My first service dog partner, AKC German Shepherd “Renegade Striker,” spent most of his life keeping me on my feet. With his all-black furred muscles, he towed me here, there, and back again, for I’m a Disabled American Veteran with a damaged leg. Striker kept me walking, off my cane and crutches, and out of a wheelchair.
He had the valuable ability to assess his handicapped partner’s balance problems (mine) and instinctively correct them. I never fell once in all my years with him, thanks to his quick instincts. He was one very special “good boy!” But his black nose started getting grayer and grayer, and I knew it was time to retire him.
I wasn’t anywhere near ready to jump into all the work needed with a new service dog—the long learning process to build the absolute trust in each other needed for a successful, safe partnership. I went back to my canes and crutches. I knew my good boy and I wouldn’t have much time left together, so I spent it all with him. Striker was old now and needed me. A new service dog was the LAST thing on my mind.
In the meantime, I was doing a book signing for California’s “Costal German Shepherd Rescue” to help support the cause. A woman showed up with a one-year old, all black German Shepherd; skeletal, filthy dull coat, scarred, and flea-ridden. They wanted to surrender her, AKC papers and all. The volunteer told them their shelter was full, and would they please wait two weeks until space was available? The woman sneered, yes, sneered out, “Fine. Then I’ll just turn her loose in the parking lot.”
My husband immediately took the leash and said, “We’ll take her.” The grateful volunteer asked, “You’ll foster her for us?” Hubby replied, “No, she’s ours.” The owner shoved the paperwork in our hands and left. It was so strange…because I’d just retired a black German Shepherd, and here was another one who fell into our laps! I named her Queen of Sheba and promised her the royal treatment the rest of her life.
At home, the first thing my husband did was give this painfully thin, dirty dog a bath. There was so many fleas on her that the rinse water rained red with blood. I was shocked at this poor dog’s suffering. Next, we headed for the vet for shots, blood work and deworming treatments. At home we gave her plenty of TLC and food. For the next few days Sheba passed pieces of bark and twigs in her stools; the diet of a starving dog. She also showed us she’d never been in a house before. The TV confused her dreadfully, for she couldn’t tell if the voices and sounds were real or not. And she didn’t know how to use stairs in our two-story house. Sheba was overwhelmed at discovering a big, new, scary world that she’d never imagined existed. Yet she was gentle with my children, and got along with our other two dogs. She spent the first night on my bed at my side, and I was happy to welcome another pet to the family.
Right from the start, Striker took a particular interest in Sheba. He spent the summer training her by example. At home, she began to mirror his every move. She had no choice. If she tried to jump or bump me while playing, which could cause a fall, Striker disciplined her with teeth and growls. If she barked at home for no good reason, he took her to task. If she was afraid to do stairs with me, he showed her the way. I now had two black Shepherds, one at each side, and I suddenly realized what was happening! Striker was training his replacement! I started working with Sheba in earnest, both of us trusting each other more and more, while Striker kept watch.
From the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon (1:5)
“I am Black & Beautiful.”
Finally, I decided Sheba and I were ready to graduate to her first hardcore solo. This was no quick grocery store run or sidewalk stroll. This was the big time; Sheba and me plus hubby for a three-day weekend in a Reno hotel. In a casino amidst crowds, slot machine noise, packed elevators, and her very first thunderstorm, my new K-9 partner did Striker proud. Striker had taught his student to shine!
Sheba had the impressive intelligence of her breed, and although she could never equal Striker’s phenomenal ability to problem solve, she came pretty darn close! Because of Striker’s meticulous training, Sheba became Registered California Service Dog #50. (NOT required by law, but it makes things easier due to fake service dogs.) Striker and Sheba weren’t just dogs. They were my blessings.
Striker crossed the rainbow bridge soon after. I was heartbroken, but I like to think he stayed around just long enough to train Sheba—for ME. Sheba adapted so well to her new life that she became my faithful service dog for many years. Only the scar on her nose was evidence of her past abuse. I couldn’t believe how quickly our time together passed, and I had to retire her as well. I pampered her even more, and gave her extra “lovings,” for my oh-so-special hardworking girl finally deserved a well-earned rest.
Only she didn’t rest. Sheba mourned deeply when I left her behind day after day after day. She saw me grab my keys and purse, and hobbled to the door with her poor, arthritic legs. Her speed was gone, her once strong body unsteady and weak. One day she fell and couldn’t get up, yet she still frantically tried to reach me, her legs paddling uselessly on the floor. As she lay on her side, head up, her warm brown eyes were filled with confusion as they met mine.
“Why are you leaving me? Aren’t we partners? What did I do wrong? Don’t you love me anymore?”
I couldn’t answer her questions. Her loyal heart was breaking, and she couldn’t understand that I was protecting her. I could only watch her suffer. Being left behind was killing Sheba faster than old age ever could. That was the day I knew it was time to end her pain. I was there with Sheba that last day at the vets, skin touching fur. Even then, she fought hard to get closer to me as the vet sent her over the rainbow bridge.
It was not a good death. But by God, what a wonderful life! Sheba gave me every ounce of love she had up until the very end. Never have I felt so humbled. So bereft. So lonely. Yet so proud of my beloved partner. Sheba’s picture is on my computer monitor and on my wall. Not so I won’t forget—because I never will—but to celebrate a canine life that will ever be a shining example to me, a mere human. Her human.
I lost one black German Shepherd, Striker, only to find another one, Sheba, abandoned in a parking lot. I know it was meant to be. Queen of Sheba rewarded my love with such deep, loyal devotion that it touched my soul and still brings tears to my eyes. I miss her dreadfully, and will always remember her heart’s quiet courage. She survived her horrific past to thrive, always at my side, protecting my disabled body from harm. I still dream about her. Keep visiting me in my dreams, my Queen. Someday down the road we’ll be together, and I’ll keep you at my side forever. Rainbow kisses until we meet again.