I don’t remember what fueled my search to get my second Great Dane. It might have been that I lost my latest foster-fail, Annie-the-Brittany. It might have been that I was worried that Murray-the-Dane was at six, aging, and I wasn’t at all sure I’d survive losing him. 

(It wasn’t just me; one of my friends who was a shrink, used to shake her head and tell me I’d need to be institutionalized when he died. Not a particularly helpful statement I might add.)

At the time I didn’t have the connections I now have within the rescue and breeding communities. So I went to the three-day AKC Great Dane breed show. I was in heaven.

There were about 300 Danes of all colors and types. I saw some dogs I liked and talked to a lot of breeders. The two that really impressed me didn’t have any litters planned until the following Spring and already had long waiting lists.

I turned to breeders listed in an AKC forum that were in the general vicinity of California. I discovered a breeder in Northern California in a place called Grass Valley.

I talked to her a few times. She had two puppies, a stunning male, which I had to pass on because Murray, was, well, Murray. No males. She also had a delicate female with a lovely spotted head and just two spots on rest of her snow white body. 

Done.

According to my crack map skills, Grass Valley was just a smidgen north of San Francisco. Which meant that I could spend the weekend with my sister-from-another-mother, Tracy, and her partner who lived in Pacifica. I’d drive up Friday and on Saturday, we’d cruise up to Grass Valley and I’d pick up my puppy.

Easy peasy.

I managed to convince another friend, Kathy to go with me. She had never taken the 101 to Northern California. It’s a stunning drive filled with roadside attractions. It was going to be fun.

Our first sign of trouble was when we had difficulty locating the rental car company. It was supposed to be onsite at Burbank airport.

Nope.

Multiple phone calls and several U turns later we picked up the car and dropped off Kathy’s. We were on our way.

Road trip!

The drive up was indeed pretty. But it took forever. And ever. I also discovered that when I am behind the wheel I turn into a crazy suburban man on a family car trip circa 1962. That is, I don’t stop.

Kathy spotted a few places that, in retrospect would have been a hoot to check out. Those included the Garlic Festival. Unfortunately, I was in driving mode; there was no stopping allowed.

Did I mention that this was the beginning of September? Traditionally that weekend is miserably hot, and this was no exception. It was at least a zillion degrees. Something I mentioned every time Kathy pointed out a place to stop.

“That looks fun! Let’s check it out!” she would say.

“Too hot,” I’d reply as we whizzed by the exit.

This went on for many hours. Many, many hours

Eventually we got to the glorious coolness that is Tracy’s house in Pacifica. Wine and air conditioning were enjoyed.

Over dinner her partner Tyler asked where exactly we were going the next day. That is when I discovered that what is a mere half inch on a map, translates into three hours in the car.

Oops.

Not surprisingly, Tyler took over the driving. She got us to a nondescript home in Grass Valley with nary a U-turn or missed exit.

The breeder introduced us a gorgeous Mantle mom, who was the puppies’ mother, and then led us to the puppy pen. I bent down and before I even hit the ground, a mostly white Harlequin female jumped in my lap. That was that.

Dalai picked me.

She slept the entire ride home, except when we stopped for lunch. Since she didn’t have her shots, I carried her out of the car to a deserted area while the others picked up food. I plopped her on the ground where she immediately peed. I snatched her up, and she fell asleep.

When we got to Tracy and Tyler’s place, their two Dachshunds had mixed feelings about the large, clumsy puppy. The older Doxie ignored her; the younger chased her up and down the hallway till Dalai got tired.

I’d brought a crate for her, and I set it and a place for me on the floor in the living room. I expected Dalai to cry for her littermates, or whine all night. Nope. We slept till morning.

Or she did. That’s when I discovered that Dalai was a floor-rattling snorer. Most Danes are, but she was the loudest I’ve heard. I think Tracy and Tyler could hear her from the other end of the house.

The drive home was hot.

We only stopped when Kathy’s insane and hysterical employer called and we needed a cell signal. That happened regularly because a birthday cake was not what she hoped. Apparently was a life-changing disappointment and she felt it the need to rant. Incessantly. Her temper tantrum went on for hours (It was another clue that the rich are different from you and I.) 

Our other sign it was time to stop was when Dalai would wake up and fart. I’d pull over, take her out, she’d immediately pee and we’d be on our way.

By the time we got home it was dark. I put Dalai in the backyard and tried to let the other dogs out individually for polite introductions.

Great idea. Not so realistic.

Poppy, Quattro and Murray barreled outside and surrounded her, sniffing intently. Naturally, the two Brittanys tried to play with her.

Murray was not thrilled. In fact he was a little shocked by her appearance. Shocked, I tell you.

Big surprise.

Dalai, on the other hand, loved him.

                                                                                                END PART 1