Marmie, the Truly Great Dane

Reprinted with permission from Angels on Earth, a Guideposts publication.

From the day she was born, our Great Dane, Marmalade, seemed to know she'd been put on this earth to do more than eat dog food and sleep in the shade all day. For instance, one of our neighbors was a retired man who'd recently had open-heart surgery. Daily exercise was part of his recuperation program, so every morning he went for a walk, and every morning Marmie took off to accompany him. In the afternoon, Marmie sat and waited for our son, Ryan, and some of the other kids to get off the school bus. Then she’d walk them home. It was as though she understood that people need protection, or sometimes just plain old companionship, and her heart was full of love for them.

Marmie definitely had personality: It wasn't long before she started carrying around one of Ryan's old teddy bears. Soon people all over town knew her. How could they not notice Marmie? After all, she strolled around with the dignity of an aristocrat and the grace of a deer; the markings on her face made it look like she was wearing a mask; and she always had that teddy bear in her mouth.

One morning Marmie returned from her neighborhood patrol with a doll in her mouth instead. "Where'd you get that?" I asked. "And what happened to your teddy?" Ryan piped in.

Later that day a neighbor called. "Marmie's bear turned up in my yard," she said, "and one of my daughter's dolls is missing."

"So that's where it came from. I'm so sorry," I said. "I'll bring the doll right back."

Marmie traded her bear for things so often that people got used to her barter system. In fact, sometimes we'd pull into the driveway and see the flag up on the mailbox. Inside the box would be the stuffed bear, and standing halfway down the drive with her tail wagging would be Marmie, showing off the new prize she’d tucked in her mouth.

Eventually my husband and I started calling Marmie's daily finds her "gifts from heaven." From the proud look on her face, it seemed she thought that whatever it was she brought home--a bone, a ball, a shoe--had come from some source higher than people.

In 1987, our family moved to Virginia to 25 open acres lined by a vast pine forest. It must have been a day in mid-July when we first noticed Marmie standing at the edge of the woods, barking questioningly. After dinner that night she left her bear in Ryan's safekeeping and headed into the trees with some scraps of meat left over from her dinner. "I wonder what that's all about?" I asked Bob.

Continued on page 2: 'What did you bring home now, Marmie?' »