The Recent Crew

Bubba is the first dog I have digital photos of. He was a fine man, maybe a pit/lab mix, who showed up in my neighborhood in the spring of maybe 1994. He was about a year and a half old, and had no idea he was in trouble. The weather had become nice, and the days were longer. Kids were playing outside and had snacks, and Bubba was perfectly happy to live on potato chips and root beer. I took him in, and never regretted it. He was one of those happy souls who not only knew his own strength, but felt that with great strength came great responsibility. That is, he never used his strength to bully or dominate others, but only—reluctantly—to defend himself or protect those who were weaker from harm.

Xena was another story. In 2000, my daughter urged me to adopt another dog. We went to the County animal shelter, a nightmare place of overcrowded runs and desperate dogs. Xena had been held there far longer than their guidelines required, because the staff liked her so much. She had kisses for anyone who came near her cage, and got along with the numerous other dogs in her enclosure. But once I got her home, and she recovered from the kennel cough and the spaying, she decided that she was not ever again going to share with another dog. Unfortunately, there was another dog—Bubba. Fortunately, though she was a pit bull, she didn't know how to bite, and it took five years of trying before she was able to injure Bubba. This I could not tolerate, for Bubba's sake, but also because I could not trust her not to someday bite a person. She was vibrantly healthy, but, sadly, doomed to an injection of "the pink stuff."

Bubba did not long outlive Xena. He didn't die from her attacks, but about a month after her execution, he became ill and stopped eating. Many trips to the doctor later, the only guesses were, intestinal cancer or Krohn's disease. He was no longer a candidate for surgery, weakened from a month of anorexia and diarrhea, so with great sorrow, I held his paw while he followed Xena to a better place.

A few months later, I was ready to get another dog. I went to some adoption fairs, but the pit bulls were all more like Xena than like Bubba, and I wanted somebody easy. One day I went to the dentist. When I arrived, the receptionist asked me why I had come, and I replied that at my last checkup the doctor had said I needed a crown. The dentist looked at my mouth, and at my records, and said, "We did that last November.". Oh.

I walked back to my car, and passed a station wagon with a sign for a golden retriever rescue group. Figuring my trip to the dentist shouldn't be a total waste, I went to their website and filled out an application. When I was allowed to go to their facility, the woman who manages it asked me what I was looking for in a dog. I said I wanted Bubba back. She thought a little while and then brought out Liam. He was nothing like Bubba, but perfect for me. He was an older dog, somewhere between five and seven years; he had been found wandering the streets and had spent the time since in one animal shelter and two rescue groups. All were really jails, and he had no hope that he would ever have a real home. But he has one with me, and I think he believes it now.

Finally, Annie. My daughter moved back here from Florida last year, and sent her dog ahead before it got too hot for dogs to be shipped by air. I was worried that Liam would just disappear into himself when faced with a dog as overflowing with confidence and energy as Annie. But instead, he fell in love the moment he saw her. Today they play, eat together, and get into plenty of trouble together.