Fritz and family, autumn 1962
Born a runt, milk-chocolate and bright-eyed, Fritz von Etgen arrived with a broken tail he wagged proudly before offering his doxie advice. Outside, he channeled Dox Quixote, chasing invisible squirrels with full-tilt conviction— a blur of stubby legs and unstoppable joy. Inside, he tap-danced across Mother’s linoleum floor, tiny toenails clicking like a Fred Astaire routine he never quite mastered. Half-a-dog high, a dog-and-a-half long, he’d race the hallway and slide out of control— back end leading the charge as if it had somewhere urgent to be. From this small, big-hearted comet of a dog, I learned exuberance, optimism in ache, and the quiet truth of love offered without condition. Fritz taught me what loyalty looks like when it has tiny feet and a tail that never forgot how to celebrate the world.
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