The Story of Boo, Part 1

479 Words

We had talked about getting a dog for a while. Spent years watching a lot of The Dog Whisperer.

Spring brought a move to a new place, as we bought a house with a big, fenced in yard.

Ready, but unsure of the future, we waited.

Two journeys to Ireland followed, within a year.

On the second trip, I met a dog named Roscoe, part hound, part something magical. He made a big, positive impression on me. Roscoe of Westport, County Mayo Ireland Eyes that I couldn't forget.

Before gangs took over, I used to walk at the local shopping mall. I saw a basset hound in a cage at a pet store, but by the time I got around to getting my husband to go see it, it had been adopted.

For a long time, I thought I wanted an English Bulldog.

All over the place, neither one of us was sure we even wanted a dog.

We went to the local county animal shelter to try and adopt. The menacing woman who ran it demanded all sorts of personal information (that could be used for identity theft) and money under the table, so we balked at that.

Luckily.

This same individual was arrested for a slew of crimes not too long ago. A real criminal bent had she, apparently. She enjoyed her time with all that personal information she collected.

I have run into quite a few people who felt like they were treated like criminals when they tried to adopt a pet at that facility. The irony was that the person running the shelter was a the real criminal, apparently.

Many people gave up. Some did like we did and went to people who were selling puppies. I didn't think I needed to give out my everything ID number to adopt a dog. That is the contradiction with a government run shelter. They want to pry and know everything about you. Then, if the person working there is unsavory, they use what they learn later.

We were pretty much middle aged then, so I'm sure they thought we were middle aged and, therefore, too old.

That was 15 plus years ago so we won that bet.

So, on a Sunday in October, we saw an ad for basset hound puppies in the Sunday paper. This was when we still got a Sunday paper. Know how long ago it was?

Bush, the younger, was president.

We drove out to a peculiar little house near the way-out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere airport. The house was blue.

There we waited while our scarily sedentary, barely ambulatory host whistled for the pups.

Out they came, from a rickety barn.

She came to me and didn't let me go of my heart. Still hasn't. Until 14 years and a couple of months later, I was hers. Still am, even though she passed away in 2020.