On Dogs and Integrity

Buckshot Midnight Ranger Wilson - the registered name of our black Labrador retriever we affectionately call "Buck".  He actually goes by a number of names:  “Buck”, “Buckles”, “Buckers”, “Buckster”, “Buckerdoo”, “Puppy” and often just “Dog”.  The great thing is that he'll answer to anything.  Buck just turned 4 years old.  He was six weeks old when I picked him up for Christmas in 2008.

Bringing him into the family was quite an ordeal.  I'd been lobbying Stacey for a long time about getting a family dog.  "Every boy ought to have a dog," I told her. "It's part of growing up."  "I don't want a dog," Stacey replied.  "I don't like dogs.  They jump up on you and make a mess, and I'm afraid of dogs.  And I know who’ll have to take care of him - me!"  After literally years of discussion, Stacey acquiesced but with conditions:  "I'm not going to have a dog in my house.  No dog in the world is worth fooling with the stink and the mess in my house.  Dogs belong outside.  And I don't want a big dog.  I don't want them jumping on me. And I don't want a noisy dog.  I hate barking dogs.  And I don't want a shedding dog - even outside.  That hair gets all over everything. And I am NOT going to take care of him.”

“OK, I hear you,” I replied. “We’ll get a small, quiet, non-shedding outdoor dog.  The boys and I will take care of him.”  So with that, I started my research to find our family dog. 

Who would have dreamed that three days before Christmas, everyone was sold out of dogs?  I finally found one woman that had a litter of puppies, but she was down to her last one.  I set up an appointment to see her that day at 2:00 PM.  About an hour later, she called me back and told me that she had just gotten off the phone with a woman in Shepherdsville.  I had a rival on her way to see the puppy at that very moment.  

The owner had tried to explain to the woman that she should come after me since I called first, but this other dog-digger insisted on coming immediately.  The owner called to let me know and said she guessed we could just fight it out.  I jumped into my Ford Explorer and broke every speed limit between Simpsonville and Valley Station (by a considerable margin) to try to get there first.  I was close to coming home empty-handed for my boys' Christmas, as well as close to losing a competition to some pushy puppy-grubbing Bullitt County woman I didn’t even know.  I didn't want either to happen.

I found the address, and much to my relief, I was the first to arrive.  I spent a few minutes with the owner who then brought out the last little puppy.  As soon as I saw him, I knew he was coming home to live with us.  I tried to act disinterested.  “So is this the only one you have?  He’s kind of small isn’t he?  How much are you asking again?  That’s a lot of money for a black lab isn’t it?”  About that time, there was a knock on the door.  “I’ll take him,” I said.  “I have cash.” 

As the owner’s daughter opened the door, a frantic professional woman burst into the house and made a beeline for the puppy.  “Ohhhh, he’s beautiful,” she gushed, scooping him up.  “My little Egbert (or whatever her son's name was) will be so happy for Christmas!  I had almost given up hope!”  I looked at her and said, “Sorry, but I just bought the puppy.”  Her countenance plummeted.  She gave me her best quivering pouty face and pleaded, “But, but …you don’t understand.  My little Egbert’s cat died and he has just been inconsolable.  I promised him I’d get him a puppy, and this will crush him.  This is my last hope.  You’re my last hope.  You’ll help me won’t you?”

Not being one to ignore chivalry, I knew I had to do the right thing.  “I’d hate for  little Egbert not to have his puppy and think you are an awful mother for waiting so late about replacing his dead cat and all. I'll tell you what – I’ve got a list of two more names here that didn’t call me back when I tried to reach them about their puppies.  You can have these numbers,” I said, offering her my scrap of paper. 

The woman looked shocked and her eyes seemed to kind of squint at me.  It also looked like her nostrils got a little bigger too – she must have been allergic to dog hair or something.  “That’s it?!” she said, “A couple of numbers?”  I knew she would understand as I explained,  “Sorry Ma’am.  I've got two sons of my own to worry about.  The puppy’s mine.”  I plopped the money down, made arrangements to pick the puppy up after Christmas and left.  It felt good to do the right thing.

As I sit here in my easy chair four years later with Buck curled up beside me stinking and shedding hair, I reflected on the value of integrity.  I asked Stacey if Buck had been fed today.  She says he has.  That makes me feel better because I promised to take care of him and want to make sure his needs are met.  And Buckles does stay outside – usually for a few minutes just before bedtime each day.   He doesn’t bark either, unless he’s awake or has a bad dream. And he is small dog – at least as far as black labs go.  He’s only 75 pounds!  Oh, and he was really small when I got him.

So I’ve kept my word, but Stacey hasn’t keep hers.  She said she would never learn to like a dog.  She said she would never have one in her house.  She said she wouldn’t have anything to do with one.  When you see her lying in the floor talking silly to “Buckerdoo” and rubbing his head, you see just how dishonest she really was about the whole thing.  I’m just glad at least I still have my integrity.