Bo got his three-year license
By Paul WeeksVintage ColumnistPublished Tuesday, January 4, 2005
"I want to renew Bo's license," I told the dog-license clerk. "I want the three-year license."
The dog wasn't with me. The young and pretty clerk looked at my vintage features and asked: "How old is Bo?"
"He's going on 14 by Thanksgiving Day," I answered.
"You'd better get a one-year license," she said, pulling out the form.
"No, three years," I said.
"Mister, he's a pretty old dog. He might not ..."
"Madam, I'm going on 84. I might not either, but I want a three-year license
for Bo."
She shrugged. She complied. Bo, the elegant half-yellow Lab and half-German shepherd that my wife and I chose in 1991, got the little metal plate added to three or four old plates that hung from his fading-red collar.
Now, look, I'm no sentimental type. (Not this early in my story, anyway.)The
eason Bo wore so many licenses at once was when he needs to go outside at, say, two hours before dawn, is that he always jangled the hanging plates in a merry "wake-up, Paul," suggestion.
Never barked to beg. Never whined. The jingle was all I needed. Later in the day, he would go to the door to the patio and knock on the glass sliding door with his nose, asif to say, "I want to go out." I didn't question his motive -- unless he asked too often and it got to be open-shut, open-shut, open-shut without stopping.
Then he would just go to the door and sit and look me in the eye. No matter where I was sitting. Gentle persuasion. That was the strongest trait of character that in him.
It worked the first time when we saw him in a fancy fenced-in cage, bigger than most prison cells.
The Helen Woodward Foundation is so well endowed that it actually provided Bo with two cells in which he alternated while the other was cleaned with a garden hose.
It didn't take in any stray dogs. Only those whose human family had to abandon it for some reason or other. The Foundation even obtained a history of the dog's past, his behavior, why he had to be given up.
Bo's teenage master, it turned out, got him as a puppy, took him home to join another little dog. The teen practiced drumming in the parlor. Bo hates noise, even the blasts of gunfire from CNN's nightly news on the TV.
Also, Bo began to grow rapidly. The little dog didn't. The little dog was favored, so Bo was turned out to find another home.
What Bo didn't know was that I had been a teenage drummer, too, but gave up practicing on the front porch 70 years ago. Eric Bjorum, who lived a block down the street, came running breathlessly. "Mama's having a baby and asked if you'd quit!"
If the baby acquired Bo's distaste for noise, I figure that wouldn't be such a bad one in this age of incessant noise -- TV, trucks, airplanes, barking dogs
No, Bo never barked except when the doorbell rang or coyotes ranged at the fence bordering our yard.
Bo liked to travel as much as we did. Driving in a New Mexico blizzard one night, a rash of collisions stalled traffic for hours.The long wait was getting to be too much. Bo, whose lineage goes back to the freezing winters of Labrador, got out and showed the stalled caravan how to answer nature's demand in the cold.
He got his picture taken with a pueblo Indian in full Santa Claus regalia waving from a gleaming red fire truck, and went on to visit dozens of young children in a big auditorium where Santa entertained.
Sentimental? Yes, I am. Bo collapsed trying to reach the door a few weeks ago. Dr. Milton Gee, a veterinarian whose ceaseless care had seen Bo through a long life, took X-rays, prescribed oxygen.
Bo never whined. Never showed pain.
The doctor's needle brought a humane ending.
And I shall keep the two years remaining of Bo's dog license attached to my keychain.
* Paul Weeks is a longtime reporter who lives in Oceanside. To reach him, e-mail rand9999@aol.com.
"I want to renew Bo's license," I told the dog-license clerk. "I want the three-year license."
The dog wasn't with me. The young and pretty clerk looked at my vintage features and asked: "How old is Bo?"
"He's going on 14 by Thanksgiving Day," I answered.
"You'd better get a one-year license," she said, pulling out the form.
"No, three years," I said.
"Mister, he's a pretty old dog. He might not ..."
"Madam, I'm going on 84. I might not either, but I want a three-year license
for Bo."
She shrugged. She complied. Bo, the elegant half-yellow Lab and half-German shepherd that my wife and I chose in 1991, got the little metal plate added to three or four old plates that hung from his fading-red collar.
Now, look, I'm no sentimental type. (Not this early in my story, anyway.)The
eason Bo wore so many licenses at once was when he needs to go outside at, say, two hours before dawn, is that he always jangled the hanging plates in a merry "wake-up, Paul," suggestion.
Never barked to beg. Never whined. The jingle was all I needed. Later in the day, he would go to the door to the patio and knock on the glass sliding door with his nose, asif to say, "I want to go out." I didn't question his motive -- unless he asked too often and it got to be open-shut, open-shut, open-shut without stopping.
Then he would just go to the door and sit and look me in the eye. No matter where I was sitting. Gentle persuasion. That was the strongest trait of character that in him.
It worked the first time when we saw him in a fancy fenced-in cage, bigger than most prison cells.
The Helen Woodward Foundation is so well endowed that it actually provided Bo with two cells in which he alternated while the other was cleaned with a garden hose.
It didn't take in any stray dogs. Only those whose human family had to abandon it for some reason or other. The Foundation even obtained a history of the dog's past, his behavior, why he had to be given up.
Bo's teenage master, it turned out, got him as a puppy, took him home to join another little dog. The teen practiced drumming in the parlor. Bo hates noise, even the blasts of gunfire from CNN's nightly news on the TV.
Also, Bo began to grow rapidly. The little dog didn't. The little dog was favored, so Bo was turned out to find another home.
What Bo didn't know was that I had been a teenage drummer, too, but gave up practicing on the front porch 70 years ago. Eric Bjorum, who lived a block down the street, came running breathlessly. "Mama's having a baby and asked if you'd quit!"
If the baby acquired Bo's distaste for noise, I figure that wouldn't be such a bad one in this age of incessant noise -- TV, trucks, airplanes, barking dogs
No, Bo never barked except when the doorbell rang or coyotes ranged at the fence bordering our yard.
Bo liked to travel as much as we did. Driving in a New Mexico blizzard one night, a rash of collisions stalled traffic for hours.The long wait was getting to be too much. Bo, whose lineage goes back to the freezing winters of Labrador, got out and showed the stalled caravan how to answer nature's demand in the cold.
He got his picture taken with a pueblo Indian in full Santa Claus regalia waving from a gleaming red fire truck, and went on to visit dozens of young children in a big auditorium where Santa entertained.
Sentimental? Yes, I am. Bo collapsed trying to reach the door a few weeks ago. Dr. Milton Gee, a veterinarian whose ceaseless care had seen Bo through a long life, took X-rays, prescribed oxygen.
Bo never whined. Never showed pain.
The doctor's needle brought a humane ending.
And I shall keep the two years remaining of Bo's dog license attached to my keychain.
* Paul Weeks is a longtime reporter who lives in Oceanside. To reach him, e-mail rand9999@aol.com.
posted by Paul Weeks at 10:32 PM
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