Blessed by Bull Dog's Loving Heart
Blessed by Bull Dog's Loving Heart
An animal lover is taught a lesson in forgiveness by the abused pooch he takes into his home.
Have you ever been so mad at someone you just couldn’t let it go? You were like, well, a bulldog with a bone? That’s exactly how I was feeling that morning parking my pickup in the clay drive of the junkyard. I fixed my eyes on the owner: a heavy-set fella in denim overalls with a fierce scowl and cold-as-ice stare.
I’d come to see him about an old Plymouth, but I had another thing on my mind. I glanced at my boxer-bulldog mix, Bull Dog, sitting on the passenger seat. On second thought, maybe I’d let him handle the situation. After all, he was the aggrieved party.
You see, three months prior, my good buddy Charles had asked me to drive him to this junkyard and haul a broken-down truck on my trailer. I said yes even though I wasn’t really feeling up to it. Truth was, I’d been pretty blue since my beloved bulldog Lucy died. I didn’t think I’d ever get over it.
I’ve loved bulldogs all my life. For me, no other breed can top their sweetness and fierce loyalty. My wife, Sonja, saw Lucy at an Adopt-a-Pet event and I brought her home. Lucy was the sweetest thing I ever laid eyes on. But after just two years, we lost her to a stroke.
I glanced that morning at the empty spot between Charles and me, where Lucy used to sit. It’d been 18 months without her and my heart still ached.
“There’s the place,” Charles said. I steered us down the long driveway. Oily tools and busted-up car parts littered the yard. There was a run-down shack and in the doorway, a portly man grimaced. Then I spotted something: a black-masked boxer bulldog chained to the bumper of a rusty old junker, barking nastily. “Oh, shut up, would ya!” the man hollered at him.
Right off my hackles got up. I could see that the dog was nothing but skin and bones. Where was his water bowl? His food? Not even a ratty pallet to lie on. How could anyone treat a dog that way?
I had to do something. Charles hopped out to talk to the man and I went to the dog. “Hey, fella,” I said, sticking out my hand. The dog lunged, barking at me. Whoa! I jumped back.
“Better watch out!” the man warned. “He’ll getcha!”
Go easy with him, I told myself. I knelt and reached out again, slowly this time, talking softly. Dogs need reassurance as much as people do, sometimes more. The bulldog strained against his chain, snapping at my fingers. He’d been tied up so long that the metal links had grown into his flesh.
“Hey!” I yelled at his owner. “Why don’t you treat him better?”
“That ol’ dog?” he snarled. “I don’t care a flip about him!”
My blood boiled! And it wasn’t just the Texas sun rising higher in the sky. “Well, I’ll just put him in my truck then!”
The man hooted. “If you can get your hands on him, go right ahead.”
I looked at the bulldog. You’re just mean ’cause you’ve been treated mean, I thought. God loves all his creatures, even a junkyard bulldog. “C’mon,” I said softly, still holding out my hand. “I won’t hurt you.”
The dog struggled against his chain. Suddenly our eyes met. I felt a connection, like a current jumping between us. He knew I wasn’t going to hurt him. His panting slowed. I stroked his jowls, then gave him a good scratch behind his ears—Lucy had always melted when I rubbed her there.
He relaxed and stretched his neck like he was saying, “More please.” Cautiously, I unsnapped the clasp on his chain. All at once, he sprang forward, knocking me off balance.
Oh, no! I thought, bracing myself for an attack, for the crushing pressure of his jaws. First on my nose, then my cheeks and ears. Not bites. Licks! I was being kissed to death by a dog. “Good boy,” I said, cracking up.