A Noble Beast

When you get to be half a century old (well, almost), you’re bound to have a bit of history. There are loves in your past that you can look back and remember fondly. Some you share or have shared, either as a memory with your current circle of contacts, or some experienced them first hand.

One of the main loves of my life came into the world as a tiny bundle of fur on January 1, 1986. Bull was the firstborn of his mom’s first litter of puppies, and my friends Doug and Barbara had asked if I wanted a puppy even before they were born.

I was just out of law school, and although I’d adopted Alice, a German Shepherd who’d gone to law school twice (once with her first mom, once with me), it wasn’t quite the same as a new baby.

Although I had papers that said Bull was a full-blood miniature poodle, it didn’t take many weeks to figure out that his mother was a mere trollop. There were some questions about parentage – Pancho the Chihuahua lived there and was the most likely suspect. He survived Doug’s wrath with his life, but threats that have been made against philandering Romeos were carried out in his case.  He was off to the vet in short order.

That never fit, though. Bull was too big, and the body shape was wrong. His name started as "Bull of the Woods", because he was the only male in the litter and so much bigger than his two sisters.  Eventually the truth came out and one of Doug's sons admitted that he’d stopped by the house with Oscar – the ancient standard dachshund – one day. I guess you could say he had one last “Hurrah”.  Nothing happened to him, though, because he died of old age not long after, most likely with a smile on his face.

Bull almost didn’t survive puppy-hood. I lived in a rural area outside of town, and one day when he was out doing his business my attention wandered and I couldn’t find him for hours. He came home with Alice later, covered in oil and muck. He’d apparently fallen into the sludge pit of an oil well about a quarter mile away.

For those that don’t know, the production of oil and gas is accompanied by some nasty chemicals. Sludge pits are open ponds near producing oil wells.  They frequently have lots of petroleum products in the “water”, along with mercury, nickel, and a variety of heavy metals that tend to be pretty toxic.

The stuff wouldn’t wash off. Not knowing what to do, I called Grandma.

“Roll him in corn starch. That’s what I do to Grandpa when he’s sticky”.

This, along with several more baths, seemed to help, but not long after we went to bed he was gasping for breath and it was obvious that he needed more attention than I could offer. One of the advantages of living in a small town out in the country is you not only know the vet’s home number, you know where he lives.

So Bull got lots of drugs and special baths every half hour for the next day and a half. Mind you, at the time after I paid off my student loans I was making less money than the guy flipping burgers at McDonalds. This was commitment.

Bull survived. In fact, he went on to live a long, full life of over 20 years.  I still catch myself being careful when I put down the recliner so I don’t run over him (old dogs don’t move that quickly) or thinking that I’ve heard him bark and need to take him out.

He made the trip to North Carolina with me, content to share a McDonalds Happy Meal with the cockatiel and parrot every few hundred miles.  He got most of the burger, but left the pickles behind.

Interestingly enough, a couple of years ago we had a friend of a friend over for dinner. The lady is psychic (not psycho – psychic!). I’d never met her before and had reservations about the psychic business, but later in the afternoon I walked into the den and she looked up and said, “Did you have a little black dog?”

There’s no way she could have known this. There were no pics out, he hadn’t been mentioned at all. He’d been gone a couple of years at that point.

I told her that I did, and she said, “Well, his energy just walked through here looking for you. He thinks you were a good friend.”

Bull was a good friend, too. And five years ago today at the age of 20 years and 4 months, he left this plane of existence to go wherever good dogs go and wait for me to join him eventually.

It was, and remains, one of the saddest days of my life.