about five minutes when the doorbell rang. It was the guy from the van. I opened the door, but kept the screen door closed. Einstein was sitting next to me, growling softly.
“I’m here from the gas company,” the man said, holding a clipboard. I remember thinking how clean his nails were, how smooth his hands. My dad had been in the trades. He could never keep his nails looking like they’d just been manicured, or his hands not roughened by weather, no matter how hard he tried. Why was the van white, without a gas company logo? And why was Einstein growling?
“I have a report here to inspect your furnace,” the man said, at which point he attempted to open the screen door. Einstein was having none of it. My calm, quiet dog went crazy, barking, baring his teeth, and literally scaring the guy into stepping backwards. I slammed the door, shaking, and then called the gas company.
You can probably guess what comes next. The gas company hadn’t sent a guy to look at my furnace. I called the police, who came promptly. There was a man, the officer told me, fitting my guy’s description. He’d been getting unsuspecting women into their basements and then beating and raping them. Without Einstein’s intervention, I would have been his next victim.
Einstein was diagnosed with an extremely rare form of cancer two weeks later. He died at eighteen months, a puppy mill pup who never really had a chance. But to this day, I believe he was put on this earth to save me from getting raped, or worse.
RIP Einstein. Your spirit has lived on in every dog I’ve owned since. It lives on, inside me. #ForeverGrateful
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