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My mother always said that I had bad luck with my pets – I think she was right. They either ran away, were felled by an exotic disease or got run over. A Rat Terror I had for just two weeks - he attacked a friend and cost my mom $15 bucks for a tetanus shot. He was shipped to a farmer friend on my grandfather's orders. Today we would have been sued and lost our home.
One brief time in college I even had a hamster that had to be “put to sleep” – an euphemism for “killed” which is told to everyone to soften the blow.
And a goldfish I won at the county fair didn't last one night - I think he/she drowned. My pet history is worse than a Greek tragedy.
When I was 10 I begged for what would be my last puppy for decades using the age-old reasoning – "All my friends have great dogs, why can’t I have one???" Of course, the usual response used by all parents was uttered by Mom: “You’ll have him for a week and then forget him and I will have to take care of him...feed him...train him...put him out in the middle of the night”. But after weeks of cajoling, that included hints about my upcoming birthday, my mom relented and announced we were going for a surprise trip after supper - she took me to a kennel in the next town. As we pulled into their parking lot this started the bow-wowing of dozens of pups. I think they knew that an adoption was about to happen. Inside this smelly pet store there was a wall of metal cages stacked three atop each other containing different breeds. I paused at each as Mother made an editorial comment - “Too big he’ll eat us out of house and home…Too yappy I hate yappy ones…He looks mean…I don’t think so…And then I saw thee one. A reddish-brown Cocker-Spaniel whose eye color matched his shining coat perfectly. “Oh, mom, I love this one.” (I used my best pleading voice that always worked in toy stores.) The owner who was following behind us interjected – “Well my boy you know your dogs – this is a male pup from a champion sire who was directly kin to Fireball III, the best in show at the Philadelphia Dog Show years back.” Wow this was a dog with a genuine titled pedigree for a change rather than the mixed result of a happy accident that were usually wandering our street. My Mother, who many times overdid it with gifts for me, then spent two weeks of her pay that she was saving for our Ocean City vacation - $65 bucks for a champion puppy (today add at least one zero). She issued a stern caveat, "You will have to do all your chores with no complaining for a year to earn this expensive pup! This sweet guy had "papers" and his official name was longer than mine. Baron Von Schlegel III (a German Poet of the 1600’s). Like royalty he even had a roman number after his name. However, I called him Buff. Mom also bought him a wicker basket with a soft mat and a water bowl. I cradled him in my arms all the way home - he was just a baby and went to sleep instantly after giving me a wet lick on my cheek. When we brought him in the house my grandmother said feigning disgust, “Margaret you said NEVER AGAIN. I suppose you brought me home a sooner?” (Nanny called all dogs “sooners” translated meant sooner pee on the rug than outside. And she was right for that very moment Buff let go of a steam that would have made a fire hydrant proud to produce. Nanny just gave us both her "look" and got the mop.
Buff was the greatest birthday present ever – so far.
And we fast became like the Saturday Evening Post cover picture – A Boy and His Friend. He was a quick learner or my grandmother was a great canine trainer, because in just a few days she had him scratching at the door to go out and do his duty. To me he was a wonder and I couldn't wait to come home from school each day and play with him. From then when we would go out and leave him we would find him “dancing” at the back door holding it in until he could fly out to the back yard.
But then after our winter of bliss it happened. On a fateful night in the early spring that I will always sadly remember, when I let Buff out he spotted a rabbit and took off like a shot, barking at the top of his barker. He disappeared into the dark pines. I waited for him to come back for hours, constantly looking at our back door for his “let me in” scratch – but he didn’t return. Pop said that I shouldn’t worry – “He’ll come back when he gets good and ready,” he assured me of this several times. A day passed and no Buff. My mom called the police and the ASPA. No Buff! On the next day Pop took a ride after dinner and promised me he would find him. After an hour I heard the big Buick pull in and I had my fingers crossed. Pop came to the door carrying something in a blanket – OMG it was Buff! My hopes faded as I thought he had died but they were re-kindled when I saw Buff's little cropped tail wag. But poor Buff was in very bad shape. Pop said he found him lying by the side of a road blocks away and suspected he'd been hit by a car chasing that silly rabbit and laid there unable to come home. My hopes faded as I thought he was dead but they were re-kindled when I saw Buff's little cropped tail wag. Poor Buff was in very bad shape. He was panting and it was very heavy. Nanny asked, “Herb do you think he going to be alright…?” “No Ethel, I don’t think so …but he may get well...he is a tough guy...”, Pop voice trailed off as he rolled his eyes at her. (This was decades before the 24-hour Pet Hospitals) I stayed up with my dog as he slept in his basket. Several times he woke up and licked my hand. I stroked his head softly. Eventually I fell asleep as we laid side by side on the chilly kitchen floor. In the early morning Buff crossed the Rainbow Bridge for all good pets…and a part of my heart crossed with him. (For the next 50 years, I could never try to have another dog in my life until my son Jon brought me home Bailey Boy IV – another dog with a Roman numeral...but that’s another story.)
