Buzz again. I’ve been going through some of the pup’s blogs and made notes – typical of his slapdash ways, he’s mentioned a few items and then never gotten back to them. For instance, his puppy days. And the construction site next door (nothing I’d write home about but apparently for him it’s noteworthy), and then of course my own stories, which I’ve asked him to include, and he says he will. I don’t doubt his sincerity, but A Dog Has Doubts, if you get my drift. If you don’t understand, contact me personally and I’ll happily talk off the record.
I figure I’m the better one to tell about how the whippersnapper came to live with us. His memory is fuzzy when it comes to that. It all started for me, J likes to say, with an outhouse. I know, I know…but that’s what she says. When JK first got their cabin, which has an outhouse, J realized that although it was kind of a hassle to go outside to go outside, so to speak; and even though it was chilly, she loved the feeling of being outdoors first thing every day in the early morning hours. She realized that when you have no choice in the matter, you just do your thing. As if I or any other housebroken dog couldn’t have told her this a thousand times—and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, believe me. K looked at her in that certain way he does now and then, one that I have come to recognize as “I’m listening but not sure why you’re telling me this.” I looked at both of them and thought, not for the first time, humans are crazy.
So how does POINT A, Outhouse, lead to Point B, Pup? Well, J made a vow after they got back from Montana that year, I think it was 2008, that she would get outside every morning first thing for a walk – and that I had to come along. “Hop on out of there, Buzzie.” Leash with my collar attached, tags jingling. “You’ll feel better, too.” I stared up at her from my bed. My warm soft soothing bed, my little fortress under the kitchen desk. My fuzzy mattress and my tiny camo comforter, bunched into a perfect pillow against the woven sides. Leave this? I think not.
So we started walking. When The Big She decides I’m going to do something with her, there is no alternative choice. Macy and Hank call her the “Dog Nazi”. It’s hard to dispute that term, I have to say. But I’m used to JK and their ways, and I can’t say my life hasn’t been pretty darn good, all fourteen years and counting. Plus… I have to admit, walking for the most part was OK. Because soon we started meeting people and dogs and I was allowed off the leash and of course I never ran away, I never even thought about it. What I do like to do is lag waaaaaaay behind, in the hopes that no one will notice, then when they turn around to come back, I’m way ahead. K calls it my “Boston Marathon Cheater Winner” strategy. I say I’m doing my part to conserve energy.
One day in January 2010, J and I were walking down our street toward Sailview St. when a little black and white dog came rocketing by. Then he turned around and came running back, ridiculously joyful and (in my mind) a little manic. He had on a collar, but no tags. J of course had to pet him like she pets all dogs, and he gave me a very excited greeting, licking and jumping – I got a little growly; that kind of behavior is just not done in my circles. Then off he went, right into the middle of the street, dancing and prancing, running as though ghosts were chasing him. Once he looked back at us, staring J right in the eyes. J swears to this day that he said, “Help me, help me” in that look. “What in the world...? Hey!” J called to a man ahead of us, “Is that your dog?” The man ignored us- it wasn't his dog- and the black and white puppy raced between two houses, and disappeared. We looked for it briefly, then to my great relief, we headed home.
Later that day, J told K all about the pup. “He was completely adorable. I’ve never really seen a dog like it. He looked like a Jack Russell, but not. I just can’t figure out who he belongs to. I hope he’s not lost. He had no tags. I just can’t forget that look.” Looked like a Jack Russell? I had to stifle a snort. Oh, hey, and while you’re at it, don’t forget to pet the German Shepherd you’ve got down here under the desk.
A month or so went by. J mentioned the little black and white dog more often than I felt was necessary. Then all of a sudden, one day when we were just getting back from our walk, who races across our lawn, but the black and white puppy. “Hey!” Jen held out her hand. “Come here, cutie.” The pup ran up to her. J took off my leash and snapped it onto his collar (still no tags); and outside of a rodeo featuring the famous bull Little Yellow Jacket out of North Dakota, you have never seen such bucking and fighting as that pup put up at the end of that rope. I’m surprised he didn’t choke to death right there.
Well, that day, (with no breakfast inside me, by the way) we walked all over the neighborhood, asking if the black and white pup belonged to them. No one knew anything. For two hours we searched. Betty and Hank joined us. Other people came out and made a fuss of the black and white puppy. What is it about him, he attracts women like flies. I just hung out and thought about a certain little white dish with a bone painted on the bottom, a bone I hoped to lick to see again in this lifetime. The pup bucked and jumped and whined and yelped – I have never seen such a display. Disgusting, really. J had to drag him along. On my leash! I trotted along with my head held high, ignoring the pup and basically just trying to maintain some dignity in the face of this spectacle.
Long story short, J finally just brought him home and put him in the back yard, inside the fence. He refused to even come close to the house. Everytime she opened the door to invite him in, he bolted for the other end of the yard, circling like a coyote around a rabbit and avoiding all contact. I tried to tell him he could trust J, but he was having none of it. Finally J gave up, went upstairs and got K. Still no breakfast for me, and it was after 10 AM and we were cold, too. That day is etched in my mind. I got breakfast three hours late!!! Here's a picture of how he looked back then. J got this from the pup's ex. Jack Russell, my water dish. Maybe some diluted blood.... But no JRT has legs like that, or feet like dinner plates. Did someone mention dinner?
Oh man. This is hard work. And writing about food is making me hungry even though there's a few hours til breakfast. I’ll write the second half tomorrow. A camo comforter is calling, calling.zzzzzzzzzz
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