Great doggie stories! Bill sounds perfect, TS. When my parents and I transported ourselves to Africa in the early 1950s, the first dog they got was also an Alsatian, a bitch whose name was Joanna, but called just 'Jo'. She had a beautiful domed head with a little cream-coloured tuft of hair either side of her eyes, which made her look rather racy. She was a perfect companion for me, took to being around horses at the stables without a murmur, mixed well with other dogs, and adored my Dad and Mum. Like most dogs, she loved sticking her nose out of the car window and letting her ears fly free, and she was entirely forgiving when my parents took on a mongrel pup, to be named Fatso, who was particularly my Dad's companion. Much, at first, to my Dad's alarm. As an athletic six-footer, he was instantly adopted as Alpha Male by this little dog with the fluffy, curly tail, underslung jaw (there was Peke, Jack Russell and about 55 other breeds in him) and sparkling, cheeky ginger eyes. Fatso ended up accompanying my Dad to work in the PWD, which was next door to our house (Public Works Dept.) and sleeping on top of his feet! Having imagined him as a ladies' companion, my Father was soon to learn that Fatso was a real 'guy.
We had the most wonderful times with these two. Fatso was quite a little brawler: he got annoyed with Prince, a magnificent, stately rough collie, one day at the stables. An undignified squabble took place, with Prince snapping away at this common little oik. There was a silence, and I looked to see what had happened to Fatso. After a few seconds, he emerged from under Prince's long-haired belly, sneezing and grinning, having got lost in his opponent's long hair.
When we all went on long leave (6 months) to England, we left the two dogs in the care of a farmer my Mother knew. We got regular letters about them, which stopped suddenly. In the end, my Mother resorted to phoning to find out how they were. The news was tragic. First, Jo had gone missing while out on a foray in the bush with Fatso. There was suspicion that she may have wandered onto the farm next door, where the owner was known to shoot 'stray' dogs. We never knew what happened. Then, Fatso, who'd brawled, been kicked into a perfect parabola twice by angry horses - still barking as he flew through the air - and had survived a hit-and-run which ruptured his spleen and smashed a paw - had rushed out to greet the farm's owner as he returned from town. Fatso didn't realize that at that moment, as he rushed around the farm truck, the farm hands were offloading 33-gallon drums of oil for the generator. They rolled one off, and he was crushed instantly to death beneath it. The wife told my Mother that her husband cried all day, took a bottle of brandy to his bedroom with him, and didn't come out for three days. None of the farm dogs were permitted even in the house, but Fatso had slept on his bed since his first day there. He was that kind of guy.