He came to us a cute, slobbering puppy, bleary eyed from a long car ride, fluffy black and white tail wagging in a hopeful manner. His name is Bub, and oh how well does that name suit. Let me first say that I am a dog person. There is no competition, Cats are aloof, cats are smug, and cats are boring. I will not apologize for my dislike of the things. But dogs, puppies especially, now there is an animal that I can tolerate. In most cases.
Bub would be the exception. From the very moment he set paw upon our hardwood floor, trouble arose. First of all, there was the never-ending debate over what to name this bundle of Australian Shepard fur. That puppy was at one time called Henry, Abe, Bob, Mate, and most repulsively of all, Baby. The debate could only be ended by a good family friend of ours, an Australian priest, who, when asked to approve the name of Bob for the dog, said, “Oh yeah, Bob’s a great name for the dog,”. Only, he said this in his delightful Australian accent, pronouncing Bob, Bub. The name was set. (Although Mary to this day insists on calling him Baby, and Clare stubbornly holds out for Mate.)
As I said before, I am a dog person, but I am most definitely not a Bub person. Mary spoiled the thing in it’s formative months, fawning over him, and letting him come along on runs with her, oblivious to the dangers of semi trucks blasting by both of them. Soon even she gave up on that venture, but Bub did not get the hint.
I run everyday after school when not in a sport, out in the cold, out in the gray, out with the semis (but respectfully far, far onto the shoulder of the road, unlike some). And Bub decided that if Mary let him run with her, why not with me? This began all the trouble with Bub, who at this time was not cute anymore, having somehow morphed into a squat ball of haphazard, scruffy fur and chub. He’d sneak up behind me when I least expected it and follow behind me on the road, little claws clicking along on the road. No amount of very, very stern, “No, Bub, no!”‘s or “Go home!”‘s could change his tiny mind.
I could forgive this idiot dog if he wasn’t, well, such an idiot. He has an odd fascination with the cars barreling towards him at 55 mph. Instead of running away like any normal dog, he must run towards these death machines. I’ve quite given up on that dog, and find myself chanting, “Hit the dog, hit the dog,” under my breath whenever the sound of his little paws tapping the cold pavement behind me reaches my ears on a run. But, I digress, I really am a dog person……