WILL B

I was eight years old when I learned that getting a dog could mean something very different, depending on who was doing the getting. Most kids I knew came home to one wagging tail, one set of paws, one name to remember. I, on the other hand, walked into our backyard and was greeted by seven German Shepherds, all identical, all enormous, all staring at me like I was the new intern on their first day; my eyes were the size of baseballs, and I felt like they were about to pop out of my noggin.

After much debating, we decided to name every single one of them Pepper. I don’t quite recollect the exact reason why I came home that day to find seven German Shepherds in my backyard, but I vaguely remember it had something to do with a rescue.

My dad insisted that it made things easier. If you holler Pepper, at least one of them will listen. My brothers and I agreed with Dad, but not for his reasoning, but because we thought how cool it would be to have seven dogs named Pepper [Haha]. This turned out to be true, but only because they all listened. Imagine seven slobbering, overly excited shepherds sprinting toward you at once. I learned to brace myself against solid objects, which always failed, and I ended up on the ground covered in dog slobber most days when I came home from school.

Despite the chaos, those dogs became the heartbeat of my childhood for a brief time. Each Pepper had a personality, even if their names were the same. There was Pepper the Wise, who acted like he’d seen centuries of human nonsense. Pepper the Goofball, who once tried to chase a butterfly and ran headfirst into a tree. Pepper the Worrier, who followed me everywhere as if I were a fragile egg he’d been assigned to protect. And Pepper the Rebel, who stole my socks so often I’m convinced he had a secret stash somewhere under the porch.

But they taught me gentleness. Whenever I felt small or overwhelmed, I’d sit in the yard, and the Peppers would gather around me like a living, breathing fortress. One would rest his head on my knee. Another would nudge my hand until I scratched behind his ears. Their presence was a kind of magic, steady, warm, and wordless. They didn’t need to understand what I was feeling to make me feel better.

We, or I should say, my parents found homes for six Peppers and let us keep just one Pepper. I insisted we keep the one who always followed me around; he was my best friend, and as I grew older, Pepper, singular, grew older too. His muzzle grayed, his steps slowed, and one day my best friend left the world quieter than he found it. Losing him hurt, but the love he gave me stayed stitched into my life.

If someone asks me why I’m patient, or loyal, or quick to laugh, I tell them I learned these traits by a German Shepherd named Pepper. It’s impossible to grow up in the kind of chaos only a dog can bring, but a dog will teach a boy a little about joy, a little about resilience, a whole lot about love, and sadly, a little about how to grieve the loss of a boy’s best friend.

This is Will B saying, “ Fetch, Pepper, good boy!”