Chief, the Anatolian Shepherd Dog Diaries: The Car Park Showdown

by: Denise N. Fyffe

The moment we stepped out of the shelter doors, I inhaled like I was in a movie.

Fresh air. New beginnings. A whole new chapter in my life. I was glowing. Floating. Radiating purpose.

Little did I know the trials and tribulations were already jogging toward me in size‑12 paws.

We walked across the car park—me, my friend, and Chief, who strutted beside us like a calm, ancient monk. I was thinking, Yes, Lord. This is it. My Anatolian Shepherd dog. My blessing. My new life.

Then we reached the Fiat 500X.

I opened the back door with confidence. I smiled at him like a proud new mother. I gestured like a flight attendant welcoming a VIP passenger.

“Okay, Chief… get in.”

Chief looked at the open door.
Then he looked at me.
Then he looked at the door again.

And this 110‑pound guardian of livestock, protector of civilizations, descendant of warriors who fought lions…dropped his entire body weight to the asphalt like a sack of wet cement.

I blinked.
He blinked.
My friend whispered, “Oh… oh no.”

I tried coaxing.
I tried encouraging.
I tried praying.

“Chief, pumpkin, please… just get in the car.”

He said no.
Not verbally, but spiritually.
His soul said no.
His ancestors said no.
Every Anatolian Shepherd from 6,000 years of history said, Absolutely not, woman.

We tried lifting him.
He became heavier.
We tried nudging him.
He became flatter.
We tried reasoning with him.
He became more unreasonable.

At one point I thought, Maybe he misses his handler. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe he senses we’re unfamiliar. Maybe this is a sign from the Lord that I should’ve adopted a goldfish.

Then—because God has a sense of humor—a family pulled up right beside us.

A Caucasian mom and her 11‑year‑old son hopped out of their SUV. The boy pointed at Chief.

“Did you adopt him?”

I smiled like everything was fine.
Like I wasn’t in the middle of a spiritual battle with a 110‑lb land mammal.

“Yes,” I said sweetly. “We did.”

Chief, still pancaked to the ground, looked like he was auditioning for a crime scene chalk outline.

The boy nodded, impressed.
They walked inside.

The moment the door closed behind them, my friend whispered, “Alright. I’m doing it.”

Before I could protest, this man—this hero—grabbed Chief under the belly and deadlifted him like a CrossFit champion who had something to prove.

Chief’s face was priceless.
Offended.
Betrayed.
Confused.
Like, Sir, how dare you lift royalty?

After three attempts, one grunt, and a prayer, Chief was finally in the back seat.

We collapsed into the front seats, sweating, panting, and questioning our life choices.

But me?
I was excited.
This was it.
My first car ride as a dog mom.

“Petco first,” I declared. “We need food, a crate, a bed, a harness, a leash—everything.”

We started the engine.

And that’s when the real chaos began.

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Jamaica Pen Publishers, Maryland, United States.

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About the writer: Denise N. Fyffe is a published author of over 100 books, for more than fifteen years, and enjoys gardening, and volunteering. She is a trainer, publisher, author, and writing mentor, helping others to achieve their dreams. Denise is also Chief’s mom.