From: paul.moor@ggcs.org (Paul Moor) 
Newsgroups: rec.pets.dogs
Subject: Misha & Skeezix  (4/4)
Date: 22 Dec 92 16:22:00 GMT
Distribution: world
Organization: Golden Gate Computer Society BBS - Marin, CA - 415-927-1216
Reply-To: paul.moor@ggcs.org (Paul Moor) 

[Part 4:]

   Well, about a month has passed since I drove down to Burbank to
adopt my new dog Skeezix, and some of you have kindly asked me to
fill you in, along about now, on our respective and joint prog-
ress.  (To recapitulate for latecomers: my third French bulldog
Misha, the unrivalled light of my 68-year life, had died almost
without warning on November 6th, at the age of twelve, at almost
exactly the time the Huntington Beach Humane Society's pound
reported - shortly before they'd have to gas him - a stray French
bulldog no one had enquired about.)
   I'd never have believed I could so drastically change my first
impression of a dog.  With Misha, Skeezix had an exceptionally
tough act to follow: fawn-colored Misha, at the age of two rated
the second-finest French bulldog in the country, was a superb
animal - above and beyond being, by nature, Son of Winnie the
Pooh.  Skeezix, mostly white with a few big black spots and polka-
dot ears, has a kisser that almost makes you laugh simply to look
at it - a therapeutic bonus under the circumstances, since Misha's
death, in my own loving arms, had almost totally undone me.
   By the time Skeezix and I met, he'd just gone through one hell
of an ordeal, over some days.  A man (the suspected owner, who for
whatever reason could no longer care for him) had brought him in,
as a stray, filthy, emaciated, crawling with fleas.  Almost three
weeks on that pound's Death Row followed.  With rescue arranged,
he underwent obligatory castration, then spent one night in a
strange new environment.  My Burbank friends took him over, and
subjected him to throat surgery - two general-anesthetic opera-
tions in 48 hours!  After two nights with them, .I. took him on an
eight-hour drive to yet another strange new environment.  With
definitely mixed feelings, I found myself the owner of (as I'd
anticipated) a thoroughly disoriented and confused little bulldog,
estimated by the experts at between two and three years old.
   There then followed a period of unfolding, over a week or ten
days, on which I now wish I'd taken copious notes: it resembled
the unfolding of a flower into full bloom.  The olfactory also
figured importantly: at first encounter, he had mild halitosis (no
doubt from the first vet's worming treatment: he'd found tape-
worm); also, two thorough baths (one to kill vermin) had left him
bereft of even a trace of the dog odor I find so endearing.
   He immediately manifest a seemingly infinite deficit in atten-
tion and affection, so when he showed a need, I dropped everything
and tried to fulfil it.  This has no doubt spoiled him rotten:
when I work at my computer, Skeezix has the run of the bed behind
me, and mostly snoozes, but when he decides to assert himself I
first hear a soft, low growl, then, if I ignore it, a staccato
bark, which gets louder and louder - until I finally turn around,
glaring.  At that point he shrinks back, pseudo-innocent, totally
abashed, flopping half onto his back, jaws wide in a full grin,
playfully waving a paw by way of seductive explanation and depre-
cation.  Misha made me smile innumerable times a day; Skeezix
makes me laugh - out loud.
   It took over a week for two important unfolding developments
finally to transpire.  He loved having his belly stroked, but no
subtlety on my part would seduce him to lie all the way on his
back.  When he finally did - the vulnerable canine position of
submissiveness - I knew he'd passed a crucial milestone of trust.
   French bulldogs have a repertoire of conversational sounds all
their own; most can get downright garrulous - but Skeezix remained
almost eerily silent, except for snoring, in which he ranks in the
championship class.  I'd become so accustomed to perceiving
Misha's presence merely by ear; with Skeezix at first I'd turn
around, maybe in the kitchen, and discover this utterly silent
little dog, studying me.  About a day after he first lay fully on
his back, he finally started talking to me: he'd accepted me.
   Misha, watchfully raised for the show ring, tended towards the
sedate; Skeezix explodes with energy - always sharply alert, infi-
nitely inquisitive, fascinated, even amazed by everything that
goes on about him.  The first time he followed me into the bath-
room and watched me take a leak - bulldog head cocked to one side,
eyes wide with wonder at this phenomenon of nature - he made me
think of the naturalist John Muir, the "discoverer" of Yosemite
Valley, the first time he beheld mighty Yosemite Falls.
   If Skeezix had his way, he'd also have uninterrupted physical
contact.  He frequently tries to mount my lap, even when I sit in
a chair which permits no real lap to accommodate him.  He's
finally grasped, with massive resistance and poignant reluctance,
that I categorically draw the line at driving with him on my lap.
   In short: Skeezix + I have worked out more miraculously well
than I'd ever have dared dream possible.  I feel not unlike a
shipwrecked drowning man who's managed to grasp a floating life-
saver, provided by some miracle, right in the nick of time.

---
 . OLX 2.2 . I give up.  What .is. the meaning of life?