Opus 1: Rochester, First Movement: Schultz

     "Please, Mom.  Can't we have a dog?  Pleeeze?"  I remember uttering these words at least once or twice a day to my poor mother, who already had her hands full with three daughters under the age of eight.  I was seven, with little sister Amy, 2, and newborn Lynn Louise.  It was a big year for me:  I was in FIRST GRADE, had learned to read, and had a brand new baby sister...with whom I was quite disappointed.  (I had thought both sisters would be born to look more like one of my dolls, complete with blond ringlets and frilly dresses.  Instead, I got red-faced, hairless, wailing blobs that were nothing like what I had pictured.)  And I had started piano lessons, something of a rite of passage in my family.  Both my parents loved music, especially classical, and both played piano, solos and duets, and sang in the Rochester Philharmonic Oratorio Society.  So naturally, we kids would all take piano lessons, starting at age seven, the stage of life my mother deemed the perfect time.  At this age, she would say, you can read, count, and even do a little addition;  all very important in reading music.
 

     But as ideal a life as I might have had, I still did not feel complete.  We needed a DOG!  My Auntie Jean had a beautiful collie named Duff, whom I adored.  (Collies, popular because of the 1950's TV show Lassie, were definitely out:  too much hair, according to my mom.)  But I was also in love with German Shepherds, ever since watching another hit show, Rin Tin Tin.  At that time, one could order a German Shepherd, or any number of other breeds, from the Sears and Roebuck Catalog.  This is what I wanted to do, but was hung up on the choice of a gray and black Shepherd, or tan and black.  Besides, I didn't have the 50 plus dollars necessary.  My mother's response was, "No dogs!  I'll be the one who ends up feeding it, walking it, cleaning up after it.  No dog, no way!"
 

     Well, I'm not sure how my parents' discussion ensued, but one Saturday, were all in the car going someplace mysterious.  In my family, it was verboten to ask for things from my father.  If you did, the answer would be automatically no.  On this particular Saturday, I had no idea where we were headed, so I ventured a hesitant,  "Hey Dad.  Where are we going?"

     "We are going to Lollipop Farm."

     Lollipop Farm was Rochester's (Monroe County) Humane Society.  I'm not sure if I understood what this meant exactly.  But then my dad added, "We're going to pick out a dog."

    Be still my beating heart.  Had I heard correctly?  All I could picture were throngs of adorable puppies, each cuter than the next.  O rapture!
 

     When we arrived at Lollipop Farm, I was taken aback.  It didn't really look like a farm. And there were no lollipops! There were a few barn-like buildings, some llamas and goats milling around, and at least 30 kennels filled with barking, smelly full-grown dogs.  "Wait, where are the puppies?" I asked in a small voice.

     "We're going to get one of these grown-up dogs that needs a home," replied my dad.  "It's better to have an adult dog, because they are past the gnawing stage and you know what kind of personality they have.  Also, they are probably house-trained."

     How could I hide my disappointment?  I had dreamed of a puppy.  And here were all these loud, smelly frantic dogs.  But one did not argue with my father.
 

     We went into the kennel building, and I first saw a bouncy, collie-like dog.  My mother immediately nixed that one:  too much fur!  We continued looking into each dog run, until my father motioned for us to come over to the cage he was standing by.  Way in the back, curled up in the corner was a timid dog, whose breed was unknown to me.  My dad asked if we could go into the cage to meet "Bing."  My dad went in and stooped down to pet the sad creature.  "He's a nice dog," said the attendant.  "Got turned in because he's gun shy.  You see, he's a German Short haired Pointer.  He's a hunting dog, and he can't stand loud noises."

     "Aw, Bing,"  my dad said gently.  "Come on and let's have a look at you."

     Bing got up hesitantly and sniffed my dad's outstretched hand.  He seemed very gentle and I started to think that he might make a good pet.  Her certainly didn't bark like the other dogs.  Another plus:  he had short hair!
 

     My mother agreed, and we ended up bringing 2 year old Bing home.  On the way back, my dad suggested we think of a new name for him.  "A new name for a new life."  How about Brownie?  How about Speckles?  "Well, he's German,"  my dad said.  "He needs a German name."

     And so Bing became Schultz.

     

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