We went through the rest of the winter like this, as well as the following spring and summer. One day Buddy just seemed to vanish. No more sightings, no more concerned calls about him. I continued to think about him, fearing the worst: that he had been hit by a car and was no longer alive.
That fall, however, I received a call about a black dog standing by the road close to the field where I had first seen Buddy. I couldn’t believe it. It had been seven months since I had last seen him, but I immediately hopped into my truck and drove to the area. There, standing by the road, was my friend Buddy. He looked just as he had the last time I saw him. I stopped my truck and got out. I tried to approach him, but as usual he started backing up and barking at me. This time, however, when I turned to walk away, instead of turning and running, he just sat down. He was letting me get closer.
We started the game all over again. I kept leaving treats for him in the same spot. This went on for months until one day he did something he hadn’t done before—he slept next to the spot where I had been leaving his treats. I decided I would leave a live trap for him on that spot along with some barbecued pork. When I went back first thing the next morning, it looked like he’d tried to get the food out by digging around the trap, but he was nowhere to be seen.
I tried again the next night. This time I put a slice of pizza in the trap, hoping it would do the trick. I couldn’t sleep that night and rose early to go check the cage. It was still dark out, and as I approached I heard Buddy bark. I figured he had heard me and was already retreating, but as I squinted my eyes I could make out the outline of a black dog caught in the cage of the live trap. Overwhelmed with relief and joy, I started to cry. Then I called my wife. “I got Buddy,” I told her. “I got him!”
Buddy growled at me as I loaded the cage into my truck and drove to the Animal Rescue League. As I drove in, Janet was just coming into work. I yelled to her, “You are never going to guess who I’ve got!”
Janet replied, “Buddy?” and started to cry.
9
DOGGONE WONDERFUL!
My idea of good poetry is any dog doing anything.
J. Allen Boone
“Do it again! Make her talk in that goofy high voice.”
©2002 Pat Byrnes. Reprinted by permission of Pat Byrnes.
Canine Compassion
A rather unusual overnight guest stayed at our home recently. When I was asked to provide overnight accommodations for a rescued dog being transported to her new home in Boston, I readily agreed. Though I was a tad worried that my own two dogs might not like this new intruder in our home, I wanted to help and figured I could manage if it became a problem.
The visiting dog’s name was Meadow, and she was an extremely sweet old canine soul. She had been rescued from an abusive animal-hoarding situation, and a kindhearted person had agreed to adopt her, even though she was a special-needs dog. Poor Meadow had suffered some type of severe head trauma before being rescued, andwhen our guest arrived at my front door that afternoon, her acute neurological ailment was painfully obvious. She teetered precariously on four wobbly thin legs, and her aged, furry brown face incessantly wobbled back and forth, as if she were suffering from Parkinson’s disease. Immediately, I thought of the great actress, Katharine Hepburn, who had also suffered from Parkinson’s. Katharine Hepburn had not allowed her illness to get the better of her, and obviously, neither had this sweet old girl.
As Meadow gamely tottered into my unfamiliar living room, she heard my two dogs growling, snarling and scratching incessantly at the inside of the closed bedroom door upstairs. Stopping, she peered nervously in that direction. I was afraid that the getting-acquainted canine ritual that was coming might be extremely painful for our already stressed overnight visitor. While I contemplated the best method to introduce my two dogs to our special guest, they somehow managed to pry open the bedroom door themselves. Before I could stop them, they both came charging down the steps with only one thought in their collective canine minds: the urgent need to rid their home of this unwanted intruder. But then, instead of witnessing a vicious canine attack, I witnessed something truly remarkable.
Suddenly, both my dogs stopped in their tracks on the long wooden stairway and gazed wide-eyed at the quivering, wobbly-kneed stranger below. Instantly, they instinctively knew that this new guest of ours was not a threat to anyone. They came down the stairs and stood looking at the unfamiliar dog. Blanca, my tiny female Chihuahua/spitz mix, who can be quite mean to other female dogs at times, approached Meadow first. She slowly walked up to our elderly visitor, sniffed her and quickly planted an affectionate kiss of greeting on Meadow’s tremulous left cheek. I was immediately reminded of the kisses I, as a child, had lovingly set on my aged grandmother’s quivering cheek so many years ago. My large male dog, Turbo, soon followed suit—although his wet slobbery kisses on Meadow’s chin were much more exuberant than Blanca’s had been. After all, our overnight guest was a female. I was delighted that my dogs had so readily accepted our guest, and I felt a little sheepish that I had been so worried about it.
Soon it was afternoon nap time, that part of the day when both my dogs always find a comfortable piece of furniture to do their snoozing on. Today, however, they had other plans. They both had watched in silence as Meadow wearily plopped down on the blanket I’d set out for her on our cold living-room floor. They seemed to know that our special guest could not crawl up onto any comfortable bed or sofa as they so easily could. To my utter amazement, my two pampered pooches immediately plopped down on the blanket next to her, one on each side. And soon three tired, newly acquainted canine comradeswere dognapping and snoring away onmy living-room floor—together.
I was extremely proud of my two lovable mutts that afternoon, but there was more to come.
When bedtime finally arrived, my two dogs sped upstairs to their usual cozy spots in our bedroom: Blanca perched next to my pillow, Turbo at my wife’s feet, gently mouthing and licking his beloved teddy bear, just as he does each and every evening before falling fast asleep. As I was about to crawl into bed myself, Turbo suddenly jumped off the bed with his teddy in his mouth. Curious, I followed him out of the bedroom.
There he stood in the dark, at the top of the long staircase, silently gazing down at our overnight guest below. After several seconds Turbo silently carried his favorite teddy bear down that long flight of stairs. He slowly approached Meadow and then gingerly dropped his prized possession next to Meadow’s head, as if to say, This teddy comforts me at night; I hope it does the same for you.
Our canine guest seemed to sense how truly grand a gesture this was on Turbo’s part. She immediately snorted her thanks and then, quickly placing her wobbly head on the teddy bear’s plush softness, she let out a loud contented sigh. As my generous pup turned to head back upstairs to bed, he stopped abruptly, turned around and looked back at Meadow once more. Then he walked back to her and plopped down on the floor at her side. My gallant Turbo spent the entire night huddled there with Meadow on the cold living-room floor. I know that our overnight visitor, somewhat stressed and frightened in yet another strange new place, must have been extremely grateful for both his noble gift and for his comforting overnight company.
The next morning, as we all watched Miss Meadow happily departing in her new loving owner’s car, I bent down and gave each of my dogs a big hug. Why had I ever doubted their canine compassion? I knew better now.
Ed Kostro
Busted!
Our beagle, Samantha, was a real clown. She kept us laughing all the time, making it hard to scold her when she got into mischief. That dog had us wrapped around her finger—or should I say paw?
Samantha was really my husband Al’s dog, or more accurately, he was her human. I was the one who fed her, walked her and took care of her, but as far as Samantha was concerned, the sun rose and set on Al. She adored him. The feeling was mutual; when she gave him that soft beagle “googly-eyed look,” he melted.
We lived in a place called Yel
lowknife in the Northwest Territories, three hundred miles from the Arctic Circle. Al was in the army and away a lot. I managed on my own and was thankful for good friends, an enjoyable working environment and, especially, Samantha to keep me warm at night. She would crawl under the blankets and curl around my feet—what bliss.
It had been a long arctic winter and Samantha had waited patiently for the sunshine and warm weather to come and was raring to get out and about. A typical hound, she loved running, chasing rabbits and squirrels, and swimming in the lake. When the first warm day of spring finally arrived that year and we went out for a walk, in her exuberance, Samantha overdid it—running at top speed over the rocks that are the landscape in Yellowknife. By the time we reached the house, she was limping quite pronouncedly and appeared to be in significant pain. Her injury was diagnosed as sprained ligaments, and she was ordered to keep still: no running for several weeks. It was not welcome news for this beagle. Now she was confined to the porch while I was away at work, and then took short, quiet walks on a leash when I was home. As the weeks passed, her limp slowly but surely diminished; I was pleased with her progress.
During that period, Al was away from Monday to Friday. On his return Friday evenings, there were hugs and kisses all around, and Samantha would be plastered to his lap. She followed him everywhere all weekend, lapping up the attention she received because of her “hurtie.” It was clear to me that her limp became even more pronounced when Al was home.
By the end of the summer her leg was all healed and she was back to normal. She ran and played and chased her ball for hours on end—during the week. When Al came home, her hurtie mysteriously came back, and she was placed on the sofa for the weekend with lots of hugs, a blanket and treats.
I told Al that this was just an act for his attention. “Of course it isn’t,” he said. “Can’t you see her leg is still bothering her? How come it’s not healing like the vet said it would?”
I sighed but let it drop.
The following weekend when Al returned, Samantha’s limp was as bad as ever. Friday and Saturday, Al pampered his little injured princess while I tried not to roll my eyes.
Like most people, Al and I love to sleep in and snuggle on Sunday morning. We chat about the events of the past week, reload our coffee cups, chat some more, nap and generally laze around. Samantha lies at the bottom of the bed enjoying this special time as well. Eventually, we get up, shower and head to the kitchen to start making breakfast. It was our routine to cook an egg for Samantha, too. She usually waited on the bed until it was ready and we called her to come and eat. That morning when breakfast was ready, Al started down the hall, intending to lift Samantha off the bed and carry her into the kitchen because of her hurtie.
“No,” I told him. “Stand where she can’t see you and watch what happens next.”
I called Samantha. We heard her jump off the bed and run down the hall. She was running like there was no tomorrow, and surprise, no hurtie—until she saw Al. She stopped on a dime and immediately began limping. We watched as she took a few steps. You could see the wheels turning in her beagle brain: Was it this leg or the other? Then she started limping on the other leg. Caught in the act!
Al and I laughed, both at Samantha and at each other, over what we called the Academy Award performance of the summer. In Hollywood, Samantha would have been given an award for “Best Actress in a Leading Role.” Instead, we wrote, “The Best Beagle in the Northwest Territories Award” on a piece of paper and gave it to her. She seemed so proud of her performance and the award. Actually, we knew that she was the only beagle in the Northwest Territories, but we didn’t tell her—we didn’t want to spoil the magic.
Lynn Alcock
Pudgy
In 1975 my grandparents brought home a new pup and named him Pudgy. This came as no surprise since they always named their dogs Pudgy. In the course of their extremely long lifetimes, my grandparents must have had a dozen or more dogs named Pudgy.
At the time, Grandpa was ninety-two and Grandma was eighty-nine, and they had been married since she was thirteen. That seems shocking today, but it was quite ordinary in the small village on the Polish border where they were born, met and fell in love in the late 1800s. They emigrated to the United States and made a life together that lasted through the coming of the first automobiles, the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, four wars— and many Pudgys.
When anyone asked Grandpa why Pudgy was the only name he would ever give to his dog, he answered, “He’s the same dog, come back.”
Relatives told him that was crazy and that he should give new dogs new names, but he always stood firm. Rather than debate the issue, people simply accepted that “Pudgy” was Grandpa’s dog.
Each Pudgy was about the size of a fox terrier and white with black spots or patches. For the little kids in the family, like me, who lived in other states and traveled across the country to visit them in their big old brownstone in Chicago, using the same name for each dog did make it a lot easier to remember. And many of us believed it was the same dog, although I did wonder once why the Pudgy I saw when I visited them in 1949, 1950 and 1951 had shaggy, floppy ears and the Pudgy I played with over Easter vacation in 1952 had short, pointed ones. Since the Pudgy of 1952 was still black and white and about the same size, I simply assumed my grandfather was telling the truth when he told me that the dog had accidentally stuck his tail in a light socket and his ears had shot straight up and had never gone down again. It didn’t explain where all the shaggy hair on his ears had gone, but at seven, I simply decided the electricity must have burned it off.
Looking at an old family album with photos from the various decades, one could see the dog change a little in height and definitely in bone structure. He went from having a long, slim nose to a short, puglike one and then back to something in between. In some photos he had curly hair; in others, smooth. One decade he had small black spots on the white coat; and the next, large, pinto-pony-type patches. One time he had no tail at all. It didn’t matter: he was always Pudgy.
This last Pudgy was a short-legged, potbellied pup, a mixture of too many breeds to try to put a finger on any dominant one. He was the first “Pudgy” that really looked as if the name belonged.
About two weeks after the pup arrived at the house, Grandpa decided it was time to take him on his first walk. Grandpa was a great walker, and even in his nineties, he did a good two miles several times a week. His favorite destination was the park, a great place to let his dog run after a nice long walk down the busy city streets. He could sit and talk with his friends while their dogs romped together. That day, when Grandpa didn’t come back at his usual time, Grandma simply thought he was spending more time at the park with his friends, showing off the new pup. Then she heard yapping at the front door. She opened it and there was the pup, leash dragging behind him. A panting boy ran up to the door. He’d been chasing the pup all the way to the house. Grandpa had been hit by a car!
The rescue unit that had come to his aid found no identification on him—only the pup, licking the unconscious man’s face. They had taken Grandpa to the general hospital. But when they’d tried to grab the pup, he’d run away. The boy followed him over a mile and a half back to the house. How could this pup, who had only lived in the house only two weeks and had never been out walking in the city, have made a beeline right back to the front porch? It amazed everyone.
Grandpa had been admitted to the hospital as a John Doe and did not regain consciousness for several days. Thanks to Pudgy, Grandma was able to go immediately to see Grandpa and ensure that he received the best care possible instead of being relegated to languish in the charity ward until relatives could be found and notified.
Within two months Grandpa was back walking with Pudgy and sharing with his friends at the park the story of how his Pudgy brought help when it was needed themost. Of course, the story grew in heroic proportions every time it was told, but nobody seemed to mind. One thing was certain: nobody ever again
contradicted Grandpa when he told them that Pudgy was, “The same dog, come back.”
Joyce Laird
Felix, the Firehouse Dog
Firefighters everywhere love telling stories—and some of their favorites are about that select group of firefighters who are on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year: the firehouse dogs. One such dog, Felix, who lived in the first half of the twentieth century, remains a demigod among his firehouse brethren and stands alone as the dog that most influenced the Chicago Fire Department.
Felix was the Babe Ruth of Chicago firedogs. One of the earliest and most legendary firehouse dogs, he was a part of an elite group that went on every call, followed his crew into fires and rescued lives. This common street mongrel inspired memorials, remembrances and, eventually, television specials for more than a half century after his death. His firefighting colleagues truly considered Felix one of their own: a full-fledged Chicago fireman. The people in his neighborhood adored him as well. Loud cheers for Felix could be heard whenever Engine 25 rushed down a street.
Felix was born in 1910. How he arrived at Engine 25 will forever be in dispute. Some say Felix was among a litter of seven abandoned puppies donated to a local tavern that later gave one of the puppies to a firefighter. One woman distinctly remembers an injured dog wandering into her father’s local coal office, which later donated the dog to Engine 25. Or perhaps Felix was simply another stray dog that found his way into one of Chicago’s firehouses.