REGGIE COMES
HOME
It was a Sunday afternoon in
September 1989 when we called a number
listed in the Washington Post under
"Dogs for Sale". Shortly
thereafter, my husband, my daughter and I
were driving toward Luray,
Virginia. There we discovered an
Old English Sheepdog kennel tucked quietly
up a Shenandoah mountain trail. As we 
drove
up the side of the mountain over rugged and
rocky terrain, a clearing appeared ahead
of us, with sheepdogs freely roaming - many
sheepdogs. We parked our car and no
sooner were out when a pack of at least
twenty five shaved down panting sheepdogs
encircled us, making it difficult to extract
ourselves from the side of the car.
Not knowing what we know today, we were a
little intimidated by the pack of
overzealous shaggy animals, ranging from
medium to very tall in size.
When we finally were able to get
into the smallish ranch style house, with
the front set on stilts, we found more
sheepdogs inside. Looking around, it
appeared that this was more than a kennel,
but home to many Old English ranging in age
from children to grandparents.
Separated by a gate in the kitchen area were
three tiny black and white balls of fur,
tumbling over and over each other. One
in particular was very small, but pushy and
headstrong for his size. He seemed to
have the upper hand and was able to be in
command; his smallness didn't daunt him at
all. Knowing very little, if anything
at all about sheepdogs, we knew we had to
have this little runt.
Now, I may not have mentioned
before, but I had no intention of buying any
dog at all, never mind a very big hairy
dog. But at my daughter's persistence
that she always wanted an Old English
Sheepdog (doesn't every kid?), and would I please,
please, please just go look, I
reluctantly conceded. I had no plans
of buying any dogs that day, and probably no
other day either. Especially with my
children in high school and college - who
would be responsible for feeding and walking
him?
But there he was. There was
no denying the sudden surging desire to call this dog
our own, to broaden our family, to
soften the approaching journey into life as
Empty Nesters. As we took our
checkbook out, the only words uttered were
"How much?".
He received his last shots before
we were out the door and we were told that
his papers would be forthcoming. We
scooped him up and threaded our way back out
to the car through the many sheepdogs
surrounding us. Back down
the mountain and finally on the highway, we breathed a sigh of relief
that we were driving towards civilization
once again and soon would be home with our
newest family member. And then it
occurred to us. We didn't have a
leash, a dog dish or food, nothing, didley.
We were totally unprepared for this little
creature.
Thank goodness we found a Food Lion
still open at 7:30 on Sunday night. My
daughter and I ran in and bought out the pet
department while husband and dog waited in
the Jeep. Getting back into the front
seat after we finished shopping,
I suddenly realized as I sat down that the
first line of business would be to
housebreak this little guy.
NAMING HIM
It was a long journey back home,
which gave us time to name him. Spike,
Rex, Spot, Muffy, Fluffy, Ruffy, there were
so many choices. Nothing seemed
right. Then my husband decided to use
logic. This little guy's heritage was
from England, so why not give him a name or
title to match, Orville,
Charles, Reginald, hmmmm. Sir
Reginald. So regal, yet
"Reggie" seemed so right.
And so, a nameless dog born on July 8, 1989
and finally brought home on September 24,
1989 was crowned "Sir Reginald of
Chantilly", and embraced as a family
member from that day on.
