A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers

by Colleen Sell

  From then on Buddha accompanied him whenever he stood his lonely patrols on the Vietnamese hillside. One night, while they were carrying out their routine mission near An Phong, disaster struck. He didn't see the land mine. A call for emergency medical assistance went out. A fellow marine placed a tourniquet on his legs until he could be flown to nearby Chu Lai Base Hospital.

  “This is a bad one,” the messenger warned. “Come as fast as you can.” The rescue pilot would be holding the delicate strand by which his life was hanging. The chopper swooped low and dropped to the ground. Later, David would be grateful for the buddy who had saved his life, and he would thank the Lord for the pilot who delivered him to the hospital in just seven minutes.

  Once he regained consciousness in the hospital and his pain eased, David tried to piece things together. Where was he when he'd stepped on the mine? He and Buddha had gone to … Buddha? Where was Buddha? What happened to his dog?

  Three months after the accident, he was transferred to Philadelphia Navy Hospital. At least now he was near his home. His family could drive over from New Jersey to visit him.

  Recovery was slow. A few years earlier he had been honored as Collingwood High's greatest running back. A husky 175-pounder then, now he was a paltry eighty-six pounds and missing both legs from just above the knee. War is hell.

  He missed Buddha. He worried incessantly about her welfare and wondered whether he'd ever see her again. He'd confided his fears to Aunt Gertrude and begged her to find his dog and bring her to Philadelphia for his birthday.

  “I'll do my best,” she'd said.

  He'd taken her promise as assurance. Now he realized he had asked for a miracle and pinned his hopes on a foolish request. There was a good chance Buddha had died when the land mine exploded. If she had survived, how would Aunt Gertrude find her? If his aunt could find Buddha, who would risk flying into enemy territory to pick up a fifteen-pound mongrel? Buddha could have forgotten him, or found a new marine who loved dogs and was willing to share his C-rations. Maybe she'd become some villager's meal for a week. He grimaced, as much from his gruesome thoughts as from the physical pain wracking his body.

  When Aunt Gertrude contacted President Richard Nixon for help, she was told no funds were available for such an undertaking. Still, David held on to his hope of seeing Buddha again — today, on his birthday.

  You might as well forget that, he told himself. Some things are beyond even Aunt Gertrude. He leaned back in his wheelchair and tried to sleep. He awakened to the sound of strange voices in his room. He opened his eyes just as gentle hands set a scraggly little dog on his bed. The dog eyed him inquisitively and sniffed. A spark of recognition lighted her eyes. A stubby, broken tail began to twitch. Then she scrubbed David's face with her ecstatic kisses.

  “I am so happy!” was all he could say.

  Aunt Gertrude had set in motion a chain of events that resulted in David's emotional reunion with Buddha. She'd met with Lieutenant Colonel William Holberg, a Maryland legionnaire, and he'd contacted Department Adjutant Dan Burkhardt on behalf of David and his dog. The legionnaires had raised the funds to find Buddha and bring her home.

  In due time, a marine platoon had entered An Phong and scooped up the dog, who had been cared for by David's buddies after his accident. Buddha had been flown to Baltimore on a commercial flight. When Buddha's quarantine ended, Burkhardt accompanied by several legionnaires, brought her to David's hospital room.

  Joy at seeing his dog again overwhelmed David. Eventually, the excitement subsided, and he and Buddha were left alone. Before long, a coarse-haired little dog could be seen happily tugging at the wheelchair.

  David Lummis faced a long road to recovery, but the medics said he would walk out of the hospital on artificial limbs by the end of the year. With Buddha encouraging him, David knew he would too.

  ˜ Hope Irvin Marston

  A Leave from Absence

  Sometimes a pet's name doesn't sink in — doesn't take. I read once that pets, especially dogs, can best learn their name if it contains two distinct syllables. Perhaps thus was spawned Fido and Fi-Fi. So when we tagged our animal-shelter survivor Cosmo Topper Puppy Moore, his moniker was doomed from the beginning. He learned the Puppy part, and the rest of his label seemed to fall on peanut-buttered ears. So Puppy it became.

  Puppy was epileptic. We didn't know dogs could be, but yes, the recurring seizures are not unlike those of their human counterparts. But he lived beyond his odds, finally giving in to the toll at age fifteen. Owners all know that the loss of a pet exacts a predictable reaction.

  “That's it,” I said. “No more dogs. I never want another. I can't go through that pain again.” My wife, Kay's, bear hug signaled that she felt the same.

  For eight years, we were satisfied with our lone housecat, Read-'em-a-Clipping News Carver Moore. Knowing that cats only answer to Kitty-Kitty — and only if they choose to — we deliberately splurged on his name.

  One Saturday afternoon, at a large outdoor market near Dallas, we saw signs directing visitors to Pet Island. We thought, A petting zoo? Let's check that out. Instead, it was a pet marketplace, where vendors and breeders came together in a truer sort of “flea” market. It had a festival atmosphere, complete with clowns and characters dressed in stuffed-animal attire. There was Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, some sports-team mascots, and a couple of gigantic pullets flapping about, trying to take wing. I also recognized the celebrity Smokey Bear, apparently on fire-holiday thanks to recent rains. All these frolicking critters were handing out animal crackers to the children.

  “It's just Disney-like hypnosis — a marketing gimmick for the kids out here,” I muttered cynically.

  We strolled past pens and containers with boas, miniature goats, and pot-bellied pigs — the “desperation” choices for pet lovers, or at least intended for folks more adventurous than me. Then I saw the picket fence, with an ivy-covered gate labeled “Man's-Best-Friend Resort.” My thoughts raced back to Puppy Moore, and I tarried at the entrance. Just out of sight, I could hear the joyful mingle of excited yelps and shrieks of joy from small children. It would be a mistake to enter here.

  Kay touched my arm softly, beckoning me on with welled-up eyes. We moved through the gate together, as if facing up to some intentionally delayed appointment.

  These were not common sale grounds. AKC professional kennels and regal-sounding breeder farms dotted both sides of a cedar-shavings walkway. It was a red-carpet welcome. No hawking of wares, no carnival hucksterism. Instead, it was a best-behavior collection of well-groomed and coiffed animals — with masters to match.

  The Rocking-A Kennel caught my eye. Their breed line was the Australian shepherd. For me it was a first introduction. I had never met an Aussie. From the rack, I browsed their pamphlets about the coloration choices: blue and red merle. With faces less sharp than Lassie, the adults still showed strains of collie or maybe border collie, but with the odd ending of a bobbed tail. I was impressed with what appeared to be a perfect blend of strength and poise. I was also mystified by their eyes — one gold and one blue.

  The parents of the litter were being presented to the public in royalty fashion. They were sitting on a spread of artificial turf, almost engulfed by an amphitheatre of trophies and ribbons.

  “Sire Tommy-On-Cudgegong and Dame Rachel Wurnshire-Heather,” the sign said. So much for simple two-syllable names, I thought. Cosmo Topper Puppy Moore suddenly seemed more sensible.

  Next to this pedigree-castle sat a child's playpen. Inside were the princes and princesses of the crown. As we leaned into the enclosure, our faces must have looked like Halloween lanterns beaming from above. As each of the four puppies stared up with cocked heads, one scrambled toward us from the farthest corner. He reared up on hind legs and strained toward my nose with all his power. As he got close, I swear I heard something of a whisper from him … “Pick me!” There. I heard it again. “Pick me,” the voice said, this time with emphasis.

  I plucked him from the
playpen and held him to my chest. He was the size of a child's football, mostly fur, with a red tongue darting in and out. His whimper spoke louder than any car salesperson's wail. There was no putting him back. I paid the price without even haggling, waving away the checkbook demon that so rudely reminded me that my first house payment wasn't this much.

  On the ride home, we agreed to call him Quigley, after the character in the Australian-setting television show. From the beginning, he has validated the wisdom of our selection many times. I have marveled at his innate kindness and intelligence, his remarkable obedience, and his penchant for wanting to herd anything that moves, including the occasional errant dust bunny.

  Raising pets, like rearing children, is the great educator. Profiting from experience, Kay and I had agreed on certain strict house-pet rules. Early on, it was evident that these rules were all unnecessary. Potty and furniture training were mastered so quickly that our home soon became free range.

  We have learned that the more time we spend with Quigley, the more he is able to reveal his intelligence. We were struck by his ability to accurately identify each of his four rubber chew-toys. They are the same size and shape; they differ only in color.

  “Get your red one,” I say, showing off to friends.

  “Now go find your black one.” Works every time.

  My friends all remind me that dogs are color blind. My Internet searches have all supported that notion. I don't claim to understand it. All I know is when I say, “Quigley, go get your yellow one,” he does. So I just accept it as a wonderful gift and constantly search the pet stores for new colors to add to his palette.

  I have never read a book about Aussies. I have learned about Quigley by observing and interacting. I can cup his face in my palms, lock his eyes with mine, and see far into his soul. I can sense in those moments he is returning the favor. In times of laughter his wag signals that he gets the joke. In distress or sorrow his nuzzle assures us he understands. If we leave the house without him, he welcomes us back with frenzied murmurs and frantic smooches. Competing for those special rushes of attention, my wife and I may be heard to whisper …

  “Pick me.”

  ˜ Lad Moore

  Butkus on Guard

  I was single, in my thirties, and had just purchased my first home. If I'd had a hat, I would have thrown it up in the air! It was a little lonely coming home to an empty house, though. To fill the void, I'd put on the television and watch the neighborhood kids playing outside from my kitchen window.

  My favorite latchkey kid was Nick, an eight-year-old who had beautiful, sad brown eyes and a distinctive cowlick that made his sandy-brown hair dangle over his forehead. Nick always welcomed me home with a smart-alecky wisecrack that made me laugh.

  One day, I saw Nick's older sister shove him and knock him onto his rear-end. She was the local bully, and everyone was afraid of her. Nick hit the pavement hard! When he got up, she went after him again.

  I ran outside and broke up the brawl. Nick's elbows were bleeding, and his cheeks were bright red with embarrassment. His eyes were moist, but he mustered up every ounce of his eight years of manhood and refused to cry. I asked Nick for his mother's phone number.

  “She won't be home until really late. Besides, she won't care, and Patty will only get madder. But thanks. I was afraid it was going to get bad. Patty's nuts,” Nick said.

  That incident forged a bond between Nick and me. From then on, though, when he greeted me with his trademark devilish grin and a wisecrack, I also saw the sadness in his eyes. Somehow, it made me feel even more lonely.

  So when my best friend, Sandy, launched into her puppy sales pitch for the millionth time, I actually listened.

  “Beth, you need a puppy to love and come home to.”

  “How can I have a dog? I work all day. It wouldn't be fair to a dog to be locked up all alone for hours at a time.” I sighed.

  “Have one of those kids come in after school to take care of the puppy for a few hours,” she suggested. “Trust me, the kid and the puppy will love it, and you'll love it. I have a litter of Labradors, and one of them has your name on it!”

  Sandy was right. One of them did have my name on it, and I named him Butkus. He was an adorable, chubby black puppy, whose little pink tongue immediately attached itself to my face.

  Butkus came with everything I needed, including a manual and a laundry basket, where he slept sweetly as I carried him to the van. He was so small, I hoped I could keep him alive. I'd never cared for anything living before. I felt like I was carting home the Hope diamond.

  I soon discovered my “diamond” was less than flawless. We hadn't gone a few miles before the van filled with a horrible smell that made me gag and seemed to come from the back. The rancid odor was quickly accompanied by odd rustling noises, also coming from the back of the van. Suddenly, a cold wet nose poked me. Then the nose was gone! Again and again, Butkus poked his snout into the front seat and then disappeared, returning to whatever he was doing back there. What did I get myself into? I panicked. The smart thing would've been to pull over. But I was on a major turnpike where the shoulder was only for emergencies, and having a naughty puppy didn't qualify as an emergency.

  I finally arrived home and practically fell out of my van, desperate to get out of the stench and to find the missing puppy. I opened the side door and stuck in my head. Butkus proudly showed me the remains of my instruction manual, remnants of it still hanging from his mouth. Terrific. Sandy was a dead woman.

  I tossed Butkus into the basket and headed for my condo. Nick, as usual, appeared out of nowhere and attached himself to my hip immediately. He and his friends roared with laughter over the puppy in the basket. Nick shot off questions like a machine gun. Stressed, I was harsh with Nick. “Nick, I don't have time now. He's mine, and he pooped in my company van! I can't clean it up and watch him and talk to you all at the same time!”

  Instantly, I regretted my outburst and tried to make up for it with a weak smile at Nick. Unscathed, he returned my smile. “I'll hold the puppy, but I ain't cleaning up no poop!” he said and busted out in a clown grin.

  “Deal! Here's my key. Turn the laundry basket upside down over him, to trap him in it like a cage. And wait inside with him while I clean this up.”

  Nick scooped up Butkus as if he were the Hope diamond. Hugging the squirming puppy and beaming at his friends, Nick scurried inside.

  From that day on, Nick had a strong bond with Butkus and spent every minute he could with him. At first, my mother pet-sat while I was at work, and she told me Nick would jump off the school bus and race directly to my door every day. He'd sit on the floor doing his homework until Butkus stole a vital piece of schoolwork. That would launch their game of Catch the Thief, with Nick chasing Butkus around the house as if he were in big trouble! My mother would sit on the couch enjoying the show.

  Nick would stay all afternoon and be there when I arrived. My mother often asked whether Nick's mother might be wondering where he was. He would always deflect the question with his trademark wisecrack.

  One day I arrived home to find Nick standing on a stool with Butkus in the sink. Butkus was covered in soap bubbles, and so were Nick and the condominium. My mother slept on the couch.

  “What's going on, Nick?” I asked.

  “Your mom left Butkus in his cage too long. He rolled in poop, so, I'm giving him a bath.”

  “So you do do poop, after all.” I smiled, barely containing my smile.

  Nick and Butkus were inseparable. The combination of the nine-year-old kid and the bigger kid with a tail became too much for my mom. Besides, she said, Nick could handle Butkus himself and didn't need her around anymore. But I was concerned about him being so young, so my neighbor agreed to greet Nick with the key and to keep an eye on things.

  I went to Nick's house to ask his mother's permission to give her son an after-school job. I could hear yelling inside the house, but I knocked anyway. The apartment was filthy, and she came to the door r
eeking of stale booze. I couldn't help but wonder how bad Nick's life was. His mom said she “didn't care where he was.” Her words would haunt me for years.

  I made sure I always had healthy snacks, and some not-so-healthy, and a sandwich waiting for Nick at my home after school. He also took his money, but Butkus always had a new toy the next week. They continued to play Catch the Thief, which wasn't their only game, just Nick's favorite. Nick said he liked it because he could tell his teacher, “My dog ate my homework,” and prove it, complete with bite marks. Butkus was always a willing participant!

  Life rolled on, and when Butkus was about one year old, I married Chuck. We lived in the condo another year, before Chuck and I bought and moved into a new house across town. On moving day, Nick wasn't able to control his tears as he clutched Butkus's neck like a lifeline. My heart broke when Chuck gently separated Nick and Butkus, promising Nick he would bring Butkus back for weekend visits.

  One Saturday Chuck came home earlier than usual. Butkus came into my room and put his wet nose on my face, waking me up. He wore his sad look on his face. I looked around to see what he'd chewed up.

  “Nick's gone. None of the neighbors knows what happened or where he is. I'll try again next week,” Chuck told me. “Beth, Butkus went nuts. It was awful. He ran around, looking everywhere. I had to drag him into the car.”

  Chuck went back three times. We never found out what happened to Nick.

  Nine years passed, and I owned two dogs. When the doorbell rang or someone knocked on the door, it was pure doggie mayhem. So early one evening I greeted the pizza delivery guy outside. Syco, who is sly for a 150-pound dog, snuck out behind me anyway.

  Standing before me was a tall, athletic, handsome, young man. He had light brown hair with a cowlick dangling over his forehead and twinkling brown eyes that seemed vaguely familiar. As I paid for the pizza, he looked at me curiously, too, while he petted Syco. Then he noticed a novelty stop sign that hung on the side of the garage. It had a picture of a black Labrador retriever and read “Butkus on Guard.”