When I found "Goodboy," he was on the side of a country road chewing on an old piece of pig hide. He was so small I could hold him in the palms of my hands. I brought him home and gave him a bath as he was covered with fleas. The next step was to call animal control to come get him. I waited a week for their call back and by the time they did call we had decided to keep him.
My husband's boss told us if we kept the dog they would pay the vet bill, to have him checked out. They almost wished they had not offered as my poor little dog was very sick from lack of food and care, and the bill was over three hundred dollars. The vet did not expect him to live. We brought him home and gave him medications and fed him Mighty Dog canned food. I didn't tell him the bad news and so since he did not know he was expected to die, he didn't. I ask the vet how big he might grow to be and he said like a beagle-sized dog. Yeah, right. Goodboy grew to be the size of a german shepard. The reason he ended up being called "Goodboy," was because he would not come when called any other name. So the name stuck and we enjoyed him for ten long years.
