Bouncing Buddy
I was never a pet person, but as life has progressed I have changed…somewhat. I do give my $19/mo to the ASPCA, but I am forever reminding Kim that the same gift of $19/mo to Save The Children seems more important. We had a dog when I was a kid, but it was really my sister’s dog and was cared for mostly by my farm-strong mother. I will not mention his name in this blog story because we all know “Name of your first pet” is a password security question we all must hold close to the vest. My recollection of him had little to do with playfulness or cuddling, but rather about annoyance at having to get him indoors when I wanted to play ball (he would grab the ball, run away and hide it in some place we never found). I have a small scar on my hand from when he scratched me while I was trying to get him inside once. So, I did not start life as a pet person.
Kim has made me a pet person, or more specifically a dog person. I am still mostly against cats even though I like Jeff & Lisa’s soft grey cat, Jake, mostly because he seems to like me. Kim’s heart belongs to Cecil, her first dog as an adult. She asked me to write a book about Cecil with the title of Eat, Play, Poop, which was pretty much all that Cecil did, and I did just that. That book is not only a memorial to Cecil, it is somewhat a record of my transformation to liking having a dog.
None of my three children grew up with a dog and I think it’s fair to say that two of them (Carolyn and Thomas) always hankered for one. They now each have a dog with Carolyn having a 10-year-old black and white Havanese named Abraham Lincoln (a.k.a. Abe, his name chosen by her hubby, John) and Thomas having a Yoda-look-alike mutt named Hank (the name was chosen by his wife, Jenna). My oldest son, Roger, who was always quite outspokenly anti-dog (he may not admit it, but he was pretty scared of big dogs, much like I was in my youth), even got a dog to appease his lovely wife, Valene. Valene was into long-haired dachshunds , so that’s what joined their family in the form of blonde-haired Pudding. So, Abe, Hank and Pudding are fixtures in the next generation’s daily lifestyle. We all share pictures and comments about our respective dogs and it is a nice common bond, one that I would never have imagined, but am glad to have.
Kim and I have now gone through Cecil and Betty and as different as they were (even though they were both small, white, hypo-allergenic pups) they were a central theme in our life together. I feel that as much as my life is added to by having a dog around the house, Kim desperately needs a dog to be completely fulfilled. My analysis of the situation is that she has such boundless love in her heart and that the added outlet of a dog to care for is more a necessity for her than for most people. She literally focuses her day around loving and caring for her dog and in the intervening periods of mourning (both about a month or two long on the occasions of Cecil’s and Betty’s passings) she is somewhat of a lost soul seeking that missing puzzle piece of life. She says she still misses both Cecil and Betty and I believe her. Despite their various pictures and mementos around the house, we have a Cecil Garden and a Betty Garden spots where she now walks Buddy every day for his bathroom activities. In some ways, it seems appropriate for our three dogs to be linked through excrement since dogs are astute enough to know that is an important connection point among them in life as well as in death.
So, on to Buddy. Buddy is a 15-month chocolate-brown toy poodle weighing in at 5.5 pounds, down from the 5.8 pounds when we got him. His weight change is less about any lack of food (Kim hand-prepares two nice meals per day for him that he sometimes eats and sometimes does not so much), and more about getting into fighting weight since I suspect we play with him a lot more than his previous owners had patience to do. Buddy doesn’t like to play, he lives to play. He is very full of energy and literally bounces around the house like a 5.5-pound ball of brown fuzz. If I had my son Thomas’s video skills, I would film him bouncing around his morning play session in the living room and I suspect we could then confirm that he truly does bounce like a billy goat rather than run when he plays. We are training him not to play fight by faux-biting our hands (something he has loved doing ad nauseam) since Kim’s hands cannot take the sharp teeth. Instead, we are using his toys to fight with him and between his ragamuffin raccoon and silly stuffed giraffe, our living room looks like we have a toddler to care for (which we sort of do).
I know I have referenced Buddy as Demon Dog and I think it is only fair to say that while we would always prefer that he yapped a little less when anyone so much as moves in the room or that he didn’t glaze over with his orange-eyed trance as he gets into his growling place, we really are enjoying the little guy. Even my pal Gary, who at age 80 has rightly deserved limited patience with children and yappy dogs, can’t help but find Bouncing Buddy cute as a button. It isn’t just his diminutive size, its really his overall presence. He prances everywhere. He runs around with one ear out of place to guard the house from intruders. He walks point across the length of the sofa top, surveying all of his domain. He’s happy to go to daycare and happier still to come home from daycare. He loves to play and equally loves to sleep (that is when he gets his most growly). All in all, he his a hoot and can entertain us for long periods of time by just being Bouncing Buddy.
There is an old story about mice putting a bell around the house cat’s neck so they can hear it coming when its after them. We don’t need a bell around Buddy’s neck since his toenails clicking on the floor give us that same warning about his whereabouts. He knows every inch of this house by now and pretty much makes use of it all. If we block him of from some portion with a gate or just a closed door he will jump three feet off the ground at the door handle or top of the gate to gain access. He does eventually give up, but not before doing a dozen or so jumping jacks that burn up that little 5.5-pound bundle of muscle and sinew.
We have yet to have buddy groomed other than an occasional shower with Kim. He does smell like a dog, but he is so small you have to stick your nose right into him to smell anything. He will get a haircut soon and all I have asked is that Kim not give him a poodle cut to make him look goofy. This is more about my concern for his self-image than anything else, but I would prefer he stay looking like a little cow-licked kid than something residing on Fifth Avenue. The name we chose for him, Buddy, is the perfect name and I want to keep him Bouncing Buddy and as far away from the Beaux Cartier of his youthful heritage.