guessed he was about the same age as my new mother. He sported a Fred Flintstone five o’clock shadow, stood about six feet tall, and displayed average girth. If you smelled him in a crowd, you wouldn’t notice him. Even though he appeared average, I suspected his size would allow him to control me on a leash, unlike my skinny mother.
His eyes widened when he saw me and he quickly approached, staring directly at me the whole time. This move would have been unsettling under any circumstance, but was even more enhanced by his rather menacing unibrow. Was this a power move on his part, or was he just clueless? Hadn’t he ever gone to doggie body language school? When I met his challenge and growled at him, he quickly averted his eyes and backed down. Bo: 1, new father: 0. I made a mental note: “don’t fear the unibrow—it’s not as scary as it looks.”
After giving my mother a quick kiss, he sat down and we all just lay there for the next few hours on the floor. They petted me and fed me, told me I was cute and smart, and basically doted on my every move. Every human should have it so good. That’s right, I said human.
When it was time to go to bed, we walked up the tiny steps to the bedroom. Upon walking in I spotted the place where I would sleep. No, not on the floor, or the dog bed, but rather on top of that big old mattress, and smack dab in the middle of the two well-worn spots where my parents slept.
Here I lay, after the most wonderful day I had ever experienced, thinking about the fortuitous change in my life.
It was obvious my new parents were a couple in need of canine companionship, and who better to bond with than me? But, truth be told, we all got what we needed. They needed something to love besides themselves and I needed to be loved.
I rolled over and stretched my legs, pushing my mother to the edge of the bed. Ahh, much better. This could be a fun life after all, as long as these humans proved trustworthy. Based on my previous encounter with humans and a home, this was still up for debate.
I woke up the next morning, momentarily confused by the softness of my bed and the quietness of my surroundings. I certainly wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Much to my delight, I lay between two bodies, both of which were awake and gazing at me.
Their constant staring made me a bit self-conscious. Did I have a booger hanging out of my nose? Was my fly unzipped? No, it was just the fact that I was so darned cute. What can I say, I hit the gene pool lottery.
“Bo, !@%TDD$%@#$FDF?” my mother asked. Loosely translated that means, “Bo, you gotta whiz?”
Of course I did…and so day two of my new life began.
CHAPTER 3
Nobody’s Perfekt
It wasn’t long before we settled into a routine. My father would leave early in the morning and not come back home until late at night. My mother was unemployed, and therefore with me throughout the day. We took a lot of trips around town together. She was also the one who took me on my morning and noon walks, and joined my father and me on the evening ones.
It was the evenings that were especially joyous to me. After taking a long walk, the family would sit down in front of the fireplace and watch television. One night I’d be Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper while the next I’d be patrolling the dusty plains of America with Walker, Texas Ranger. Throughout the evening I would get bones to chew on, plates to lick, and toys to ignore.
If only Candyman could have seen me: I lived in a house, slept in a warm bed, and owned two human food dispensers. I had it all, and at a very young age.
But things can change in a heartbeat.
During one blustery evening while my father was away on a business trip, my mother and I lay on the floor of the living room watching the latest episode of Seinfeld.
After a good licking of my paws, I rolled over to expose my belly. My mother took the opportunity to give me a full frontal body massage. Her technique differed from my father’s in that she rubbed certain areas more often than others. I thought to myself, C’mon honey, it’s like suntan lotion, spread it evenly.
Oddly, the more I relaxed, the more she tensed up. After she finished, she stood up and paced about the room. So much for basking in the afterglow of a good rubdown, her rambling back and forth on the hardwood floor was making me anxious.
On the comment card, I was forced to give it three paws out of five.
When the telephone rang, she pounced on it. I could tell from her tone that she was speaking to my father, but something about the quiver of her voice made the fur on the back of my neck stand up. “Honey,” she said, “I think there’s something wrong with Bo.”
Uh-oh.
After a brief silence, she continued. “I can’t be sure but I think he has cancer.”
Even I could here my father’s response through the phone: “What?!”
“I gave him a massage tonight and I felt these lumps on his chest.” She was in a near panic now. “And the thing is…the thing is…they didn’t stop there. They were on his stomach, too. I think it’s spread all over him.”
She fell silent, listening to my father’s advice, then said, “I agree. I’ll get him to the vet first thing tomorrow. I love you,” and hung up the phone.
Silence filled the room, giving me a moment to contemplate the severity of the situation. I felt fine, I really did. When I licked myself, like the vet tells you to, I hadn’t noticed any aberrations at all. This thing called cancer is a silent killer, I thought, because there wasn’t any outward evidence of it.
Naively, I believed humans were superior beings and knew better than me. If my mother was this worried, surely something was very wrong.
Clearly, I had a lot to learn.
After a sleepless night, we readied ourselves to go to the veterinarian’s office. I had been up all night thinking about the Big C. My mother looked worried, too, but neither of us made any mention of the reason for the appointment.
We arrived at the clinic moments after 9:00 a.m., and the room was already full of owners and pets. My mother and I signed in, squeezed between two owners sitting on a bench, and waited our turn.
Thoughts of my impending diagnosis filled my head when I heard the young receptionist ask the roomful of folks, “Is Bee-Oh in the room?”
My mother and I looked to the right and then to the left. We looked around the whole room, as did every other living thing, thinking the same thing, “Who would name their pet Bee-Oh?” Maybe it was the Japanese looking owner sitting in the corner of the room?
Once again we heard, “Is Bee-Oh here?”
When no one responded, the teenage helper checked the chart. “Hoefinger. Bee-Oh Hoefinger. Is he or she here?”
My mother’s ears perked up as she realized what the young lady had been trying to say.
“Uhmm, do you mean Bo?”
Trying to hide her embarrassment the girl just said, “Uhh, yes. The vet will see you now.”
Great. As if having a life-threatening illness wasn’t bad enough,
