Sent Thursday, March 10, 2011. It took me a while to post this one. Mostly because it still hasn’t sunk in that it’s true.
This is me.
“And now my friends you’ve asked me, what makes me sad and still? And why my brow is darkened, like the clouds upon the hill?” Back in the mid-sixties the T.V. show, “The Beverly Hillbillies” first aired. I fell in love. Twice. First with Ellie May, whose tight fitting shirt was always just a motion away from sending it’s buttons flying. Alas, it wasn’t to be. My other love was more profound and endures to this day. Bloodhounds. One of God’s most perfect and beautiful creatures.
I finally found my bloodhound in 1990. I named her Boo, for her mournful cry that first night in her new home. In March of 1996, a person or persons unknown, through a malicious sense of enjoyment, poisoned my beautiful baby Boo. Three veterinarians working together and doing all that they could do, could not save her. I have been thankful that I never was able to learn who did this. I was thus freed from the urge of retribution.
About six months later I had an absolutely horrendous day at work. One of those days where nothing is easy or goes right. The boss screams at you for things you knew nothing about and had nothing to do with. You’ve been there. After 12 hours of this, I returned home exhausted and angry at the world. I dropped into my easy chair, and to no one in particular, I said, “I sure could use Boo right now”. Annie said, “Get up. We’re going to the shelter and get you a dog right now”. I said, “I don’t want a dog.” Annie said, “You’re miserable without a dog. And there’s some dog that needs a home. Now!” I said, “I don’t want a dog. And besides, the shelter’s closed by now. And besides that, I can’t save every dog in the world.” Annie said, “No, but you can save one.” With that I stormed out of the living room and went to pout in the kitchen alone. That was a heated conversion, by the way. Well, on my part anyway.
The next day after eating my lunch, I headed out on a service call to repair an oven or something. The trip took me past the animal shelter. I’m not sure why, but I flipped on the turn signal and pulled in. I told myself that I didn’t want a dog, but that I just wanted to look at them and see what they had. I tried real hard to believe that lie as I walked into the office. I repeated this to the attendant. He looked at me for a few seconds and then replied, “riiiiiight”. He showed me to the pens and took his leave.
In the first pen was a lone little spotted puppy sitting in the middle of the pen. I tried to coax her to the wire. She sat there with her tail a total blur against the cement, looking up at me and then down again over and over. Her tail never stopped, and I noticed a wetness spreading out around her on the floor. I went to the next pen, and there were several puppies of indistinct heritage. As I was petting them through the chain link, I glanced back at the little spotted puppy. She was now standing next to the wire looking at me. Her tail still a blur, as she looked up at me and down again over and over. I noticed a wetness spreading out on the floor behind her. I went to the next pen, and struck gold. Well almost. Coonhound puppies. Not Bloodhounds to be sure, but not bad. I looked again at the pen with the little spotted puppy. She was now standing up against the wire. And again her tail was a blur as she looked up at me and down over and over, and the wetness on the floor seemed to spread.
I went to ask the attendant about the little spotted puppy. I could tell by his smile that he knew he had me. He said that she was 12 weeks old, and came in with 5 other pups, and was the only one left. Her mother was a Dalmatian, and her father was a white mongrel. I asked if he could unlock the pen. I only want to hold her, you understand, I don’t want to take her with me. “Riiiiight”. If I hadn’t known that I was lying, I would have managed more indignation. He opened the door, and I got down on one knee and coaxed the little spotted puppy to me. Her tail a blur, looking up at me and down again over and over, she slowly walked to me, leaving a trail of droplets in her wake. I picked her up and held her to my chest. I could feel her tail trying to wag against my arm as she hid her face under my other arm. She lifted her head to lick my chin, and hid her face under my arm and lifted her head to lick my chin over and over. All the while I could feel a wet spot growing ever larger on my shirt. I then heard a voice in a whisper say, “I think we need each other.” I do not recall speaking the words, only hearing the words.
I named her Early Boo, after the late Boo. It became my habit that whenever I had to leave the house to go somewhere, I would tell Early Boo; “I have to go to work now. You keep the bears out for me, OK.” By this she knew that where I went, she could not follow. And following me seemed to be her greatest pleasure. This Wednesday last, the good Dr. Bob, whose has given her such good care for these past 14 and a half years, came to the house and eased my faithful old friend Early Boo over Rainbow Bridge. “And now my friends you’ve asked me, what makes me sad and still? And why my brow is darkened, like the clouds upon the hill?”
Early Boo, July 4, 1996———-March 9, 2011
So who’s going to keep the bears out now?
