The Loving Paws of a Big, Black Dog

It was cold as hell and misting rain as my son, Rusty, and I got in the car and began wending our way through the grocery store parking lot. Seems everybody finished their shopping at the same time as cars were lined up waiting to get out onto the main highway and head for home on that cold December, just- before-Christmas last year. As we waited in line I spotted a small crowd gathered to one side of us but couldn’t see what was going on.

As we were stopped and it appeared we were going nowhere in the near future, I pulled out of line to check it out – having always been far more curious than intelligent. At the back of an old, faded red, pick-up truck were three teenagers giving away puppies. Rusty muttered under his breath, “Oh s%$#” as I got out of the car. He followed me and within a nanosecond we had picked a fat, little ball of whining, black fur with squinchy eyes and were back in the car and on the highway. I waited for Rusty to admonish me for adding another critter to my little family as I already had two Cocker Kids ("Jake" and "Sam") and a big, white cat named “Dirty White Boy.” To my surprise he was strangely quiet and took the puppy, put him under his big winter coat and began trying to soothe the cold, little guy. “It’s okay, Bubba…it’s okay,” Rusty told the pup. At that very moment, "Bubba" became the pup's name -- original, huh?

Rusty and I had history with animals – many, many animals. Rusty was a ranch kid and as animals were our living back then he’d been integrally involved in the care, feeding and well-being of four-footeds since well before he could even remember. During the ranch years February was a busy, busy month. That was the time most of the goats had their babies – usually twins – and most goat mamas would only raise the strongest of the two. I took it on myself to rescue the weaker babies the goat mamas left to die. Winter, when Rusty was little, found me with a baby boy strapped to my back, Indian style, and horseback on old Peanut as we braved the chill wind (and sometime snow) to find and save the orphans. I’d tie two old tow sacks (burlap bags) together and throw them over the saddle horn. Many a winter evening found us heading home with the sacks bulging with goat babies we’d try and raise.

Rusty’s dad used to say goats came into the world looking for a place to die and that wasn’t far from the truth. We’d shelter the babies, try to get them warm and feed them from bottles with a special formula to strengthen their tiny bodies. Even with the best of care we considered ourselves lucky to save even half of them. We were proud of the half that made it and grieved over those that didn’t. By the time Rusty could ride his own horse for our winter goat soirees most of the goats had been sold and we were a cow and horse outfit. Thus Rusty began taking care of critters before he could even walk.

There are human beings that have a way with animals that is unexplainable and Rusty fell into that category. Horses would willingly come to him when even a feed bucket wouldn’t lure them in for the rest of us. Dogs stayed right at his heels and barn cats (that were as wild as haints) would curl up in his lap if he took time to sit down on a bale of hay. I never quite figured out his way with critters but it was nearly uncanny and extremely mysterious.

But I digress…as we were driving home that cold December evening Rusty seemed to work his magic on the little black puppy because it snuggled up against him and went to sleep. I was still musing over Rusty’s seeming delight over me adopting another mouth to feed as I dropped him off at his house. By that time the car was warm and as Rusty got out of the car he laid the puppy in the front passenger seat. The little guy just snuggled down and continued to sleep. “You and mama gonna be okay, Bubba,” Rusty predicted as he gathered up his sack of groceries, adjusted his walking stick and pulled his jacket hood up over his head as he shut the car door.

That was the last critter adventure of many throughout the 54 years, that Rusty and I shared. Sixty days later Rusty was dead, 90 days later my Cocker Kid Jake had to be put down and a month later my Cocker Kid Sam died. Suddenly it was just me and Bubba. What strange turns one’s life can take in six short months.

Bubba’s nearly a year old now and the strangest of animals. He’s not just large – he’s ginormous. Each of his feet probably weigh a pound by themselves and if he doesn’t smile you can’t see him in the dark he’s so black! We knew his mama was a Black Lab but his paternal parentage was definitely uncertain. I’ve often thought that’s the way I’d describe it if I was trying to give away a litter of puppies in a grocery store parking lot and there was a major chance the pup’s papa was a Great Dane. The two Cocker Kids did a good job raising him (and keeping him in line) before they crossed the Rainbow Bridge and when they were gone there wasn’t a lot left for me to do as far as dog training. Bubba already knew to go to the back door if he had business in the back yard and thank God he’s never, even once, offered to jump up on me. He immediately understood commands like sit, down and stay – kinda like he came equipped with those skills.

A couple of days ago Bubba was on the leash and we were in the front yard – me checking out the plants that didn’t make it through the Texas drought this year and Bubba checking out interesting blades of grass. Suddenly he began to grow, l deep in his throat, and I turned to see a guy from the City approaching my yard but he stopped at the curb. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “the dog’s just a puppy and he won’t hurt you.” The City guy replied, “No, ma’am. I meet a lot of dogs and I can tell the difference in a dog that’ll bite and one that won’t. Now, that there dog ain’t afraid of me and he ain’t barking at me like he’s scared. He knows exactly what he said and he means it.”

“There’s not a mean bone in this dog’s body,” I replied. “No, ma’am, he ain’t mean; he’s just protecting you. If he was out here by himself he’d probably be curious about me but he wouldn’t be threatening – he’s protecting you and you’re the reason he’s telling me not to set foot in your yard. Watch this!” He gingerly placed one foot up on the curb. Bubba slowly walked to the end of the leash and showed a big mouth full of white teeth, very threatening, and his deep-throated growl became more intense. “That there’s a good dog and he’ll do everything he can to protect you so don’t get mad at him.” I didn’t bother to tell him I had no intention of getting mad at Bubba but I turned and we went in the house until the guy was through with the water meter.

Later that evening I was reading a book and Bubba was asleep at my feet. I put my book aside and began reminiscing about the day Rusty and I adopted him and all that had transpired since. The scripture came to mind “we see now through a mirror darkly” and the significance of that passage hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. I realized at that moment that Rusty had known how very ill he was for a long time, although he never shared that with his wife or me, and that he knew, without doubt, he was living on borrowed time the day he and I adopted Bubba. He approved of the adoption because Bubba would be a big dog, likely protective and probably would outlive me. In thinking back, it was actually Rusty who picked which puppy I’d take. He’d handled them all and loved every one of them but his choice was emphatically the smallest and quietest of the litter. Bubba was handpicked because Rusty knew he was going to leave me in Bubba’s care.

Today’s a lovely, Fall day in central Texas and as I pound away on the computer this big, black dog is sound asleep at my feet. He’s sound asleep as long as quiet prevails and there’s nothing going on he doesn’t recognize. If I change positions he lifts his head and studies me with those huge brown eyes. If a car door slams across the street he gets up and looks out the front window until he’s satisfied there’s nothing going on to be concerned about. Bubba’s become my companion, my confidant, my guardian, my dear friend and a huge part of my life. He does his best to fill that big empty space in my heart left by losing my son, Jake and Sam – totally unaware it’s closely akin to the Grand Canyon in scope and hopelessly insurmountable.

It’s nearly a year now since Rusty and I stopped in that grocery store parking lot to see what was going on and left with the tiny, black puppy he called “Bubba” in a strictly generic sense – never knowing he was naming the tiny critter for all time. I figure a dog named “Bubba” and my old pickup truck named “Debra Jean” will adequately secure my “redneck status” for all time so I’ve kept both names.

So much can change in a year – or a day – or a moment. Just this morning I was tooling down the highway – an old lady in a worn out Stetson hat, driving an ancient Ford pickup truck with a big black dog riding shotgun. I looked over at Bubba and he was smiling that big toothy grin he gets when he’s extra happy and his doggy life is all it should be. I think I experienced an epiphany at that particular moment because Rusty’s prophetic words from that cold December evening, as he got out of the car and laid the tiny black pup on the car seat, came back to me . . . “You and mama gonna be okay, Bubba!” God willing, that’s true.