This time of year, there are plenty of people issuing warnings
about this that and the other thing. Enough of that becomes a
constant drizzle that dampens the holiday spirit.
This time of year, there are plenty of people issuing warnings about this that and the other thing. Enough of that becomes a constant drizzle that dampens the holiday spirit.
The warning that irks me most, though I know it’s well intentioned, is the one about not giving a pet as a Christmas present.
As long as you think it through and are sure that the animal will be well cared for, is there a better present?
I’ll confess to being a bit nervous about not really having a Plan B when I went to the animal shelter in San Luis Obispo during college and picked out a sickly, but irresistible puppy to bring home for my youngest brother Matt.
Many years have passed, but some things, like the scar I have on my hand from trying to hold on to the tree I fell out of, stick with you. Such is the case with that Christmas present puppy many years ago.
The little guy had intelligent eyes, but they were masked with a film related to a sniffle that was married to a nasty germ.
The shelter closed a week or so before Christmas, and Bosco needed a week in my infirmary anyway to get up his strength. That could at least take away the possibility of Dad giving me the look that killed and said, “Really? You brought home a dog for Christmas that’s about ready to keel over and cost me a fortune at the Vet’s?”
Bringing a surprise Christmas puppy home took gunslinger guts – you just never could be certain about the outcome. But I did know Matthew Blaine Derry could use an extra buddy, and in a young boy’s life there’s often no more loyal a friend than a canine who’s happy to see you whether you failed the math test, tossed a rock at the neighbor’s mailbox or forgot to take out the garbage three days in a row.
Matteo, as I called him, came into the world a distant 16 years behind my debut and his siblings were all flying the coop. This natural progression is fine if you’re not the one left behind, I figured, and the likelihood of another sibling coming along was as slender as the Virginia Slims that Mom lit up.
Bosco was the next best thing to being there given that Skype and such didn’t exist.
The little guy took his name from chocolate syrup. Honestly, I’m not sure if they even make it anymore, but we used to put it in milk and stir it up, pour it over vanilla ice cream or make a shake in the Waring blender with it. Bosco made things better.
He, of course, was as black and white as a tuxedo. In Scotland they would have called him a “wee lad” him being so tiny and seeming even tinier because of the sickness.
But he came around in that first week, day by day gaining strength and ratcheting up the frisky factor. Maybe that’s why he became such a champion. I wrote a story once about a high school cross country runner who had been diagnosed with a heart condition as a child. Turned out he had a condition all right, the condition being that he ended up with more “heart” than any runner ever had coming out of Atascadero High School.
Bosco seemed to appreciate feeling good after starting out life with more than a few challenges, not the least of which was to get past the gatekeeper in the Derry household. Fortunately, Dad always had a soft heart when it came to dogs and he celebrated Christmas with a generous heart, too.
That’s the combo I was banking on.
Early on, I had floated the idea of bringing Bosco home to Mom and swore her to high-level secrecy. She wouldn’t give me the all clear, but she hushed her voice on the phone when we talked about it and I took that as a sign of complicity.
Bosco was in.
I don’t exactly remember how we hid him under the tree, but I do remember the look on Matt’s – and Dad’s face – when the chocolate syrup surprise ended up in Matt’s arms. Matt couldn’t hide the joy and Dad only feigned being upset in order to preserve his image as gatekeeper.
As it turned out, Matt got a black coat and black and white gloves for Christmas that year. I snapped an iconic photo of the Bosco Christmas with Dad’s Zeiss Ikon 35mm camera which, by the way, I still have and the rest is Christmas history.
But back to the champion part. Bosco, as far as the vet and the folks at the shelter could determine, was part Whippet, part Australian Shepherd and part your guess is as good as mine. That combination proved to be unbeatable in the juniper jumping tennis ball finding Olympic event that people never ceased to be amazed by.
Next to keeping Matt company, Bosco loved nothing more than to fly into the seven-foot-high juniper bush forest – a thick, dark area as wide as a two-car garage next to the driveway – and come out smiling with the tennis ball between his teeth. Despite prickly branches and navigation by nose only, Bosco would deliver.
“C’mon throw it in there again,” onlookers would request, wondering if Bosco could repeat the feat. He could, but whenever I came home, I tested him. Watching him leap into a pile of junipers as if he were the world’s greatest rugby player never ceased to amaze. You just shook your head and gave old Bosco his due – a good scratch behind the ears and another toss of the ball – when he came out with the fuzzy prize.
The junipers, I think, are gone now. Mom and Dad are, too. But that Christmas memory is here to stay for a while longer while Matt and I still occupy the planet.
Over the years, I’ve received more from that gift than I ever gave. That’s how it is when it’s a gift from the heart.
