Post #63 – Women’s Memoirs, ScrapMoir – Matilda Butler and Kendra Bonnett
By Judy Fettman,
Honorable Mention Winner
Women’s Memoirs TableScraps Stories of Pets
Bo is our six-year-old Jack Russell terrier we’ve had since he was a puppy. He’s low to the ground with short legs, a long snout, big imploring brown eyes that get him most anything he wants, and ears that remind you of a jester’s cap, one perked up straight, the other flopped down towards his left eye. Despite his share of doggy mischief over the years, Bo has remained one of the family. He was grazed by a speeding car when he was a year old, treated (at top dollar) at the Emergency Veterinary Clinic, and wore one of those “lampshade” collars for four weeks until his wounds healed. He’s had “accidents” on the living room carpet and even bitten Jordan, our youngest son, but when you’re one of the family, you can’t just be given away.
However, early last spring Bo just about lost his happy home after the debacle under the porch.
As you may know, terriers are burrowers; they are born knowing that their highest purpose in life is to ferret out small creatures from places underground, and devour them. Undoubtedly, Bo was attempting to play out this destiny when one spring afternoon he spied a raccoon and chased it under the porch, near the foundation of the family room and began barking.
Bo pursued his potential prey and barked with nary a pause all afternoon. At first we hoped he would eventually get discouraged and give up. We have since learned that terriers do not give up. By dinnertime, more than tired of his incessant barking, we began trying other tactics to get him to stop. We tried to lure him out; we called his name, “Bo! Come here, Bo!” We tried to trick him; “Treat, Bo, treat!” We bribed him by placing a hamburger under the porch where we could grab him. We underestimated his persistence. His barking continued, now hoarse and more muffled. It seemed that he had worked his way somewhere under the family room floor. Luring, calling, tricking, bribing—it became obvious that nothing was going to divert him from his God-ordained task.
Over the next hour his barking became weaker, and at times stopped completely. Was he getting any air in there? Was he going to smother? Was he dying? It was time for more definitive action. We called Nick, our 21-year-old son, who lives in town, a strapping, muscular kid who plays hockey and works out. Maybe he could do….something.
Nick and Bo
As Nick arrived, so did the rain, first a gray drizzle, then cold and steady. Nick tried reaching Bo under the porch, tried distracting him with a flashlight, lured, called, tricked, bribed. “I can’t reach him. We’re going to have to take some of these planks off the porch,” he surmised.
O.K., this is where the real dog lovers separate themselves from the rest of the pack (I know, Ackk!! As my friend Marie would say.) Would you tear up your porch to save a dog who was so short-sightedly set on his kamikaze task? Well, we did!
Jordan and Bo
Now, I do need to let you know, lest you think we were truly nuts, that we did have plans to replace the 25 year old porch with a new deck and patio later in the spring. So we were starting the project a couple of months early. Our son Jordan, then 15, and our daughter Arielle, then 17, joined Nick and me with hammers, crowbars, a pick, and started ripping up the porch, plank by plank. Once we had made an opening large enough, Nick crawled in and reached into the hole leading under the concrete floor. “I can’t reach him. He’s too far under,” he reported as he slithered out again through the mud and emerged from the splintered planks. “I need a shovel, see if I can dig him out from below.” We found two shovels in the garage; Nick and Jordan chipped away at the clay and the mud. It was quickly getting dark, and by now was pouring rain. We didn’t hear any more barking.
At this point normal people would probably have given up and cut their losses. I was tempted. However, Mark and I had plans to leave the next morning for a week in Italy; these teenagers would be staying at home, mourning (and smelling?) a dog left dead under the floor where they were playing Nintendo. No, I couldn’t.
I called the fire department. Within minutes a screaming red fire truck flew into our driveway. Two burly fire fighters, suited in canvas raincoats with fluorescent green stripes and wearing colossal-sized rubber boots, hit the ground and lumbered over to the mud pit. One by one they squeezed down between the remaining planks, shining their flashlights into the dark tunnel, evaluating the situation. “We’ll need more room if we’re gonna dig ‘im out,” the blond one said. “Alright if we rip out a few more planks?” Sure, be my guest. Maybe we’ll get a discount on the destruct part of our renovation. One fireman manned a shovel while the other took the ax to the porch; meanwhile another fire truck screamed up behind the first, and two more firemen observed and offered helpful suggestions: “How much this porch gonna cost ya, ya think?”
Time to finish this story: after two hours of digging, axing, wedging, and yes, more barking, a fireman said he could reach the dog. A few more shovels of mud: “I’ve got a leg!” More shoveling, more mud: “I’ve got him!” (This was sounding more and more like an emergency Caesarean!) The fireman pulled the dog out, held him up, wet and dirty. Within two seconds, Bo bit the fireman, the fireman dropped Bo, and back into the tunnel went the dog.
Yes, they went after him again and yes, they dragged him out, handed the muddy mess to Nick who whisked him away to a warm bath, just as any good obstetrician would. Bo was fine, not a mark on him, under all that clay and mud. The fireman survived the bite, and as he and his colleagues left, they had a good laugh over all the destruction they were leaving behind. At least that night their evening shift hadn’t been boring. We left for Italy the next morning, and later in the spring, the rubble was replaced by a new patio and deck, with no possible access underneath to dogs or raccoons. Alas, we didn’t get a discount.
Never underestimate the persistence of a Jack Russell pooch under the porch.
