It was in 1948 when a relative mysteriously told me on the street, 'Your husband, bought you something nice.' And when I came home, my husband proudly showed me his acquisition: in the farthest corner under the stove sat a little black German Spitz. Today, I can say it: I was horrified when I saw her. But of course only internally, externally I acted enthusiastic, because my husband thought how big my joy must be.
This Spitz was a female dog whose pedigree name was "Berta von Hüllhorst" and whom I named "Lumpi". At first, it wasn't that easy for both of us. The four-month-old dog was shy and afraid and hid in the corners, and was very hungry on the first evening. And she didn't look pure at all with her crooked front legs, her head that seemed much too big to me and her almost bare backside. But lo and behold, a dog, a real dog with charm, emerged from the heap of misfortune. After camping in front of his master's bed for two nights, she slept in front of mine from the third night onwards. And she always went with me wherever I went. Even to the cinema. I think she was the only dog in Cologne that was allowed to do that. She was just very skittish, and breeders told me he would never get rid of that. If you were walking with her and a door slammed somewhere, she would jump off the sidewalk in terror.
One day, in 1951, my husband gave me a ride in the car. We drove back on the freeway and in the evening, in the Siegburg area, a cyclist suddenly appeared on the hard shoulder driving towards us. The headlights shone in his face until my husband dimmed - and I was surprised at the man because cycling on the highway is forbidden.
We stopped at a rest stop below Siegburg. I went a little way into the forest with Lumpi while my husband stayed by the car. We walked along a narrow path about 30 steps from the highway. Then my dog ran into the forest.
Suddenly a cyclist came towards me on this path. I recognized him immediately: it was the man from the highway. When he was just in front of me, he jumped off his bike. The light from his bike lights shone on me. The man, very friendly and submissive, asked me for directions to the next gas station. I said to him, "But that's where you came from" and I had a strange feeling of unrest within me. At that moment Lumpi came out of the bushes, stood next to me and looked intently and steadily at the man, showing her bare wolf teeth. I put Lumpi on a leash and we walked. The man retraced his steps.
It later turned out: the man was Prigan, the highway murderer Prigan. And surely only the appearance of the dog frightened and warned him. You see, that's my firm belief: That's the only reason I brought Lumpi into the house one day as a heap of bad luck, so that the animal would save me from a horrible death if I had a heart for her.
This touching story, which actually happened, shows that the German Spitz not only proves his loyalty in the form of affection, but also proves himself as a helper and protector in difficult situations. Lumpi's owner has this loyal black Giant Spitz to thank for not being one of the victims of this feared murderer.
Lumpi, who was at home in Cologne-Mülheim, died of poison at Christmas 1952. She was never forgotten by her mistress.
From "Hunde - Retter, Helfer, Spielgefährten - Sie suchen dein Herz", Neue Rhein-Zeitung from 23.10.1954