Serpico Wolfgang Krugel
"Serpico shoots straight from the heart. He brings new meaning to the term, “To Serve and To Protect.” Serpico tells his CHRONICLE of commitment, hope and loss in such believing detail that you may never look at your own pet in the same way again. Smart, witty and wildly entertaining, Serpico's aim is exceptional."
Duwayne Dunham
Director: “HOMEWARD BOUND THE INCREDIBLE JOURNEY.
“It is the ultimate satisfaction for me to be a part of the rehabilitation process and the outcome of balanced dogs like Serpico.”
Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer
Serpico Wolfgang Krugel is the author of The K-9 Chronicles – Book One. This is his first endeavor as a writer. He lives in Pasadena, California with his two brothers and sister, all working K-9s. After the “episode” that resulted in the amputation of his front leg and shoulder, Serpico not only recovered but now runs two miles every other day, trains at least once every week and has become an inspiration to his fellow K-9 Officers. Following in his paw prints, his brothers and sister are also writing their own special stories. Each story is heart-wrenching but yet inspirational—their words will “hug your soul from the inside out”.
www.thek-9chronicles.com
PROLOGUE
The Trip Over
Alan, if you sincerely are interested in knowing me, I’m going to give you the whole story. I may as well begin by telling you where I was born. I was born in Germany, though not one of those remarkable places such as Munich or Berlin, famous for its special drinks and fast-moving things that carried humans. No, I was born in a small town in southern Germany, famous only in certain circles for something that I didn’t really know about at the time.
I don’t remember much about my first few months of life, other than it was cold outside, the ground surrounding our little place was covered with something that was wet and white, and my brothers, sisters, and I huddled close to our mother to stay warm and dry. We spent those days mostly just sleeping and eating, rolling around, and fussing with each other, playfully batting at one another. My brothers and I competed fiercely to see who could act tough like our father. My sisters spent their days crying at each other, their heads slightly larger than mine and their pink tongues sharp. Yes, life was pleasant and predictable. Until, of course, the day everything changed. Yes, I remember that day very well.
It was still dark outside when we were taken away. Just like that, Mom and Dad weren’t with us anymore. It was as if they had just vanished—completely disappeared. (Every time I tell this part of the story, it still bothers me.) My three sisters, two brothers, and I were scooped up and put together into something very large—they called it a box—which was loaded into a huge metal container with wheels that soon began moving very fast down through the twisting roads with large rocks on both sides, away from the farm we had until then called home.
Though I was as frightened as my brothers, who cried in surprise at this turn of events, and my sisters, who whimpered and whined for our parents, for some reason I felt I needed to hold it together and keep them all calm until we figured out what was going on. I poked my head up to see if I could see anything, but unfortunately, the walls of the large thing we were put in were too high for me and I was too small to see anything. I lifted my nose high in the air, trying to sniff out any clue to what was happening. I smelled something I couldn’t quite make out, and it made me curious. I had to check this out.
I pushed myself over one of my brothers and climbed onto his back. At first he cried in surprise and, thinking I was starting one of our numerous wrestling matches, playfully pushed me away. Quickly I turned around and lunged at him, growling a bit and showing my tiny little fangs. I wasn’t really mad or anything, I just wanted him to know that this was no time for playing. He definitely got the message, because instead of crying out at my telling him off and plotting his revenge, as he would have done if we were back at the farm, he crouched down patiently, letting me stand on him to get a better look. I braced my front paws on the side of the box and stretched my little body as high as it could go.
I was able to get one eye over the top of the box, just in time to note that the very large trees, wooded paths, and large white rocks I used to see surrounding our farm had given way to wide, hard roads lined with tall rock towers with openings in them. There were more metal boxes that were moving quickly and humans everywhere. And the noise! Sounds were coming out of everything and from everywhere—a nonstop humming sound coming out of the containers with wheels, and every so often an angry noise would shout out from them (I later learned it was called a horn), and there were humans talking—you couldn’t even hear my sisters whimpering anymore because of all the sounds.
