| My parents went on and on about wanting to get a Newfoundland for years. Finally, in 1997, mere months before I broke my arm, we got a little eight-week-old puppy who was about the size of both the Ferguson's dogs put together. We named her Princess Abigail and completely rearranged the back porch for her. Plywood was nailed up over the screens, her giant cage was back there, and the whole area layered with newspapers. I myself worked hard to teach her some tricks, most of which she never learned. Dad trained her to respond to hand signals, and she grew pretty quickly. She frightened most people who came to call even though she was extremely friendly and not even capable of jumping on people. She and I used to play out in the woods all the time, and we also wrestled extensively. She didn't come in the house too much, or when she did--when it was extremely cold or hot--she didn't usually make it past the laundry room since she was just too big to go much elsewhere. Sometimes she crashed out on the rug while mom and dad watched TV, and one or two times she actually came upstairs. She didn't like the wood floors because she slippe on them too much. She was diagnosed with arthritis when she began having trouble moving, but later, this diagnosis was changed to a tumor, and she had to be put to sleep in December of 2003. |
