Читать книгу Bad to the Bone: - Bo Hoefinger - Страница 14

They met, quite by chance, at my father’s apartment. Both my parents had just graduated college and were looking to enjoy a final summer of freedom. As luck would have it, my father’s roommate was dating my mother’s friend. And thus it transpired that a casual stop by my father’s apartment turned into a lifelong romance.

As my father tells it, he was immediately impressed with her and, being the go-getter that he is, ignored her. He was of the school, pay no heed to them and they’ll want you more. That’s probably why he spent the majority of his college years standing next to a keg, by himself.

As my mother tells it, he was just a shy guy on the couch who wouldn’t say boo, but he was cute in a quiet kind of way.

Destiny would provide for several more chance encounters throughout the summer, allowing them to get to know each other. After a street festival filled with drinks, my father finally got up the nerve to ask her out.

Their first dinner was at Margarita’s, their first movie Crocodile Dundee, and their first kiss was in an apartment overlooking a Dunkin’ Donuts. If it was me, I would have passed on the kiss and opted for an apple fritter instead. The important thing was that my parents had found each other, and in the process someone they could each count on when times got tough.

Now, many years later, they were completing the first year of their marriage and getting to know me—their first dog.

Over the few months I’d been with them, I noticed they had a loving relationship. They didn’t show it in traditional ways like licking each other, or smelling each other’s crotch, but rather by giving a pat on the rear here and a smooch there. With some people you can just tell they were made for each other.

As a rule, I didn’t generally trust humans, although these two were tough to resist. Take for instance my mother. Although I wasn’t sure why she wasn’t working, it allowed us to take many walks, go on spur of the moment car rides, or just lay around watching TV during the day. I loved the feel of her hand on my head, the sound of my name passing her lips, and the smell of her Chef Boyardee cooking. The tentacles of a lifelong bond started to grow.

The relationship with my father, on the other hand, was based on the games we played in the limited hours we spent together when he got home from work. Most notably we played tug-of-war. With my strong jaws, I won easily unless he cheated, which he often did by blowing in my face. Trust me, you would have let go of the rope, too—the man did not like to use Scope. Regardless, I’d still let him win every once in a while. It helped to boost his confidence and it brought us closer together.

All in all, things were progressing rather nicely and I was slowly letting my guard down.

It wasn’t long, however, before my mother found work outside of the home and changed the dynamics of our routine.

She held a criminal justice degree and was eager to put it to use. Her opportunity came in the form of a paralegal position for a real estate attorney. Her primary job duties were to file this, copy that, and collate it all until her head hit the desk. If her doing this wasn’t a crime, she didn’t know what was, but it helped pay the bills. At least for a few weeks, anyway.

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Top Ten Reasons I Love My Mother

 1. She feeds me.

 2. She saved me from a life in the big house.

 3. When I bark at her, she’ll bark back.

 4. She falls for my hard of hearing routine.

 5. She’s a sucker for the doe eye look.

 6. She feeds me.

 7. She lets me sleep on the bed.

 8. She lets me sit in the passenger seat.

 9. She has the patience of a saint.

 10. She feeds me.

T-Bone = Love

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The downside was that I was now alone during the day. Sure my mother would try to break free at lunch to feed me and let me do my duty outside, but it just wasn’t the same as before.

Life became boring, especially during the long stretches of “me” time I now had. Let’s face it, there’s only so much furniture and shoes one can chew on before it gets dull. Yeah, you can throw in a precious collectible to spice things up a bit, but the real action doesn’t start until the family comes home. That’s why I was pleased to hear my parents discussing the possibility of adding another player to the game of life, Bo’s Life.

In an effort to explain away some of my recent bad behavior to my father, my mother told him, “He’s lonely. That’s why he keeps chewing the leg on the couch.”

“I don’t know. I think he’s doing it out of spite,” he said. “I mean look at what he did to that Barbara Woodhouse training book I got. No bad dogs, my ass.”

“Remember, he just started the chewing thing since I went to work. I think if we got him a companion, he’d settle down and become less stubborn.”

“I don’t think we’re ready for another dog. We can’t even handle this one.”

Giving it some thought my mother offered, “How about a cat? They’re low maintenance and Bo can play with it during the day.”

“A cat? I’m not really that keen on cats.”

“What do you have against cats?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s that they don’t do much. They lay around sleeping all day, only getting up long enough to eat.”

Huh. Not unlike my father on a weekend.

Over the years, my father had developed a tainted view of felines that began with his boyhood cat, Ooshie. At the age of eleven he mistook the awful sounds of Ooshie having “sexy time” late one night for fighting. He rushed into his parents’ room and woke his father, begging him to save Ooshie. By the time they got to the scene, Ooshie lay on her back smoking a cigarette, clearly satisfied with her encounter, thus giving my young, innocent father his first lesson of the Birds and the Bees.

Stranger still was my mother’s willingness to get a cat. You see, she was actually afraid of cats. What caused this fear was anyone’s guess, but rest assured, in the deep, dark recesses of her mind, a boogeyman cat lounged about. I’m not talking about a big mountain lion or leopard or even lynx-size cat, but a regular, run of the mill house cat. That’s why I have to give her credit for showing such bravery, and all just for little ole fuzzy me.

But it wasn’t a done deal yet. The conversation continued over the course of several days, and it became clear that I needed to do something to expedite the decision. A box of chewed baseball cards strewn about the guest bedroom did the trick quite nicely.

My mother turned to her sister, Marcy, for support in moving forward with the decision. Marcy owned so many cats that, had she not been married, she would have been referred to as the cat lady of her neighborhood. Fortunately, marriage to her husband, Jon, saved her from that fate. Today, neighbors simply call them the cat couple. Marcy had plenty of feline experience and my mother was determined to tap into it for my benefit.

It began with a long telephone conversation between my mother and Marcy outlining the pros of owning a cat. My mother did most of the listening. By the time she hung up, she was excited to find me a partner.

“Bo, we’re getting you a cat!”

That enthusiasm didn’t last long, for on the day of the adoption, I could smell the fear emanating from my mother’s pores. It was cat-induced fear, and once you smell that, you never forget it. Fortunately she was still committed to following through on her promise.

She left early that morning and I sat patiently, waiting for her return.

Hours later, the grind of the garage door’s gears signaled the action was about to begin. I sprang from the floor, ran to the door, and barked with anticipation at meeting my new housemate.

The door opened slowly and in walked my mother, clutching a gray-striped tiger cat. That cat didn’t know it yet, but she was about to inherit the bottom spot of the Hoefinger household pecking order. No doubt, a position my mother was happy to relinquish.

I jumped up to get a good whiff of the cat’s behind, only to receive a quick right cross from her tiny kitty paw. Interesting. This cat was a fighter and a female one at that.

“Bo. No! Down! Down!” my mother shrieked.

Not deterred, I jumped up once more only to receive another swat across the face.

“No jump! Down! Leave it!”

My mother was trying every command in the book. Hadn’t she realized I’d chosen not to learn any of them yet?

All this commotion was too much for the feline. She extended her claws, scratched my mother’s arm, and jumped to freedom.

My mother screamed, the cat hit the ground running, and not to be outdone, I gave chase.

After a frenzied tour of the house, my new sister chose the living room couch to hide under. Trying not to provoke the situation anymore, I took a disciplined approach to getting close. I put my nose to the floor (a sign of friendship) and inched up to the sofa, my nose getting closer with each scoot, until my head was finally under it. There she sat, staring back at me.

I gave her the “I’m here in peace and mean you no harm” look, followed by an almost imperceptible whine. It sounded pathetic, just as it was intended.

Before Moose could respond in kind, I was yanked backward and escorted to the upstairs bedroom by my mother. In the end, I gave in, but I didn’t make it easy on her.

With my ear to the bedroom floor, I heard my mother coax the cat out from under the couch. Moments later, I was released.

I ran out of the bedroom, scoured the upstairs, searched the main floor, and looked in every nook and cranny in between. It wasn’t until I heard a distant “Meow” that I realized the cat was in the basement, and out of my reach.

My mother wasn’t taking any chances. The cat had already “attacked her” once, she probably thought the next assault would turn deadly. I’m sure her concern for me never entered the picture.

I had to wait until my father came home to get up close and personal with my sister.

In the meantime, my mother sat me down and told me of my new sibling’s adoption.

“We met, your aunt Marcy and I, at the shelter. Even though I was a bit scared I was eager to get inside to look at the kittens.

“Don’t let my eagerness fool you Bo; I didn’t really want to have to pick one up because, really, what’s to stop it from viciously attacking me? Certainly not your aunt, but I did want to see what the shelter had to offer.

“When I saw the cages, I thought it was best to have aunt Marcy take the cats out one by one, hold them, and if a battle to the death didn’t ensue, make them a candidate on our adoption list.

“The very first feline Marcy picked up was this gray, tiger striped kitten about nine months old. She was average and there was really nothing to distinguish her from the rest of the cats, but she did pass the ‘attack’ portion of the interview. I told Marcy to put her back and to move on to the next one.

“Well, let me tell you, Bo, this cat did not like being passed over. Before letting us take two steps, she stuck her paw underneath the cage and started frantically pumping it in and out. If I didn’t know better I would have thought she was giving your aunt and me the middle finger!

“I certainly couldn’t ignore that, could I? So, I turned around and went back to take a closer look. She stared at me with unwavering eyes. I could tell she was strong willed and had quite an attitude.”

Hmm…sounds like a dog I know.

“Well Bo, I made my decision right then and there. This cat was the one for us!”

Of course my mother never stopped to consider my needs. I would have preferred a weak-willed, gutless companion. Someone to do my bidding for me, if you will. But hey, having an additional personality around was still an improvement over the current situation.

My mother continued her story. “Remember how we had to wait to pick you up? Well, with kittens, you get to take them right away. I wasn’t prepared for that, so I had to ask the shelter for a box to carry your new sister home in. We punched some holes in it, put the cat in, and closed the lid.”

Wow, how undignified.

I also knew the humiliation didn’t end there. You see, the vehicle my new sister was going to be taken home in was also a bit degrading. It was an orange 1981 Ford Mustang. This particular car wasn’t one of those cool Mustangs you see in magazines but one of the worst cars ever built. It must have been built on a Friday, before a long weekend. Besides being an eyesore, this vehicle rattled like crazy, lacked power windows, and most importantly on this day, was without a working air conditioner.

Did I mention that it was orange?

“So I took the box, put it in the car, and bid Aunt Marcy good-bye. I was so excited to get the cat home to show her to you.

“It wasn’t long into the trip when I heard this thumping noise from the back of the car. At first I thought it was a flat tire, but quickly realized it wasn’t. I turned my head to look in the backseat, when, much to my horror, the top of the box popped open like a jack-in-the-box!

“But Bo, instead of a scary clown springing up, an angry cat jumped out!”

Man, I wish she would have invited me along for the ride. I’d have given up a week’s worth of my unprovoked barking to see the look on her face when Freddy Krueger sprang to life.

She continued. “Well the windows were open because it was so hot…I really wish your father would get that a/c fixed…and the cat looked to jump through one of them.

“What could I do? I couldn’t let her leap out of a moving vehicle and onto a major highway. I had no choice but to lunge for her. I was scared, but I caught her by the tail and reeled her in, all while negotiating traffic.

Wow, it’s true what they say. Women do multitask very well.

“I gotta tell you, Bo, after I managed to pull the car over and get the windows closed, I didn’t feel so afraid of her anymore. One thing is for sure your new sister doesn’t like car rides like you do.

“You know how you like to sit in the passenger seat and look all cute? Well she likes to sit on my head, massage my hair, and meow at the top of her lungs. I bet it looks cute, but I really can’t tell. And it’s not the safest way to drive a car.”

If anybody could pull off the kitty turban look, it was my mother.

“Well, after a forty-five-minute ride…here we are.”

Just another average drama-filled day in the life of my mother. But she still hadn’t answered my most burning question. I wagged my tail and gave her my best adorable look, but to no avail.

“Oh no, Bo, I’m not going to let the cat out of the cellar until your father comes home.”

Seemed to me she was still scared.

She called Aunt Marcy to relay the news of her adventurous ride home. As I listened in, I picked up on a nugget of new information…

“Yes. We’re going to call her Moose,” said my mother.

Moose? Thank goodness I came pre-named into this family.

“Why Moose you ask? Because I wouldn’t let my honey name her Cow.”

Cats have nine lives, and with this family, Moose would need them all.