Newfoundland Dogs: A Story Of Life And Death And Endless Love

The first time I met a Newfoundland Dog, I was three years old. I had no idea then that these gentle giants would shape my life in ways I could never imagine. 

My father had always dreamed of having a Newfoundland Dog, and finally, my parents decided to welcome one into our family. I wasn’t dog-crazy at the time. If anything, I thought a cat might be nice, something small and cuddly. But when we met her, an already-grown, shy Newfoundland, my world changed. 

Her favorite game was chasing after me, knocking me over into the snow or mud. I don’t remember if I cried when she did it, but I do remember the sheer joy of being with her. I would sit for ages, stroking the soft fur on her head. I slept on her, using her as my pillow. She lay so still beside me that my parents said she never moved more than the tip of her tail while I slept. 

She was a gentle soul. Once, she caught a mouse in her mouth, carefully carried it across the road, and released it, looking almost disappointed when the mouse scurried away without a thank-you. 

And then, everything changed. 

A gunshot that shattered my world 

I was seven. 

A gunshot. A whizzing bullet. A death cry. 

It was a hot August afternoon. My mother, grandmother, brother, and I were out in the mountains near our second home in Bavaria, searching for mushrooms. We were loud, as kids always are, making sure every deer in the area had long since disappeared. Apparently, that drove some hunters mad. 

There is no excuse for what they did. They fired in the thick forest, at a friendly dog playing right beside her owners, endangering not just our dog but all of us. And in that instant, my best friend, my Newfoundland Dog, was gone. 

My grandmother, the widow of a forest ranger, was horrified beyond words. And I was scarred for life. 

I had always been a child of the forest: The Bavarian mountains were my playground. I spent my days collecting blueberries, damming up mountain creeks, climbing trees (and falling off more than once) and building huts from fallen branches. But after that August day, I became afraid of the forest. I didn’t understand why. I just knew I couldn’t walk alone anymore. Someone had to be in front of me, someone behind me, because something terrible lurked behind the trees. 

For years, the sound of gunfire, even in movies, gave me nightmares. Even now, as I write this, there’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. 

The Newfoundland Dog that brought me back 

My parents knew what we needed: another dog. 

So, our second Newfoundland came into our lives, a nine-week-old puppy full of life and mischief. She was my healer. 

She could “talk:” her endless variations of rrrr meant everything from “Where have you been? I missed you!” to “Dinner is late, and I am not amused.” Somehow, she knew my mother was coming home long before her car even turned into the street. 

She played with us like no other dog, jumping rope, catching balls, and hiding her food bowl in the garden. And, as crazy as it may sound, she was the one who led me back to the forest. With her by my side, my fear faded. 

She gave us an unexpected gift: two puppies. And when she passed, I cried my heart out. 

A lifelong love for Newfoundland Dogs

We planned on taking a break from dogs. Maybe even traveling somewhere new. That plan lasted exactly one week. 

Then my father saw a newspaper ad for Newfoundland puppies in Bavaria. They were already spoken for, but a new litter had just been born. We went to look. And of course, one of them became ours. 

Rasmus, our first male Newfoundland, was majestic, intelligent, and kind. He walked the neighborhood like a friendly king, taking solo strolls to the nearest lake for a swim. When we packed our car to head back to Berlin, he would carry his own leash back to the front door, as if to say, “Nope, I’m staying in the mountains.” 

Then came Mikos, the brown bear: a 70kg whirlwind who could outrun even hunting dogs, leaping over bushes and down rocky trails like an unstoppable force. With him, I discovered new hiking paths, climbed mountains in the early morning, and watched sunsets from the peaks. 

When he grew older, I swam with him in the lake from April to October, no matter how freezing the water, just because it was good for him. 

And now, Fellow. 

The disaster teddy bear 

Fellow came to us right before Christmas in 2013. From the moment he climbed into our car, he knew he belonged with us. 

He is the smartest dog we’ve ever had. A trained rescue dog, always looking for entertainment and sometimes, trouble. My brother calls him Krawall Panda (Riot Panda); I call him Disaster Teddy Bear. Both are entirely accurate. 

He is a Newfoundland Dog through and through: always friendly, endlessly loyal, and full of joy. Now, at 11.5 years old, he is slowing down, his steps heavier, but his spirit remains the same. 

A love that never ends 

A Newfoundland Dog was there for the worst day of my life. And Newfoundland Dogs have been there for some of the best. 

Their time with us is always too short. Their love, endless. 

I cannot imagine life without a Newfoundland Dog by my side. Because they are more than just dogs, they are family.