Free Giant George by Dave Nasser and Lynne Barrett-Lee

and breed dogs.
    But the word “commitment” said it all really. If you took it seriously, showing dogs was way too much work to be called a hobby, and evenif you kept it simple and
made
it your hobby, you’d have no time for doing anything else, it seemed to us. As well as all the logistics of traveling long distances with your pet (something we would find out—boy, and
how
—in a couple of years), there was stuff like getting them trained, early on in life, specifically for the show ring, by having them learn to walk on your left at all times and trainingthem to understand a multitude of commands. Start that too late and you probably never caught up.
    Plus we were not really hobby people at this time in our lives. We both worked long hours because we really enjoyed our jobs, and in our downtime, when we weren’t up to our necks in the house remodeling, we mostly liked to chill. Christie liked music—to see bands, go to concerts—and we both likedto eat out (given the state of our kitchen, not really a luxury) and were getting to know all the restaurants around Tucson. We both loved the variety there was, living where we lived: steaks, lots of Mexican, as well as Thai, Italian and sushi. Not that we were picky anyway—basically, if someone else cooked it, we loved it.
    All in all, we didn’t think we had enough spare time to get involvedin such a major undertaking as rearing a show dog. We didn’t think we were set for breeding either, in the end.Though George was clearly an amazingly good specimen of Great Dane—that coat of his really did make him special and rare—we didn’t see him as a stud. Had we gotten ourselves a bitch, perhaps it would have been the right thing to have a litter, but as things stood, we didn’t see any greatpurpose—he was bought as a family pet and that was what he was. Evolution could probably manage just fine, we decided, without his genes being dropped in the pool.
    Despite that, it was with a heavy heart that I took George along to Doc Wallace’s surgical unit on a blisteringly hot day in late September. It is no small thing to put an animal under anesthetic, certainly, but I hadn’t been preparedfor my feelings of anxiety about leaving him there that morning.
    With both procedures to be performed, I knew he’d be under for a couple of hours and I also knew Christie wouldn’t relax for a second till he was safely conscious once more. It was a weekday, of course, so we were both hard at work, though our minds and hearts were anything but.
    I got my first text from Christie around eleven:
    Hi hon. You heard anything yet?
    Nope, I haven’t,
I texted back.
It’s too early.
    You think? Text me soon as you do, okay?
    You too.
    What, text you? You think they’ll call me, then? You gave them your number didn’t you?
    I think I gave them both.
    But I have to switch my phone off in a minute. I have a meeting.
    So they’ll call me. And I’ll text you. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.
    But shouldn’the be out by now???:-s
    Not sure. You want me to call them to see?
    I think… no, it’s okay. They’ll call us when he’s out, won’t they?
    They’ll call us. Stop WORRYING. He’ll be fine.
    I do know that. It’s just—what if he’s not fine?
    He’ll be fine.
    You really think so?
    YES. You want me to call them?
    No. I’m being stupid, aren’t I?
    No, you’re not. You’re just being a mom, honey. Stop worrying.

    I am trying… :-s
    You sure you don’t want me to call them?
    No. It’s okay. xx
    Exactly!
    … and so on.
    We were texting again at 11:30, and then at 11:45, and then at 12:00… The big thing, I decided—what really blew me away—was how agitated I was about the whole thing myself. I felt guilty, obviously—it was me, a fellow male, who was responsible for removing his manhood, after all—but I was alsostressed by the thought that something might go wrong, no matter how much I tried to reassure Christie that it wouldn’t. And it wasn’t just because I