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The Good Life: Bud Became Pete And That Is Neat

We have Pete. We might keep Pete.

No, not “that” Pete. This is not about “Mayor Pete” Buttigieg of South Bend, Indiana, the Democratic Presidential candidate, the Rhodes Scholar, the military veteran of a tour in Afghanistan … oh, and by the way, he is gay and married.

“This” Pete is a long-legged, deep-throated 70-pound Walker Treeing Coonhound/Labrador retriever cross with a jowly, howly disposition, a wolf-like trot that sends him a half-mile away within two minutes … oh, and by the way, he attempts domination by copulation. That is provoking snarls while he and our other two dogs, also neutered males, sort out the pack order.

Pete might be living here from now on. I get to inform Pete about the rules, boundaries and code of conduct we expect from our canine cohabitants – and sometimes actually get. But the actual who-lives-where decision will be made by my wife. She decided that we need a younger dog to supplant aging Ralph, 10, and Buddy, 9, our Lab/Aussie and beagle/collie dogs that, when healthy, have kept varmints away from chickens and deer away from our munchable gardens and shrubs.

Buddy was laid up this past summer from hip surgery. Ralph … Ah, Ralph. He has been nearsighted for years. Let Dan Park, who cuts our hayfield, leave a new square bale atop the sward and Ralph races toward it in full-throated threat mode, determined to defend our farmstead from … Huh? What IS this? Gee, it smells like … grass. Never mind.

So while Buddy was recuperating near the house and Ralph was deprived of Buddy’s alarm system, four possums ravaged our chickens, reducing the flock from 22 to one.

We are now back up to eight chickens.

But for my wife, that slaughter was proof enough.

“We need a younger dog!” she declaimed. “He shall protect our chickens, our blueberry bushes, our gardens … anything around here that I value.

“Oh, by the way … you get to train him.”

That is fairly standard decision-making methodology around here.

I made some suggestions. No puppies; a calm dog; a controllable dog. I am easily fatigued.

She brought Pete. He can dislocate my elbow, my shoulder or both when he sights a treeable cat, which substitutes for treeable raccoons. He can walk/trot faster than I can run. He goes nose-to-ground a la hound, not head up by sight as do Ralph and Buddy — until he sights treeable raccoons, cats or squirrels. I cannot unfixate him without recourse to the buzzer (not the shock) on his dog-training collar. Though I cannot keep up with him, I have no trouble locating him. His “I got it!” basso profundo yowl/howl echoes for a mile or more.

So my life just got more interesting. There is a side benefit. Painting the trim on the farmhouse has come to a screeching halt due to Pete’s consumption of several whole hours during each day.

Though I am winded and sore, I much prefer playing with Pete to washing, scraping, priming and finish coating 170-year-old wood.

Pete, it transpires, had lived with a gentleman now in a nursing home, leaving him in need of care. My wife’s friend Teresa Stout stepped up. She mentioned Bud (now Pete) to my wife. The women conferred. Bud (now Pete) moved from Teresa’s four-dog farm to our two-dog farm. Will he go back? Stay here? That is to be resolved when Teresa returns from a vacation trip.

Bud became Pete because Buddy already lives here. I would have driven Buddy, Ralph, myself and Bud/Pete nuts trying to distinguish between two Buds, of the non-drinkable variety.

I chose “Pete” because Bud looks like a Pete to me: long-legged, lanky, energetic, smart and curious.

Curiously, I have received somewhat negative reactions from a grandson, Peter, and from members of his family. Dogs are noble creatures, far nobler than politicians, as noble as … why, as noble as I am. Such an appellation is an honor, isn’t it?

As a child, I had a bull calf named after me. That did not end well. It was fun while “Denny” was a cute calf. I was horrified a few years later when Uncle John and Aunt Helen froze, cooked and ate “Denny” and served him to us at a family dinner. It was the consumption, not the name bestowal, that shocked me. That will not happen with Bud/Pete. Our culture is dog-munch averse.

I trust that Peter the grandchild will in due time come to appreciate the honor of having his name bestowed upon Pete the Walker Treeing Coonhound.

He might even speak favorably about it at my funeral, which looms ever nearer as I gasp, pant, ache and wheeze while delighting in Pete.

¯¯¯

Denny Bonavita is a former editor at newspapers in DuBois and Warren. He lives near Brookville. Email: denny2319@windstream.net.

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