The mudroom is full of pictures, posters and Bull Dog paraphernalia. When I moved into my parents’ house, I collected it there. Last week, one of the appliance delivery men commented. And so I told the story.
Before I was born, Mom and Dad were on the dog show circuit. I have no idea what dog they were showing, because they never owned a quality English Bull Dog, but they spent time with Ward and Pat Williams who raised the pups. Grandma and Grandpa Plumb had one too, Wrinkle Puss.
If we dig deep enough, there are pictures of me, the baby, in the dog crate at a show. I was told, it was the safest space; the dog wouldn’t allow anyone near me. Ironic devotion, English Bull Dogs are gentle and kind by nature. Smelly. Also pretty aromatic by nature.
We grew up with two dogs, Tuffy and Wiz. They had paper names too, Friar Tuck and Williams Was Her Name. They were mostly stubborn, known for ignoring what they were told to do. I can remember them tugging at the leashes in public. The real reason for the fence around the yard was these two.
Tuffy went missing. There was a lot of confusion and tension as Dad searched and searched. There was no sign of escape from the yard, so the dog had to be somewhere nearby, still confined, but how was it possible? As they called and listened, there was a snuffling. It was a snuffling from INSIDE of a cedar stump. Tuffy had climbed the stump, and fallen into the burned out center! The best and the brightest.
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