Lady

Lady (of Meiersheim) came from a kennel in Lower Austria. She travelled by train from Vienna to Graz, where my mother picked her up—much to our surprise, her sister came along too. The sister had originally been promised to an industrialist’s wife, but the breeder didn’t trust that hysterical woman with a dog, so suddenly, a pair of sisters on four paws were on their way to us. The two puppy sisters were the attraction on the bus ride home, and we were utterly astonished when Mother appeared with a dog tucked under each arm. They were immediately inspected and welcomed by Troll, the Weimaraner of one of our neighbours. And so, Lys and Lady moved in with us.

They were sisters, but they couldn’t have been more different. Lady was immediately very devoted to us and a little naive. Lys was slightly smaller, quick, and very cunning. Every mischief they played on us and the neighbours was Lys’s doing, but she always managed to make sure Lady was the one caught and scolded. This went on until one day, my mother observed the whole operation from the start and settled accounts with the instigator, not the follower. Lys was so stunned that for a long time, there was peace, and she gave up her tricks—at least in that regard.

Lys was with us for about a year and a half until one day, her breeder and her husband showed up at our house and asked my parents to return one of the two dogs to them. "Well-meaning" neighbours had poisoned their breeding bitch, and they needed a replacement. My parents agreed on the condition that the dog would go with them voluntarily. When we called them, only Lys appeared—Lady was nowhere to be found. Lys went with them without hesitation; Lady only reappeared after the breeders’ car had driven away.

Lady was a beautiful dog, perfect in build and colour, and in character. She was good-natured but extremely vigilant, and as she grew up, she took on a kind of maternal role with my brother and me. If my brother and I argued, she would push herself between us and de-escalate the situation. And woe betide my brother if he ever raised a hand against me: she would shove him with her shoulder, and thump—there he’d sit on the floor. She absolutely could not tolerate fighting.

In front of our apartment was a large courtyard with a staircase leading up to the alley, which rose quite steeply—our home was at the foot of Schlossberg. The courtyard was shaded by an ancient, mighty grape arbor that bore an incredible number of grapes every year. Our courtyard was enclosed from the alley by a wire mesh fence with a solid gate that had no outside handle. This was to prevent unauthorised people from simply walking in, and as I said, Lady was very watchful.

One autumn day, the grapes were ripe, and Lady stood in front of the kitchen door, growling softly and deeply from her chest. I looked to see what was wrong, and through the glass doors leading to the courtyard, I saw two young men who had simply broken in and were helping themselves to the grapes. I opened the doors, and in one leap, Lady was on the first of the two men. She knocked him onto his back, pinned his arms with her front paws, and held her teeth to his throat. The second man, fortunately, stood frozen in shock and didn’t move. I was terribly frightened and called the dog back—she came immediately and stood beside my left knee, completely tense and ready to pounce again: a textbook action. I waved the two men away, and they ran like mad as far as I could see. Of course, I praised our girl to the skies, and my mother did the same when she came home.

It should be noted that at that time, Airedale Terriers were trained and used by the Austrian police as working dogs, and it seems something of that had been passed down through the generations. On the training ground, Lady refused to perform the protection exercises with the trainer: he was her friend and a friend of the family—why would she attack him? She would never have passed the protection dog test if a judge hadn’t played the attacker himself. But when she had to protect me, she put on a performance that would have done any police dog proud, even though she had never been trained for it. My parents trusted her blindly, and we children were allowed to go anywhere as long as we had Lady with us.

Lady accepted every creature we brought to her and cared for it lovingly, whether it was our tortoise, my chinchilla, or anything else—she was a loving guardian and protector. For us, she was a family member, first like a mother and then, as we grew up, like a sister.

As I said, she was a beautiful dog, and her breeder persuaded my parents to take her to dog shows, as it was good for the breeding evaluation. She won all the prizes—the judges were always enthusiastic about her. And we had our fun: when you walked slowly with her, she would let everything droop—ears, tail, head… a picture of gloom. But woe betide if she heard a camera shutter click! Then the gloomy misery transformed into a noble Lipizzaner: head held high, ears pricked, tail raised, and she would trot along like a manege star. She knew exactly what was expected of her!

Lady had friends and admirers. This had nothing to do with gender; they were simply friends who visited her daily. There was Troll, the neighbour, of course, then "Hatschi," the carpenter’s Rottweiler, and others. Hatschi always wanted to play and was insatiable. She made it clear when she’d had enough, but he wouldn’t understand. She solved the problem quite simply: when he charged at her again, she stuck out a shoulder and let him tumble over it. He somersaulted, and after landing, he shook his head and—finally—understood.

A good acquaintance of my mother’s, who occasionally visited with her giant schnauzer, observed this scene and then asked:

"Will you be angry if I say that your Lady is a little coquettish?"

My mother laughed and replied, "A little???"

Lady was a very self-confident lady!

When I was 18, Lady fell seriously ill—cancer, as usual—and had to be put to sleep. It took three injections before she finally drifted off; she couldn’t bear to leave us. For me, it was like losing a sister. I am now 77 years old, and the pain has not lessened.

Lady, you were special—a very special personality and the best friend—yes, sister!—one could have. Thank you.

Remembered in the year 2025