Tag Archives: Puppies

Funny Little Fig

By: Mary

Two summers ago Patrick brought home a tiny squirming Australian Shepherd puppy from Iowa that quickly won my affection and became the perfect canine companion for me. In my eyes he could do no wrong, and I told him so on a daily basis. Right before Christmas, my dog was hit by a car and died of internal injuries.

After he died, I vowed that I would never get another dog again. Even the sight of dogs bothered me. I was well aware that the family dog, Bounder, was expecting his offspring.

But I was convinced that having another dog would be too hard. While I was away in New York, Bounder disappeared under the porch into a little den like space that nobody could get to. It was evident that she had given birth judging from the sounds of a yelping puppy. A month went by with her hidden in her hole, only coming out for food and water. I came back home still adamant that I had no interest in whatever was business going on under the porch. Finally the yelping stopped and we wondered if she had died. Indeed, this was not hard too imagine as she is 11 years old in dog years which means about 70 in people years. Last Sunday morning I took the time to investigate and checked the doghouse that my brother, Robert had procured out of an old broken freezer.

As you can see, it’s a pretty hard scramble house with a camping mat draped over the top for extra insulation. Personally, I call it the dog trailer house. Although I disdain it, Bounder must not, for I discovered that she was contentedly sprawled in it with just one lone puppy. For all we know, she may have had more, please do remember though that she is 70-something in dog years. 70 year old animals and people have every right to eat their new offspring I suppose. So if she did pack in a bit of extra puppy protein, please don’t judge her.

After collective communal agreement, the puppy is now named Fig. Fig is a funny little guy, and has a curved spine. My brother, Patrick took him to the local vets house and found out that he has scoliosis. Patrick said that when he was at the vets house Fig was yapping away with bravado at the vet’s big dogs. That’s just what his dad would have done too.

Scoliosis doesn’t stop him from scampering about though!

I still think about Fig’s dad a lot. Sometimes I dream about him dying, and once in awhile thoughts of him still make me cry. But when I see Fig I forget about never wanting a dog again. He makes me squeal with delight, and I am thinking that maybe eventually we are going to be friends….

For more of Sweet Ridge dog tales, check out:

No, Bub, No!

Bub the Biter

It’s the Thought that Counts

Goodbye Baby

“No, Bub, No!”


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……