Over the Fence: Meet Mittens, the good dog

Our dog’s name is Mittens and she is, believe it or not, a fearsome-looking German Shepherd. Inexplicably, it was my macho son who named her, saying it was the only name she would respond to. So out of embarrassment and a vague sense of injustice on her behalf, we decided to shorten her name to Mitts, or sometimes, Mitty.

Many cherished family memories revolve around Mitts. It was she who suffered having her ears and tail pulled when our grandkids were babies. She even pretended to enjoy having them climb on her back and try to “steer her.” She did everything but whinny.

Mitts is most certainly a German Shepherd, although we suspect a lab alter-ego lurking somewhere. She loves to chase balls and has been known to take multiple dips in a pond when she finds one.

Mitts started as my son’s dog but she moved in with us when he had to relocate. Even after all these years with us, though, she is never happier than when he comes to visit.

Here is the lowdown on our dog: She is a great watchdog without being threatening, unless you happen to be a stranger, then she’s wary and watchful, but unfailingly polite. Once we tell her you’re OK, you’ll remain OK. You just wouldn’t want to do anything rash. Like, pet her.

When we introduced a tiny new kitten to the household several years ago, Mitts proved quite tolerant. She suffered many humiliations at the hands (claws?) of that demonic little being, but she remained infinitely patient with him. Lucky for him, since the dog outweighs him by a good 75 pounds.

Mittens also has a sense of humor. When the family laughs over some shared joke, Mitts joins in, in her uniquely German Shepherd way. Her ears prick up, her tail wags furiously, she prances around in circles, and finally, she favors us with a big wide smile. I swear.

I worry about my cat when he goes outside because we sometimes have coyotes lurking in the yard. So Mick the cat usually goes out with his bodyguard, Mitts the dog. The coyotes often try to engage her in whatever canine conversation they’re having, but she disdainfully ignores them.

Mitty is in her 13th year, old for a big dog. She has noticeably slowed down. Her gate is painful and arthritic; she has a hard time hearing and doesn’t chase the ball much anymore. But she still rests her head on our laps and gazes at us with those soulful, questioning eyes. Since she’s reached old age, we have lived in a sort of subliminal dread of the day she will leave us. It’s coming soon, and we’re not ready. We’ll never be ready.

When the time comes, we’ll be there with her — the whole family. And we’ll all say to her for one last time, “Good dog, Mitty, good dog.”