It ain't easy being a great dark beast in a world of tiny yapping puffballs
Our big, ink-black, stupendously cool, absolutely extraordinary family Labrador was named Shadow, of course, because it was simple and obvious and when you're seven years old you don't really know from overused dog-naming clichés.
Let me just say that Shadow was probably the perfect family dog of all time, ever. He was calm and mellow and fairly well trained, superbly chill like some sort of fuzzy genius monk, rarely barked and never snapped and, no matter how much childhood torture we put him through, all the tugging and tail-yanking and petting far too hard, riding on his back and forcing him to romp when clearly all he wanted to do was eat and hang out and chase small woodland creatures in his sleep, Shadow always maintained that amazing Zen-like tranquility, a sighing, preternatural ease so oft found in large, happy, slobbery Labs. He was amazing.
For me and to this very day, Shadow set the bar insanely high for all-time great dogs. Solid as a rock, peaceful, smart, watchful, eternal, completely at ease in the world. That's how I like 'em. I mean, who doesn't?
Apparently, not as many as I imagined. Little did I know what an anomaly I am, just how uncommon Shadow really is in the grand dogosphere, or how difficult he might have had it out there in the rough world of dog shelters and the apparently slightly panicky, superstitious people who patronize them. ...
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