We never named an animal with a human moniker. Mom and Dad did not name Dan. He was a rescue, and after years with Zapato, they went back to the familiar English Bull Dog breed.
Tan and white, and particularly stocky, Dan had been raised in a home without boundaries. What a handful! His favorite pass time was stalking and trapping the cat, full body, World Wide Federation of Wrestling style. Luckily Blitz was around 20 pounds herself, and used a strong, insistent voice when calling out for help.
One day, Shante, the one year old version, dashed down the super long hallway that runs through the rambler. Dan, seeing his chance at a different prey to tackle, zipped after at mad speed. And following the two, also moving at an exceptional rate, was Mom. It was a scene from a Looney Tune cartoon.
After the ten yard dash, the hallway terminated in Mark’s room. Shante turned around, and in her loudest, deepest, baby voice shouted “NO Dan”. The dog stopped in his tracks, and slunk back to the family room. Tackle averted. If you think your voice has no power, think again.
I don’t have a lot of Dan stories, but as a secondary memory, Dan added a lot of gaseous moments to our days. It is traditional for Bull Dogs to grace the home with powerful scents. When Dan returned to God, the vet offered my parents the option of cremation, common practice once we came to the ’90s. Mom and Dad declined. I laughed about the sad mis-consideration. A box of Dan ashes would have given years of memorable accusation. Any time a particularly vulgar scent filled the air, the people in the room could have turned to the box, “Ooooooh Dan!”
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