We played in the back yard, secure inside of our chain link fence. Running, fetching, tripping over each other. At least that’s how it was in my 4- or 5-year old mind.
Until one day, someone stole poor Spot from our back
yard. And I was sad.
Imagine my surprise, when just a year or so ago, my mom told
me Spot wasn’t a Dalmatian at all.
Rather, he was some form of yippy little terrier!
My whole life feels like a lie.
After we moved to the suburbs, Dad brought home a miniature
poodle.
Napoleon was such a good boy. He was tolerant, allowing my sister and I to
dress him up. He’s a dog – I don’t guess
he had much choice.
And when his hair grew out, he was raggedy and scruffy. Until my dad got hold of him with the
clippers. I'm not sure what he looked like after that, but it certainly wasn't a poodle!
His looks didn’t appear to be a problem as he found a
suitable mate in our next-door neighbor’s dog, Coco. A wired-hair terrier mix.
If I remember correctly, they produced a
couple of litters and we took one of the pups as our own. Brandy was an odd-looking mix of his Mom
& Dad, but oh, how I loved that little guy!
We lived in a neighborhood that didn’t require fences. Nor was there a leash law at the time. And one day, father and son went to explore (get
it? Napoleon). A neighbor saw them wandering down
their street. Sadly, they were never to
be seen again.
Sometime after Napoleon & Brandy went MIA, my parents
decided it was time for yet another four-legged family member. They brought home the most adorable,
big-eared beagle you’ve ever seen.
We
picked a name suitable for those ears, which he would one day grow into: Dudley.
I was in high school by then and only had a few years with
Dudley before leaving for college.
Dudley was there to welcome me home when I returned with my six-month old son in tow.
In his golden years, Dudley adapted to a tiny toddler
pulling at his ears. And he romped with
Evan, as much as his stout little body would allow.
When Evan and I moved, our new home felt a little
empty. Until we found a suitable breeder.
Evan sat on the floor amongst the grumble of Pug
puppies. And one particular little pup
kept crawling into his lap. Obviously,
this little guy chose us as his family.
We had a number of possible names picked out. Among them were
- Zeus (because that’s an awesome name for a pug!),
- Zuko (because “Grease” was such a fun movie!) and
- Dawson (because we had seen the movie “Titanic” no less than 9 times – my young son so fascinated with the story of an unsinkable ship … or was it the infamous ‘couch scene’? hmmm ….)
Once the puppy had picked us, now it was time to pick his
name. Evan ran through the list, calling
him by each of the 12 names on our list.
But the one (and only) name he responded to was Dawson.
Dawson was such a special dog. He was one of those dogs that people were
drawn to. His personality was demanding,
but cuddly. Playful, yet stubborn. He oozed a “Look at how cute I am! Don’t you want to pet me?" kind of vibe.
Of course, he had a favorite toy: a purple pig. A pug and his pig. He played with it for hours. As he grew older, tug-of-war became a favorite. Every Christmas, Santa would put a
bungee-type tug-toy in Dawson’s stocking.
Just in time too – because the previous year’s stocking stuffer was just
about bungee’d out.
His smush-face and big brown eyes, while ugly to others,
were what drew us to the breed. But as a
result of his shortened nasal passages, he snorted. A lot.
And snored. A WHOLE lot. Oh my goodness, that dog could snore! I mean … from his bed in the kitchen, you
could hear him from every other room in the house!
Ear plugs were my friend!
And he got the zoomies.
Frequently. I could never quite
figure out what prompted them, but it brought us a great amount of laughter as
he soared from one room to the next, round and round in circles throughout the
living room. His tail tucked between his
legs, his snorts louder and louder with each pass.
Until … he decided that was enough for one day and
collapsed. Immediately falling asleep. And snoring.
And then there was the appetite! If you’re unfamiliar with pugs, the term ‘voracious’
is an inadequate way to describe their appetites. Dawson loved to eat! Anything and everything. Except broccoli. He refused broccoli.
He loved to play with balloons – chasing them around the
house, barking at them. And when they
popped, he ate those too! Oh, how we laughed at the thought of him farting (he
did that a lot too!) and floating skyward as a result.
He and Evan grew up together. A boy and his pug.
When Evan went away to college, it was just me and Dawson. He was my snuggle-buddy and most evenings
would find us on the couch, falling asleep together; his snoring providing a rhythmic cadence, which I now found completely soothing.
As the years went by, gray infiltrated Dawson’s mask, and I
knew it was going to be important for me to have a constant companion once
Dawson crossed the rainbow bridge (me being a single mom and now empty-nester).
Additionally, I had heard that an older dog
will help train a new one; teach them the ways of the world, and more
importantly, how to train mom.
Having long-tired of the annual shed-fest that was Dawson (let’s
just say I know how the bearded lady felt!), I decided I wanted a hypoallergenic
dog. One whose hair would stay attached
to his body.
I couldn't get away from the smuch-face, though!
So when the parents of a friend of mine had a litter of
shih tzus available, I “baby sat” one of them for the weekend. I'm still baby-sitting
him today!
They named him Snoopy because they found throughout his
first five months, that he was the most curious of little things.
Because I’m a Disney lover (It Was All Started by a Mouse), I wanted him to
have a Disney name. But not one that was
too obvious.
A co-worker told me about a mouse (puppet) that used to
appear on The Ed Sullivan Show long before my time; his name: Topogigio.
Obviously, something Italian.
Topolino
is Italian. That’s what the Italians
call Mickey Mouse! We call him Topo for short.
Dawson accepted Topo.
Kinda. The furry little puppy who
chewed on his ears. And tugged at his
curly tail. The two of them bonding.
Not that they had a choice, given that they were crated together in a sizable crate whilst I worked.
When Keith entered the picture, Dawson was beginning to eye
the rainbow bridge curiously. Keith’s
daughter, Courtney, told me she knew I was “the one” when her dad waited patiently
as Dawson emptied his bladder onto Keith’s Berber carpet. And then cleaned it up without complaint.
I asked my vet how I would know. When it was time to let the goodest boy go. The vet simply said “You’ll see it in his
eyes. The look that says, ‘Mom, you
gotta help me out here!’”
And so it happened that Dawson’s eyes pleaded with me. To help him out. He needed our assistance to get in and out of
the house to do his business, when he was able to hold his business long enough
to go outside.
When he refused his food, I knew I couldn’t put off the
inevitable.
Once the decision was made, Evan came over for one last
visit. One last day for the boy and his
pug. And he cried. We all did.
I was devastated when the vet’s office called to schedule
the appointment. I was in the middle of
a meeting at work and my co-workers politely left the room to give me a
moment. My heart was broken.
I knew I had to be there as Dawson went to sleep for the
final time. How could I not? The little pug with the big brown eyes and
the cutest, curliest tail, who had brought us so much joy. He lay on the table looking at me. While Keith comforted me, I comforted Dawson. I petted his head. I told him how very much I loved him. And what a good boy he had been.
And then he rested. Peacefully.
Keith took him back to San Antonio and buried him in the flower
bed in the front yard. He carved a headstone for him. And I visit him often.
Now an only dog, Topo looked for Dawson for several
days. Before realizing he wasn’t coming
home.
He’s a sensitive and compassionate little thing. Topo is quick to jump into your lap if you’re
feeling ill and has stayed in my lap all night long following surgery, his
presence lulling me to sleep (or maybe that was the drugs.)
But his sensibilities don’t stop there. If you’re feeling a little down, he’ll curl
up on your lap. His soft fur and gentle
breathing, comforting in a way you didn’t know you needed.
He’s still curious. New
furniture – sniff. Something new gets
added to the back yard – sniff. A stray
cat wanders into the back yard – sniff.
New people come into the house – sniff.
No, wait. Jump – then sniff. Perhaps I should’ve kept the name “Snoopy”.
When our pumpkin-girl, our first grandchild, was born, he clambered
onto each of us, my husband and I, after we returned from the hospital. He sniffed us from shoulder to toe. This glorious scent that only newborn babies provide. Sensing this new human being.
His human.
The first time her parents brought her to our home, he sniffed
her all over and promptly placed himself next to her carrier, lest any of us
try something suspicious. While she naps, he curls up next to her.
He tolerated her
as she learned that she could move her arms and her hands could grasp
things. Including tufts of his hair. And his ears! Turnabout is fair play.
He has served as a tug-toy and throw rug for our other
grandchildren as well. Our man-cub loves to snuggle him. Our youngest, one-year
old “Bean”, loves to pet him, and lately, kiss him. And he kisses back.
As he ages, he’s more skittish than before. He hates fireworks and he hates change.
When we bought Plan B (We Be Trippin'), I bought
a set of collapsible dog bowls. Topo
refused to eat out of the new, brightly-colored bowls and required us
(read: trained us) to hand-feed
him. That nonsense lasted for three trips! Enough is enough!
I brought the food bowl into the house in hopes he would get used to
it. And guess what? He’s again
eating on his own. Out of the
brightly-colored collapsible bowl.
A few years ago, Keith and I were out running errands. It was 4:00 on a Saturday. We passed a Petco with a sign out front that
read “Pet Adoptions Today!” On a whim,
we stopped in to see the pups. Knowing
full well that the picks of the litter would be gone, considering the late
hour.
Standing at the door, alongside his foster mom, was the
cutest, furriest little guy. And when
she picked him up so we could get a closer look without getting on ground level
(we’re old – it’s difficult to do that kind of stuff!), he just melted into
her.
And our hearts melted.
Much to my surprise, Keith asked, “Do you want to take him
home?” How could I say no? How could anyone say no to this precious little underbite?
The rescue told us they believed he was a shih-tzu
mix. We heard: “He won’t shed!” Yea!
As we drove home, I began to wrinkle my nose. I rolled down the window. Then Keith, wrinkling his nose, rolled his
window down. For as cute as he was, our
newest fur baby STUNK. Badly. Very badly.
We named him Bentley.
For no other reason than we liked the name.
Topo, having gotten used to being the pack leader in his
pack of one, had one response to this new, furry and very stinky being. Sniff.
And he wrinkled his nose.
Bentley quickly assimilated to our home. He was obviously very well-trained. Having few accidents and walking well on a
leash.
When you can get him to walk.
He firmly planted himself in the middle of the living
room. And stayed there. And snored.
He quickly and justifiably earned the nickname, “slug”. That dog is the laziest thing either of us
have ever seen.
When Topo tries to get him to play, Bentley looks at Topo as
if he’s grown a second tail. And turns
his head. Almost as if to say “if I can’t
see you, you can’t see me.”
Topo
proceeds to bark incessantly, praying on Bentley’s sensibilities. Until Bentley chimes in with his own
barking. Before we know it, we have a cacophony
of howling that reverberates throughout the house.
We’re sure our neighbors probably don’t appreciate it
either.
We’re not totally convinced of Bentley’s breed. He’s barrel-chested (like a pug). With short, squatty legs (like a pug). His tail, curly (like a pug). But his hair, thick and curly, with a wiry beard (unlike
a pug). For the longest time, we
designated him a pug-tzu.
Our curiosity got the best of us and we decided to do a
doggie DNA test. We should’ve known better than to trust the results when the questionnaire asked us what breed we thought he
was. My, my, my. Whaddya know?
The DNA results showed 75% shih-tzu.
Further, they don’t test for the other 25% when the dog shows 75% or
more of one breed. Yeah … we smell a scam
too.
Not too long ago, I happened upon a picture of an
Affenpinscher (nope! never heard of that breed before either!) I swear, it was like looking at a picture of
our dear Bentley.
 |
| Affenpinscher on the left, Bentley on the right. You be the judge. |
After a couple of years and over a thousand dollars
trying to determine the cause of and treat poor Bentley’s stench (including
allergy testing – I guess we ARE those type of pet parents!), we found out that he does indeed have severe allergies.
To dust mites. DUST MITES.
A veterinarian friend suggested a certain type of
medicine. Our vet balked at the idea (he
still had several other treatments he wanted to try before trying this med, i.e.,
he was aiming to buy a new Benz). I put my
foot down.
The meds, in combination with a ridiculously-expensive shampoo, have helped Bentley immensely. The
yeasty-beasties, crusty skin, and prevalent ear infections have ceased. Thank goodness!!!
Bentley, much like his pug predecessor, LOVES food.
At 5:00 every day, he stares at whichever of us is sitting
down and will pay attention. Because
5:00 is suppertime. Can you say “internal
clock”? On our first outing in Plan B, we left the dogs in the RV (with the A/C running, of course!) and went to the beach. We returned to find the kitchen trash can emptied of its contents. The contents of which were the garbage bag and the remaining roll of garbage bags which I had placed in the bottom of the can. The bags strewn about the trailer.
We’re no fools. We
know who we’re dealing with. We emptied
the trash before we left!
In all likelihood, this was Bentley’s response to having
recently been placed on a diet. We used
to put out a cup of food each morning (one bowl), leaving the dogs to fill
their bellies as they saw fit. Well …
that apparently equated to Bentley filling his belly and leaving poor Topo, just
the crumbs. (Kidding! There were a few pieces of kibble for Topo!)
Our vet finally put her foot down and said we had to do
something. Bentley’s weight was out of
control.
So now, we limit the amount of food they get. And feed them one at a time. Topo being Topo, was suspicious of this new
arrangement and refused to eat. Thinking
he was missing out on all the fun we were having without him. You know, like watching Bentley lay in the
middle of the living room floor.
He’s gotten the hang of it now, though. Bentley has lost at least four pounds. And Topo, who has always been skin and bones,
found them! That’s called a win-win!
Since Bentley has joined our crew, he’s become the
snuggle-bug and Topo is somewhat stand-offish.
Oh, we try to cuddle him, we do!
But when your dog stiff-arms you time and again, you kinda get the hint.
Topo will, however, snuggle with Evan. That’s his boy. And his
pumpkin-girl. His. Pumpkin. Girl.
When Keith and I traveled pre-Covid, we’d leave the furballs
in the care of Keith’s daughter and her family.
Her husband or pumpkin-girl would take up the charge of hand-feeding Topo (because … change). And we missed them!
(we missed the kids and the grands, too!)
When we were home and before we could pick them up, the
house felt empty. Quiet. Lonely.
Even though Keith and I were together. With Plan B, they can go with us.
And their presence fills the RV with warmth. And comfort.
It feels like home.
That’s why they call it puppy love.
