To mutts everywhere, and their loved ones: A love story
In honor of Mutts Day
Every day for what seems a lifetime, I’ve put my heart on the line. My days are filled with worry, regret, loyalty, duty, anticipation, clock watching, sheer joy, physical exhaustion, small annoyances, and lots and lots of sweet talk and kisses.
His name is Bubba (a term of endearment that stuck – his real name is Alfie) and he’s all mutt. And he’s all mine. If he could speak Human, that’s the first thing he’d tell you. He’s a shy, retiring boy who loves you to death only after you’ve proven yourself with him. And he is particular. I call him my mixy-mutt, because his parentage is a secret known only to his mother, and after one look at her, it could be just about anything.
Three months, so small, so sweet
Bubba was rescued, so they told me at the shelter, from an abandoned house in southern Indiana, where he and his mama and two siblings had been left to fend for themselves. They said the mama was tied with a chain, the tiny pups left to their own devices. True? I don’t know. But it makes a good sad story when people ask his history.
What’s true for me, however, is that this is a love story. It’s about a puppy who came into my life without my exactly wanting it, about him stealing my gardening gloves, and very quickly, stealing my heart.
My insides ached for his welfare the minute I saw this three-month-old pup at the foster home where he’d been taken with his twin brother, an all-black sister, and a very young mother who looked part German Shepherd. Six years on, he’s the reason I get up every day, literally and otherwise. And unless something takes me from him, he will know no other mother.
Bubba's Petfinder photo
But don’t be mistaken – while he was a pathetically skinny and sad case, I didn’t love him right at first. It’s rare for me to love straight away, and usually ends up being false love, so I’m glad it was a slow burn. He was shy of me at first too – and still is today with strangers. He only approached me when I sat quietly near him and his brother, watching them tousle and play-fight. In a few moments, he let me touch him, smooth my hand over his back, and pat his belly.
“You seem like a nice boy. Why don’t you come home and live with me in the country?”
The trip back up to south-of-Indy was twice as long: As it turns out, Bubba is not a car dog, not then, not now. He wretched and puked his little guts up; I pulled the car over at least half-a-dozen times.
Also then as now, Bubba is very much a “pussycat dog,” which is one of his nicknames. Upon arriving home that first day, he stood perfectly still, his eyes wide and pleading for mercy, his ears lowered in submission, as my two torties and a tiger sniffed him in that odd head-bobbing way that cats do. He was only just as big as them, but with a much larger head. During his time with them, he was gentle, he never provoked or bullied them, and they ultimately learned he was a big softie with no bite, and they fawned over him like lovers. If I ask him today, “Where’s the pussycat?” he lowers his ears in submission. Priceless.
Happiness is a warm puppy.
As you do, I put the little guy in the bathroom that first night, thinking that was the best thing for a new puppy, to prevent him from finding danger, from chewing, or peeing on the carpet, and the like. And to let my husband and me sleep and not worry. But boy, was I ever wrong. He howled, he chortled, he whined, he made guttural, lonely, please-somebody-rescue-me noises that could have popped the roofing nails through the shingles. And all of this, from the basement bathroom one story below.
So at 2 a.m., I fetched him … (puppy – one, people – zero)
and at 2:01 a.m., he crawled under the bed …
and at 2:01:15, he was sleeping like a baby.
Nothing has changed since that June night six years ago — he still crawls under the bed, or flops at the foot of it, every night, sleeping quietly but alert at the drop of a hat, protecting me, protecting himself.
The first year with Bubba was the best, for getting to know him and letting him be a “little boy” dog. We lived on the northern edge of the Hoosier National Forest; a thick woods abutted the back door. Bubba had an instant family of an older Chow-Sheperd mix, three cats, and my husband. And of course me.
Fall in Indiana, Bubba heading to the woods.
The precise moment my heart softened completely toward him was not long after bringing him home, while I built a patio on the front of my house. Bubba found this enchanting. Mostly, he stayed by my side, or would lay beneath the umbrella of a nearby Hosta. But, while mixing mortar or carrying rocks or shifting materials in a wheelbarrow, I kept noticing my gloves were disappearing. A sneaky young Bubba had been carrying them off, and when I finally caught him, all I could do was sit and watch in joy and amazement. I was smitten with his own hard work: He had found a place to bury them in the Hostas, would go about digging the hole in the soft mulch, drop them in, and push his nose again and again to move the displaced mulch back over them. That, plus patting the burial with his mouth to signify its completion did as much to seal him a permanent home with me.
A stealer of gloves, and of hearts
The first summer with Bubba
The other two Indiana years were filled with selling homes, moving twice, and an impending divorce, so I’ve often felt guilty for the losses Bubba incurred because of my choices. While he might have found a more stable home, he could never have found as much love: It was actually my husband who convinced me to look for a puppy rather than an older dog, at that point when we decided we needed a second dog to replace the Golden who had moved on. “It’s easier to bond with a puppy,” he said. I didn’t buy it, I still don’t on the surface. But with hindsight, it’s probably the longevity and the history between us that makes Bubba and me inseparable.
Next stop, Boston.
salty dog
Neither his nor my first year here were very good – the neighborhood I moved into is on the slow road to death (a Harvard University buy-out area) and there were often days when I carried my dog home (all 55 pounds of him) after he cut his feet on glass shards on the sidewalk. Plus, I had small problem with the upstairs neighbors who didn’t restrain their fighting (not a mutt) dog, and it often was left alone in the yard, which resulted in some dog fights that shook me to the bone.
But Brighton wasn’t all bad. Steve and the staff at Big Daddy’s on Western Avenue loved Bubba; they would wait at the back door when they saw us approaching on our way to the river, and give him handsome slices of prosciutto.
And the most charming boy in the ‘hood, a ginger-haired kid with a heavy Boston accent, once hollered across the road as Bubba and I walked past: “Great dog!” A Boston-awesome moment I won’t soon forget.
And then there were the Meetups.
Bubba runs from the group shot to be with the photog (me.)
In addition to the cut feet and the dog fights, after arriving here, I saw Bubba turn from a silly, lovey-dovey, and happy dog, to one who slumped, sighed, and pined. It broke my heart. He began to dive into a serious depression: I had thrown together a toy chest-comme-window seat where he could sit and watch people pass on the street — I thought he’d feel less lonely this way. But I’d call his name, and he wouldn’t move, no flicker of his tail, he wouldn’t even raise his head toward me. He missed Indiana where he’d left behind the cats, and the other dog, and I’m sure he missed his “daddy.” He was broken-hearted too.
So in April 2007, I started a doggie play group to get us out of the house once a week — on Sunday mornings, we went to a park, or the beach, or on trails, or we met folks at the river. 
A year later, although we’d made some lovely friends who still augment our lives today, it was clear Bubba wasn’t cut out for these group hi-jinx. It had its toll on me too, organizing the outings, herding the attendees, keeping it harmonious and interesting. So now, we’ve found our rhythm with long walks, sometimes with friends, in nearby parks. He’s like me in that regard, sociable, but also needing a great deal of personal space.
It’s on these dog walks, mostly at Fresh Pond, where Cambridge dogs — the ranks to which he now belongs — can go unleashed. Ranger Jean has proclaimed him as one of her favorite calm dogs, and I can’t begin to tally the numbers who stop me daily to admire his mottled mug and guess at his lineage. In this way, Bubba gets plenty of the right kind of attention now, the kind that doesn’t force him to interact in ways he’s uncomfortable with — and me, if I speak the truth.
They tell me he’s a beautiful dog, but honestly, I have a difficult time seeing that myself. I see the speckles, and the patches, and the long flowy hair, sure. But my perspective is different, wrapped up in his history, his unspoken communication with me over six years, several homes, two states, the dozens of cut-feet incidents, dog fights, sickness (both his and mine), the times he put his face in my lap when I’ve been upset, and so on. I don’t see a beautiful dog. I see my beautiful companion. That’s the perspective only one person on earth can ever claim.
Yes, my days with him are filled with worry, some regrets, a whole lot of duty, constant clock watching, exhaustion and small annoyances – and do not take these warnings lightly if ever you think you want a dog to enter your life – but there is the argument, like with any relationship, that the joyful times and the sweet talk and the kisses make up for it all.
