Remembering the Life of Tiggerius Rex »
The first dog I ever had was named Sheri. She was actually a family dog, and we had to put her to sleep when I was pretty young - needless to say, that was quite a few years ago. Then, a few years later, we were lucky enough to get another dog, Ruf-ce-Tuf. That tale is recounted elsewhere, but for those of you who don't know, Ruf was my first real dog. Even though Sheri was my first, I helped choose Ruf (of course, he helped choose me), I helped name Ruf (though I've since learned that names come to them, and they aren't truly given), and my mom probalby took more care of thim than I did. But he was still my first.
Then there was Tigger. One day as I worked - this was probably close to seven years ago now - a co-worker asked me if I could help him out, because he had a dog that needed help. I'm sure this was because I'm just a big softie, but I said that I wasn't home enough to help. When I found out that he had a hundred-pound stray, I wanted to help, but I really couldn't. Naturally, I told him that I'd like to be of assistance, but between the size of the dog and the fact that I wasn't ever home and didn't even have a fenced yard, I just couldn't. Then I met him. The poor guy was all cramped up in a crate that was about two sizes too small for him - think of the Grinch's heart if you need a visual. Yet he wasn't worried. That was just his nature. And that's all it took. Tigger had found a home.
