A Man and His Maniac
The Bunkie Story
A Memoir by Charles Franklin Emery III
Copyright 2010 by Charles Franklin Emery III - DBA Bunkiedog Press
First Edition: January 2007
Second Edition: July 2009
ISBN - 10: 0615308015
ISBN - 13: 978-0615-30801-2
Copyright 2007, 2009 Bunkiedog Press
Registered Copyright 2006 TXu1-317-738
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Table of Contents
Bunkie - Enter The Dog
Bunkie and the Demolition Derby
Bunkie Discovers Physics
Bunkie and the Birds and The Bees
Bunkie Goes Abroad
Bunkie Goes to Sunnymead
Bunkie’s Big Day
Bunkie and the Hunt – Part 1
Bunkie and the Hunt – Part 2
Bunkie and the Hunt – Part 3
Bunkie Meets the Missus
Dad and Bunkie
Bunkie's Requiem
Bunkie's Opus
Sweet Pain
Do You Think That He’ll Remember me?
Preface
Welcome to the Second Edition of "A Man and His Maniac: The
Bunkie Story". This books content is included in "Dad, Dog
and Fish" my memoir about my Dad and Bunkie.
This Second Edition is being released as a stand-alone memoir about Bunkie; this book is for those readers that have expressed an interest in Bunkie's story as a pet memoir without additional Emery family memoir content. I have also added additional content to this edition for the Bunkiephiles.
I have written chapters in the chronological order of Bunkie’s life. I start each chapter describing a spot in time that is etched in my mind's eye. I loved that dog and I hope that I don’t get too sappy. Bunkie was a riot and I laughed far more than I cried while we were together. I’ll try to give you a glimpse into my world with the dog that was Bunkie. I hope you enjoy the book; I know I enjoyed Bunkie.
Bunkie - Enter the Dog
“With warm breath shimmering in the frosty morning light, the yellow lab sits attentively along a verdant river bank. Peering into the rising sun, he watches for the next teal or mallard to show itself. A sense of well-being floods the hunter as he watches his companion with pride and reflects on his good fortune to be at this place with this dog. Life is good.”
It was February 1982. I was in the Navy stationed on the US Navy Fast Attack submarine USS Queenfish (SSN-651) at the Bremerton Naval Shipyard in Washington State. Bremerton in the 1980's was a typical small town in western Washington State; a town of faded glory, small businesses and not much of a night life outside of the White Pig Tavern. The White Pig was known locally as the Albino Swino.
I was a newlywed, married to my future ex-wife Nicole. Things were good.
We had just recently discovered that she was pregnant and we went out to do some minor celebrating in the booming metropolis that was Bremerton. Our celebration was minor by necessity; the Navy did not pay well enough for major celebrations.
It was a cold and bright day on Bremerton’s main drag, too cold to be lingering on the streets for long. We were moving from small shop to small shop, picking up the odd bit to decorate our home with.
As we walked along, I spied a lady standing on the corner with a towel covered cardboard box sitting on the sidewalk.
As we passed, she asked us if we would be interested in a puppy.
My wife immediately said "No thanks."
I said "Sure, let’s see what you’ve got."
The lady pulled the towel off the top of the box; inside were five Labrador retriever puppies. They were probably six weeks old at the time.
I’m a sucker for bird dogs; I always have been.
I was raised in a hunting family, and Dad and I lived for hunting quail and doves. We loved dogs that could hunt; the dogs didn't have to be purebreds, just good dogs that loved to hunt.
Four of the dogs were black females. One of the dogs was a yellow male.
I was drawn to the yellow pup and stooped to pick him up. I cradled him in the crook of my elbow on his back and waited. He just lay there looking up at me with those big, soft, brown eyes; he was very compliant.
I placed my hand on his tiny chest and he curled his front paws around my hand and lay docilely staring up at me.
Oh, how that dog fooled me.
He made me think he was simply a gentle creature that wanted nothing more than to bask in the glory of my presence. I could feel my wife's eyes burning into my brain; I knew that I would pay dearly if I bought that dog.
What the hell, I wanted the dog.
As Admiral David G. Farragut once said, "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!"
So, I sailed that water, I did.
I was sunk. I had to have him. I asked the lady how much. The lady hemmed and hawed a bit and then said, “Ten bucks.” I fished two fives from my wallet and he was mine.
Needless to say Nicole was not happy. I told her that I bought the dog for her, to keep her company while I’m at the shipyard doing the Navy thing.
Oh, what a liar I was, that dog was mine.
The lie mollified her somewhat and she even played with him a while as we walked back towards the car.
We got back to the house we were renting in Port Orchard and introduced the dog to his new home. He tinkled with joy, tinkled meaning that he liberally splashed dog piss from the front door foyer linoleum to the brand new living room carpet.
I grabbed him up and took him outside into the snow covered front yard and set him down in a drift.
He was belly deep in snow. He didn’t look too happy with his family jewels buried in the snow. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t have been too happy if my family jewels were buried in snow either.
I placed him under the eaves in the flowerbed and he did his business and then we went into the house.
He was a happy little guy, always on the move. He followed us everywhere we went and seemed to have the opposite sleeping hours that we did.
He was a mischievous little dude, playfully leaving stinky, slimy, disgusting mounds of dog offal deposited in the most unlikely places. He was a real joy, he was.
Nicole was teeming with love for the dog. She had endearing little names for him, alternating between "That little jerk!” and “Oh, that little creep!”
I didn’t think that those names were appropriate titles for a family loved one, so I thought of another name for him.
I named him Bunkie.
I named him Bunkie because that is what the Navy slang term for your bed was. Everyone knows that a sailor loves to sleep and that he loves his bunkie.
There you have it. Bunkie was the perfect name.
As the weeks passed, Bunkie became better at going outside to the bathroom. Of course it helped that he was rapidly growing and now his family jewels weren't buried too deep in the snow.
I took Bunkie to the veterinary doctor on Friday afternoon for his shots and we had a great time.
He tore that place up. He pissed. He crapped. He demolished a Boys Life magazine. He terrorized a Pekingese.
That was in the first fifteen minutes that we were in the office.
So much for my docile, basking in the glory of my presence dog. I was mortified. I apologized to the owner of the Pekingese.
The receptionist fixed me with an icy glare while I cleaned up the mess.
Where did my perfect little soldier go? Oh, he fooled me all right.
I hogtied that Cerberus, that Hound of Hades, and went into the vet's examining room.
I set Bunkie on the table and the doc took a look. The vet looked at his eyes, ears and feet. He pried open Bunkie’s mouth and looked at his teeth and gums. He checked out the dog’s coat and checked the family jewels. He nodded approvingly. Bunkie pissed all over the table. The doc was no longer nodding approvingly.
I cleaned up the mess. The doc got the hypodermic needle out and loaded up for the shots. I think the doc was looking forward to this part.
Bunkie took his shots without a whimper. I was impressed. The doc was impressed, he was nodding approvingly again.
The doc said he was a little concerned with Bunkie’s potbelly. He said Bunkie might need to get wormed.
Such an innocent phrase it was “might need to get wormed.” I said OK, let’s worm him. The doctor gave me some worming medication and told me to give him some before bedtime tonight and then check his stool the next day for any evidence of worms.
Yuck.
I got Bunkie out of the vet's office without too much trouble and a minimum of mess and off in the car we went to the house. I told Nicole what happened and she shook her head and asked me if I really wanted to keep Bunkie. I said, "Yeah, I’ll deal with him from here on out; he’ll be my responsibility."
He was mine now.
I followed the vet’s directions and gave Bunkie the worm medicine that night. He liked the taste I think, he swallowed it all without missing a drop. We had a fairly uneventful night. I only had to get up with the dog eleven times to take him out to pee. He didn’t crap all night.
I got up around 8am and Bunkie was already up and about. There was a horrible stench coming from the living room.
"Oh no", I thought. I entered the living room and the first thing I did was step into a pile of dog crap.
Not any old pile of dog crap mind you, but a living, writhing, wormy pile of crap. I was horrified. I was hopping around on one foot trying to avoid the other living piles of offal strewn about the floor.
I did the only thing I could do; I plopped on the couch. Right on another pile of wormy crap he had left for my sitting pleasure.
Nicole had entered the room at this time; she didn’t say a word and retreated into the bedroom.
I cleaned the mess up and guess what? Bunkie didn’t have a potbelly any more.
I can laugh about it now. In fact, I laughed about it then. After a few days had passed that is. Nicole never did laugh about it though.
The poor little guy, no wonder he couldn’t hold his water. That wormy mess was probably pushing against his bladder and he had to pee all the time. After he was wormed, he was much easier to potty train. He still had his accidents, but much less frequently.
He was my faithful companion for 14 ½ years. I feel his spirit around me to this day. He has been gone since 1996 and there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of my Bunkie.
To this day, I smile when I think of Bunkie and grimace when I think about my ex-wife.
Oh well, one out of two ain’t bad.
Demolition Derby
”The puppy sits attentively; head cocked to one side. The pup is a yellow Lab, a hunters blood courses through his veins. What is he listening for? Is it the cackling of a Ring neck Pheasant? The cooing of a Mourning Dove? Perhaps the chi-qui-ta call of a California Valley Quail? Nope. He awaits the sound of the key in the front door and the arrival of his Master, the bearer of the remains of today’s lunch.”
At this time in Bunkie’s life, he was the ripe old age of six months. He was still a puppy (in my eyes anyway) and was my constant companion. I was still in the US Navy.
I was working 12 hour shifts at the shipyard, readying the Queenfish for sea trials and I would spend time with the family after working my shift. I would be home most nights, but on occasion I would be on duty and have to spend the night at the shipyard. At this time we were living in Navy Housing. However, that’s another story in itself.
Nicole was having a hard time adjusting to the Navy way of life. She was very close to her parents emotionally, and pined to see her parents on a regular basis. Her being pregnant and uncomfortable wasn't helping matters either.
Being the new husband, I was trying to be responsive to her needs; which I must admit, did not come naturally to me.
As a result of this mismatch, there were many times that Bunkie and I discussed the mysteries of the fairer sex on the porch in back of the house that we lived in and that the US Navy owned.
He didn’t have much to say, but he listened intently and rolled his eyes whenever Colleen, the neighbors bitch Collie pranced by.
It was like he was saying, “I’m with you there Buddy!”
The holidays were fast approaching and the wife was making noises about going home to La Mirada, California and her parents for Christmas. I resisted this idea to no avail. It looked like I was heading south to be with her family for Christmas. I was tasked with finding a kennel to lock my best buddy up in. I was not digging this idea. We argued incessantly about it, in addition to the other incessant arguments we conducted on a routine basis.
Man, I was tired. Between the arguing at home and the shift work at the shipyard I was beat. What I wouldn’t have given then for a Colt 45.
Not the beer, the gun.
I resigned myself to searching for a good kennel to jail my dog.
I finally found a decent kennel in Port Orchard. I visited my dog’s future jailers and made sure that Bunkie would be well treated.
A few days before we were scheduled to fly out to California, I loaded Bunkie up in my ’72 Dodge Challenger.
I'd had had this car since boot camp and it was my pride and joy. I’d finished the car’s restoration just before I got married, and it was a beauty. It was an original Rallye car, with a 340 cubic inch mill and a four-speed transmission. The color was Hemi Orange and was so bright you could see it coming for a mile.
Can you tell I liked that car?
I fired up the Dodge and Bunkie and I set out for Port Orchard about 5PM. It was fall in Washington State, so dusk was already happening. Also, being that it was western Washington State, it had already started to rain. It was starting to rain harder and harder as our journey progressed.
Visibility was horrible.
We were about half way there; the weather was worsening and I’m getting nervous about making it there in one piece. Bunkie is picking up on my nervousness and was becoming restless.
When we traveled in the Challenger, Bunkie would always sit in the back with his front paws on my shoulders looking ahead through the windshield, like he was driving the car too. It was a riot on good days. Today was no different. Bunkie was in his customary position, right behind me, peering over my head.
I remember the next events like they were happening right now. Out of the corner of my left eye, I see a pair of headlights right at my door.
The next thing I know, my head is breaking the driver's side window. The other car hit my Challenger so hard that my car was buckled in the middle. That distortion of the cars body popped the front windshield out, shattering it in a million pieces.
I had started out in the left lane of a two-lane road and the Challenger was pushed into the right lane by the force of the collision. I was smashed into the right hand lane and collided with the rear of another car in that lane.
You are probably wondering about what is going on with Bunkie at this time.
When I collided with the car in the right lane, the force of the impact threw Bunkie over the top of my head. I watched as Bunkie went through where the windshield once was. He was scrabbling, trying to get a purchase with his paws and he ended up turned around, facing me on the hood of the car.
I was trying to get the Challenger stopped and Bunkie was sliding down the hood towards the front of the car. He couldn’t stop. He watched me, panic in his eyes but strangely calm, and I watched him as he went down the hood and then disappeared. I ran him over with the Challenger; there was nothing that I could do.
Oh my God.
I finally got the car stopped and threw the car door open.
Cars were everywhere, sliding sideways and braking hard. It was dark and raining heavily, the light from the stopped and sliding cars headlights illuminated the crash area like a lightning storm scene from a black and white film of Frankenstein or Dracula’s castle.
I ran back and looked for Bunkie, I was sure that he was dead.
I couldn’t find him. Then I heard horns honking and looked over. There was Bunkie running maniacally through traffic, dodging cars as they were trying to dodge him.
I must have been knocked senseless, because I sure didn’t have any sense as I ran into traffic after my dog. I caught him or I guess I should say that he caught me. He saw me and made straight for me at a dead run. He tackled me and about bowled me over. I reached down and grabbed his collar and made a beeline for the side of the road and the smoking hulk that was the car that had rammed me.
The car was back down the road a ways, still sideways in the road, cars and trucks were soaring past trying to keep from hitting it. I must have covered a quarter mile or better as I rushed to the assistance of the driver in that car.
When I got to the car, I realized that I still had Bunkie by the collar. In fact, he had been off the ground the whole time since I'd grabbed him.
I was hanging my dog. For a quarter of a mile I had had him suspended by his collar.
I dropped Bunkie and he lie there in a heap.
I got down on all fours and worked his throat over. He was still breathing, but he was a hurting puppy.
He was going to be OK; at least I hadn’t killed him.
I checked on the other driver and got her out of the car, she was OK, but drunk and shaking. She was apologizing and I wanted to kill her.
Luckily, all people and critters involved were OK with no injuries, just some scratches.
The Challenger was a total loss, as well as the other driver’s car. The guy that I had hit in the rear had taken off; I can only guess that he didn’t have insurance and didn’t want to be there when the cops arrived.
When the police arrived, they arrested the other driver for driving under the influence. One of the cops surveyed my wrecked Challenger and I think he was as upset as I was. He grabbed my shoulder and said he felt sorry for me and it looked like it was a great car that I had put a lot of work into. He looked over at Bunkie and said "At least the dog is all right." That cop was OK in my book.
The wrecker showed up and towed my Challenger off after giving me a ride back to my Navy house.
Bunkie never made it to the kennel. After Bunkie’s demo derby experience, I made a decision to ship the boy with us on the plane. Bunkie was headed home for the holidays. There was no way I was leaving him after what we went through.
I’ll never forget the look in Bunkie’s eyes as he slipped over the hood of the Challenger.
Blind panic but also trust. He kept eye contact the whole time until he was gone from sight. Even after all that, his main focus was on finding me.
From that day forward, whenever Bunkie was in the same vicinity as me, he would never leave my side. There were times when that dog would mold his body next to mine as if he wanted to be a second skin. When I would sit in a chair, he would lay on the floor with his head lying on my right foot; he was never farther away than my foot, and most of the time he would be curled up in my lap if I were sitting down.
You haven’t lived till you’ve had a 60 pound Labrador Retriever sleeping in your lap.
If I were standing up, he would be sitting next to my side with his head lying against my thigh. If I were lying down, he would be pressed up against my right side from the waist down towards my feet.
The next day, I had the Challenger flat bedded to the house. Bunkie and I went out to check the car over.
As I looked the car over, I was amazed that we had come through the accident relatively unscathed. The car was a total loss.
While I was looking it over I smelled something bad. The whole back seat area behind the driver's seat was soaked with dog piss.
This would become a recurring theme throughout our life together; my dog and the piss he would leave anywhere, anytime, liberally sprinkled if not on me, all around me.
I don’t know why but I started to laugh. I laughed so hard; I had to sit down, so I just plopped down right there in the carport and Bunkie hopped in my lap.
I was laughing so hard, I was crying. I bawled for what seemed like an hour, but was only a few minutes I’m sure.
You know, with Bunkie around I was frequently either laughing or crying; I was grateful that there was no one but my dog to witness that scene.
I fished my camouflage jacket that I was wearing that night out of the front seat and it reeked too.
This time I just laughed and Bunkie grinned. I loved that dog.
Bunkie Discovers Physics
”The forest is dimly lit, I can see Bunkie’s yellow coat buried deep within the lush ferns. He is on point; muscles frozen, waiting for the flush of the grouse and the blast of the shotgun. Those were glorious days.”
We were still living in Washington State and I was still wed to Nicole. Things were going ok, it was spring and the sky was blue and the birds were chirping. I guess what I'm trying to say is that things were tolerable.
The Challenger was long gone to that great junkyard in the sky and in its place was a great hulk of a car, a 1973 Plymouth Satellite.
The Satellite was a majestic car; from the faded mustard yellow paint to the craggy, rusted quarter panels. It had the optional silver duct tape seat covers and featured a saggy headliner.
We were living large; the Satellite had cost me almost three hundred dollars.
Bunkie was growing by leaps and bounds. He was 9 months old and was already 40 pounds or better. He was almost potty trained at this point and I only had to clean up the occasional accident every couple of days.
Bunkie was maturing nicely.
Bunkie had taken up with a collie a few houses down and I’m sure the collie’s owner was thrilled with the prospect of a lab/collie mix. I tried to keep Bunkie under wraps, but you know how young love is.
My wife was close to birthing our first child. Lately, she was not in the best of moods.
I was spending a lot of time with my buddy Bunkie as a result.
We would sit on a boulder out under the trees in the Navy Housing commons and ponder the meaning of life or examine Bunkie’s latest conquest, usually a squirrel, blue jay or some other unfortunate forest resident. He was a hunter, that one.
The wife was not one for leaving the nest as the pregnancy progressed.
I would find myself going for a drive on the weekends and taking Bunkie with me on these excursions. He was good company and didn’t talk too much. He loved to ride in the back seat with his paws on my shoulders, peering over the top of my head, as I would pilot the Satellite along the country roads.
I guess he didn’t learn his lesson from the demolition derby.
One Sunday afternoon, we were leaving the Navy Housing area on the way for our weekly drive, when Bunkie spied a gray squirrel running along the road.
Before I could do anything he leapt out the window after the squirrel. He jumped out the window just as we were passing the neighbor in her bright red Ford Pinto, going the other way.
I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt. The Pinto had done the same. I opened the door and ran back to where the Pinto was stopped.
The neighbor lady was in hysterics and Bunkie was nowhere to be seen. I looked under the Pinto. No dog.
I spied a movement off the road into the woods a few feet away. There was a blood trail leading off to where I could see Bunkie lying on the ground in the tall grass.
My heart sank. I walked over to Bunkie and knelt beside him. He was lying there on his side panting away.
I stroked his coat and there was blood on my hands. I calmed him down as the neighbor lady was watching and crying while I tended to Bunkie.
I checked him out and he seemed to be breathing all right and I couldn’t see any broken bones. He tried to sit up and whimpered and then lay down again.
I couldn’t see where all the blood was coming from. His mouth, eyes and ears were free of any bleeding. I checked his legs out, no scratches or cuts.
Then I looked at his paws.
He did not have one main pad left intact on the bottom of his paws.
The pads were ripped up on all four paws. It is no wonder that he laid back down after he tried to stand up. That had to hurt like a bitch.
I told the neighbor that I thought he was going to be ok and showed her his paws.
She blanched and I thought I was going to have another patient shortly. I told her to go home and I’d handle the dog.
She left pretty quickly.
I figured that when Bunkie cleared the Satellite, he must have landed in the road facing the oncoming Pinto. The force of the hit from the Pinto must have been hard enough to rip the pads from the bottom of his paws. Labs are tough and this one was really tough.
Bunkie had discovered one of the basic tenets of Physics, Newton’s Third Law: To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
I bundled Bunkie up in my old camouflage jacket and put him in the car. We drove back to the house and I carted him inside.
My wife met us at the door and she took one look at the dog and I thought she was going to faint.
I had her run some water while I checked the boy out. He looked ok, but I thought he should see a vet, so I made some phone calls. No luck, no one was open.
I thought, "It looks like it’s me and you big boy."
I unbundled Bunkie from the jacket; the bleeding had stopped. He tried to sit up and he just barely made it. He didn’t whimper or howl; just sat there looking into my eyes.
My wife had returned with the water and some towels and got out of there. I started the cleanup to see how bad the damage was.
Boy, what a mess. The bottom of his feet looked like raw hamburger.
I trimmed what was left of those tough pads and then I washed his paws with soap and water, doused them with some hydrogen peroxide and then added a burn ointment I kept in the first aid kit. I then bundled his paws with sterile cotton gauze and taped them tight.
Bunkie had not uttered a yelp or whimper throughout the whole ordeal; what a trooper that dog was. I would have been screaming if this had been happening to me.
He was stumping around in a few hours. I tried to keep him in his bed, but he wasn’t having any of that. The only way he would stay is if I got down on the floor or lay on the bed with him. So that’s what I did.
The next day I took him to the vet.
I had changed his bandages before we left and new skin was already forming. When the vet saw Bunkie with all four paws taped up, he immediately ushered us into the examining room.
I told the vet what had happened. The vet checked him out for any major damage and said that he was fine, let’s look at those paws now.
The vet took off the bandages and promptly put them back on. He said the bandages were doing the trick and keep changing them every day. Then he gave me some pain pills to slip the dog when I fed him.
Those were some strong pills. Fifteen minutes after I’d slip a pill into a piece of lunchmeat to fool him, he’d be out. I don’t mean woozy, I mean out.
When he’d come to, he’d stump around the house like a pirate with a wooden leg.
I know that had to hurt, but it was hilarious.
You could almost hear him cussing every time he’d bang a paw into something. He reminded me of Charlie Chaplin waddling around with that cane of his. He was getting better by the day.
I changed the bandages every day for two weeks. I was amazed at how fast Bunkie was healing up.
In two weeks he had brand new pads on all four paws. Amazing. His feet were tender but I knew he was going to be OK.
I knew he was really OK when I came home from the Shipyard and caught him humping the neighbor’s collie.
That’s my boy.
The Birds and the Bees
“The yellow Lab saunters down the sidewalk, sinewy muscles clenching and loosening in cadence with the stride regulated by the pace of his Master and the leash attached. Up ahead, approaching at a measured pace is Colleen; the neighbor’s Collie. Colleen is also leashed, her Master being towed at a steady pace. The Lab’s ears perk up; has he picked up the scent of some wild game? No, but he has picked up the Collies scent; Colleen is in heat. As the dogs meet, the Masters struggle to keep the dog’s separated; Oh, the dogmanity. As the Lab is dragged away, one thought rolls through the Lab’s mind: She will be mine!”
Bunkie was an animal.
I don’t mean it in the sense that he was a canine and not human. I mean he was an animal in the truest sense of the word. That dog was born to breed.
He started out humping stuffed animals; he was especially fond of Care Bears, they really did something for him. He eventually graduated to the bedroom pillows; I got an involuntary mousse treatment more times than I care to remember.
He was banned from the bedroom for a while after one particularly egregious incident.
When he finally encountered his first female dog in heat, there was no stopping him. She wasn’t helping matters either; she had been bred before and she wanted Bunkie. She wanted him BAD.
She was the neighbor’s Collie and her name was Colleen. Colleen was pedigreed back fifteen generations. She was AKC certified and came from a champion bloodline.
Colleen was also a certified slut. I’m sorry; there is just no other way of putting it. We had them separated by a chain-link fence; you’d think that would be enough, but no. Colleen would back up to the fence, and Bunkie would damn near castrate himself trying to get to her.
Try sticking a band-aid on that, good luck.
Oh, she was bad.
Bunkie couldn’t jump over the fence, but Colleen could. And she did. Many times. He got to her the first day. The neighbor came home and was greeted by the sight of Bunkie humping away on his beloved Colleen. He broke them up and locked his dog in his garage. Later that day, after I got home from the shipyard, he came over and told me all about it. I thought he was going to have a stroke.
I was trying to keep from laughing, but I felt bad for him. You know, having a slutty dog and all that. I mean how would you feel?
We tried to keep the two lovers apart but to no avail. Bunkie was tapping Colleen on a daily basis and we had the broken screen doors to prove it. Colleen started to show after a month. Hoo boy, the neighbor was not a happy camper. I tried to cheer him up by naming the new breeds that might result from this unholy union. I suggested Labradollie and Collador.
He was not amused.
By this time Colleen had cut Bunkie off. Bunkie could not understand what was happening, he was primed and ready and now Colleen was being a real bitch. Since Colleen would not put out anymore, Bunkie went elsewhere for some action.
Unfortunately, he went no further than the nearest human leg. He loved to hump people’s legs. He was especially partial to corduroy. He really liked legs and there was no leg he liked better than my best buddy Roy’s. I mean he positively had a Cord-U-Roy fetish.
I think he loved to hump Roy’s leg more than he liked to hump Colleen. That was some funny stuff. I’d grab a beer and watch the spectacle unfold as Roy tried to fight off Bunkie’s violation of his Levi’s.
Bunkie would clamp down on his leg and Roy would start to jump around the room trying to shake the 57-pound Lab off his leg. That just made Bunkie more excited and the show would begin.
Hey, you can’t buy better entertainment than that.
While Bunkie was making Roy his bitch, Colleen had the puppies. They were beautiful. Colleen’s owner wasted no time giving the pups away after they were weaned. I wish I’d taken one but we were only allowed one pet where we were living at the time.
By the time we left Navy housing, Bunkie had fathered another litter with Colleen. Western Washington State is peppered with Lab/Collie mix dogs, probably to this very day. So, if you travel to Washington and see a Collador humping a Care Bear, you know that Bunkie was there.
Don’t get too close though; you might end up trying to shake a 57-pound Labradollie off your leg.
Bunkie Goes Abroad
”The yellow Lab emerges from the cold water with a vigorous shake. Droplets explode from the dog’s coat and the resulting mist forms a temporary halo that envelops the dog. Tail wagging and bounding forward to meet with his Master, the dog wheels about and plants his butt down. The dog looks up and grins at his smiling Master as if to say, “That was fun!”
We had just relocated to Lakewood, California following the completion of my service in the United States Navy.
Nicole and I, along with my one-year-old daughter Lauren and my faithful companion Bunkie, had found and rented a nice two-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood.
The house was an early 60’s construction with mature trees and a detached one-car garage. The house was very cozy and well maintained; a nice refuge for a working stiff.
I was working a lot of overtime hours and the extra money was coming in handy, as we were saving up for a down payment for a home of our own.
Bunkie had a nice big backyard to play in, but that yard was small compared to the open spaces that Bunkie was raised in.
You see, Bunkie had previously had wide and open fields in Washington State to roam and play in, truly a dog’s paradise. He hated being confined to that yard.
I should have seen it coming. I should have had him licensed and a dog tag with current owner information on the collar. Could have, should have, didn’t.
He was wearing an old, red webbed nylon collar, but no identification other than a Washington State rabies tag.
One day, after 16 hours of testing electrical equipment at a power plant, I rolled up in the driveway. Normally, I would exit the car and head for the front door, but today the open gate to the backyard heralded an escape.
I got out of the car and walked to the gate hoping that the dog was still in the yard, but I already knew he was gone.
I closed the gate and headed into the house. I asked the wife if the dog was inside, but that was a stupid question. Bunkie would have been all over me, dishing out big wet dollops of dog slobber. I told the wife that I was going to search the neighborhood for Bunkie and that I would be back in a while.
I searched that neighborhood and all the back yards. No dog. I asked all the kids playing in the street if they had seen him.
The kids said Bunkie played with them for a while. It looked like he made the rounds of every kids home in the neighborhood, but he was nowhere to be found.
I was scared. He had never been away from me for more than a days' work and this was the big city. He was a big, dumb clod. But I loved that sucker.
I moped my way back to the house and had dinner with the family and then went driving around the neighborhood looking for Bunkie.
I didn’t find him that night, or the following week of nights.
All manner of horrible thoughts and scenarios plagued my workdays and home nights. I started combing the local dog pounds, but I had no luck. He was nowhere to be found.
I left my name and Bunkie's description at every one of those dog pound charnel houses. In Los Angeles County, I was told that they keep the dogs for a week and then gas them if they are not claimed or adopted.
If I could help it, that was not going to happen. Not to Bunkie.
Days passed and soon two weeks had traveled by. I was getting steady calls from the pounds and went on fruitless missions every night. I have to hand it to the pound people; they kept a constant vigil for Bunkie.
My hopes for finding Bunkie were fading.
I imagined my buddy curled up on the side of a road, dying from injuries sustained from getting run over by a car. I sometimes imagined that a kind soul had taken him in and was caring for him. But my thoughts always turned towards the dog getting run over and left to die on the side of the road.
I kept looking.
After three weeks, the pound folks knew my name, Bunkie’s plight and that I was a lunatic. I would walk past the dogs in the cages, peering into the dimly lit and dank smelling enclosures, hoping that I would find my dog.
I started traveling to shelters outside the city, figuring that maybe he wandered farther and farther away from home.
The neighborhood kids were on a constant lookout for Bunkie and soon the search for Bunkie became a cause célèbre for other neighborhoods kids. There was an army of kids all over the city looking for him.
Sometimes after coming home from work, I would find a stuffed animal that one of the neighborhood sweethearts would leave for me.
I got a call from a pound about 20 miles from the house a month after Bunkie had run away.
The lady was very sweet and asked if I had found my dog. I told her, no, I was still looking. She said that the road crew had brought in a dog that had been hit by a car and it matched the description of my Bunkie and that the dog had been dead for a few days at least.
I asked for directions and told her I’d be there in a while. She said they would stay open for me until I got there. Talk about a lonely and miserable ride.
It was dark when I got there and it was starting to drizzle. I was prepared for the worst.
At least I thought I was.
Anyway, the lady met me at the door and we wasted no time in getting to where the dog was lying, on a slab in the back office.
Lying on the slab was a yellow lab but I could tell at a glance that it was not Bunkie.
I thanked the lady and was one happy camper that the dead dog was not mine. I felt bad for the other dog and his owner but I was glad that it was not I doing the crying that night. Not that I would cry or anything like that.
The calls from the pounds slowed and eventually stopped. It had been six weeks since my buddy made his escape.
Every week I would make the rounds of the pounds and look for the dude. My wife was getting tired of my nighttime excursions and was growing more irritable by the day at my obsession with finding my dog.
I thought, I would give myself another month or so and then give it up.
One of the pounds that I frequented was in Long Beach on Spring Street. I would go there every Friday after work.
Well, the following Friday, I was paying my respects to the front desk workers and asking if any new labs had come in. The lady behind the counter said the trucks had not made it in yet, but were expected in at any time.
I wandered the concrete floors looking at the dogs that were already incarcerated and playing with the dogs that were so inclined.
The front desk lady said that the dogs were coming in from the truck and to wait right there as they were headed my way. They load the dogs into the pens from outside the building as to minimize the risk to pound visitors. I was standing right next to the empty cages.
The first dog in was Bunkie. I hardly recognized him at first.
He was covered with dirt and had a tire tread mark right on the front of his big pumpkin head, right between the eyes. It looked like a Goodyear tire tread to be exact. He had a collar on but it was more black than red. And he was seriously freaked out. He was in one piece and he was running all over the cage.
The cage door was locked so I couldn’t get to him. I ran down the aisle, opened the door and got the front desk lady to come back with me.
Bunkie was the only dog in that cage and she unlocked the gate for me.
Bunkie came roaring out of the cage and about knocked me over, dishing out big wet dollops of dog slobber and as was usual for my bonehead, pissing all over me.
I was crying like a big baby. I took my buddy home, after getting his release from the warden.
When I got the big lug home, the baby and the wife were waiting.
The wife couldn’t believe that I found him and the baby was thrilled to be covered in Bunkie slobber.
I gave him a bath and counted tire tread marks. Three tread marks in total, and I believe that they were all different. He had one on his head, one all the way down his back and one across the belly.
How he survived, I’ll never know. He was one tough hound.
If you are still reading this story, you might say that I was obsessed; I say that I was committed. Ask my wife Sherry; she agrees that I should be committed.
You know, after Bunkie’s day abroad, he never attempted to leave that backyard again. When I would take him for a walk, he would almost drag me back to the house so he could get in the safety of his yard.
As with all creatures in life that you love, whether they be critter type animals or human type animals, is it too much for the focus of your affections to expect that you will go the extra mile? I think not.
Bunkie Goes to Sunnymead
”The smell of sagebrush permeates the dawn air. The browns and yellows of the Lab’s coat blend well with the Coachella Valley terrain. The dog quivers with the anticipation of the hunt he knows is forthcoming. He looks back at me over his shoulder and the look in his eyes says to me, “Let’s go!”
It was spring 1984. Nicole and I had finally saved enough money to buy a house in Sunnymead.
Sunnymead, now Moreno Valley, is an Inland Empire town in Riverside County, California. It’s hot in the summer and pleasant in the winter, and it was not a bad place to live in the early 1980’s.
We bought a modest new home in a decent development at the edge of a cul-de-sac and spent a large portion of our time making the place into a home. We had some real characters for neighbors; I’m sure that they thought the same of us.
My wife had the inside of the house as her primary responsibility and I took care of the outside area of the house. I have to admit that she kept a well ordered home.
The good thing about a new home is that you spend so much time working on it that you don’t have a whole lot of time to fight, but we still managed to get our ring time in on a weekly basis.
I had to take care of the landscaping and let me tell you that the ground in the Inland Empire was some tough stuff. The soil was known as DG; DG stood for decomposed granite. In other words, the ground was cement.
I learned early on that the best way to dig in this stuff was to flood it with water for a day and then have at it.
As with all dogs, Bunkie was a territorial sort of gent; he was extremely curious about anything and everything that was happening on his turf. He followed me all over the yard and personally inspected my work first hand.
He was a tough taskmaster.
I tackled the front yard first. I rented the roto-tiller from hell to tear up the DG and soften the ground so I could plant seed. A roto-tiller is a gas engine driven contraption that uses a tined roller to break the ground up. This machine was obviously designed by orthopedic surgeons to drum up business by rendering healthy men into cripples.
After being pummeled for hours turning the DG into a semblance of dirt, I added lime and gypsum to allow the crushed granite to retain water for a lawn.
Bunkie was highly interested in this process, especially the application of the gypsum. Bunkie especially liked this part; he rolled around in the white stuff and emerged from the resulting gypsum cloud looking like a powdered donut. He could have auditioned for a role as a ghost dog.
It was hot out there, so I poured a cold beer into his outside bowl. He didn’t mind that at all. I had one too.
We leveled the lawn with an eight-foot long railroad tie. That was really enjoyable, pushing and pulling a 225-pound creosote impregnated chunk of hardwood up and down the yard.
I gave the front yard a good soaking and planted the grass seed.
Now came the fun part; adding the smelly stuff. The K-Mart around the corner was having a special on fertilizer. They called it fertilizer; I called it cow manure, because that’s what it was.
After he had his beer, Bunkie was lolling around on the porch. He was looking sleepy until he caught a whiff of the manure. Man, that stuff was rank.
I spread a layer on the lawn and then watered the whole mess again.
Then I saw Bunkie.
He was sitting in the middle of the yard, completely surrounded by a sea of manure. He lay down and started rolling around in the crap. He stood up and started to run in circles. He would jump up and slide around in the stuff like he was sliding into home plate.
He went from a yellow Lab to a brown Lab. He was disgusting. I was thoroughly enjoying myself witnessing the spectacle.
He saw me and started over to me. Uh, oh I thought.
I backed up. He advanced. I backed up some more. He advanced some more. I looked over and saw that the garage door was open and I made a break for it.
He jumped up and ran after me. I got to the garage and started to close the door. I got the door shut just as he got there. I could hear him outside pacing around.
There was no way I was letting that sucker slime me. After awhile I couldn’t hear him anymore and I opened the garage door.
About that time, I heard screaming and yelling coming from inside the house. Then I heard the wife cussing up a storm. It seems that Bunkie couldn’t get to me so he figured that he’d go through the house to get into the garage that way. He had found his way into the house and was doing crop circles in the wife’s new living room carpet.
Man, that was funny. I laughed and then the wife started cussing me.
I got Bunkie out of the house and we set on the porch for a spell. We had another beer and took in the aroma of our new front yard.
Ah, life was good.
I spent Sunday cleaning the new carpet.
Later on I took on the landscaping of the back yard.
I was working a lot of overtime but I managed to get the backyard ready for planting sod. Laying three foot squares of sod is much faster and easier than planting grass seed.
That stuff looked great; I had an instant yard.
The backyard was Bunkie’s domain. He proceeded to make himself at home immediately. He staked out an area on the patio and from that point forward that spot was his.
Bunkie would patrol the backyard constantly, day or night; he was always walking the perimeter. He walked so much he wore a path down to the dirt, right through my brand new sod.
I built Bunkie a doghouse; he was uptown now. That backyard was his castle.
He protected that backyard by laying land mines. By land mines, I mean horse sized piles of crap. The sod that I planted was a heavy fescue strain. It would grow so fast and thick that sometimes I had to mow twice in a week. Bunkie’s land mines would invariably be buried deep in the grass and I never failed to step on a few while doing yard work.
I swear he would snicker every time I stepped in one. I learned early on to keep an old pair of tennis shoes on the back patio just for such occasions.
After a few months, the yards were pretty much done. I was starting to barbeque on a regular basis. I loved to barbeque and Bunkie loved to eat my barbeque.
One time I was grilling some shark and I had been marinating the four-pound chunk of shark for two days.
I put the shark on a platter and headed out to the patio. I set the shark down on the patio table and went back into the house to get some salt. I got the salt and headed back out to cook the fish.
I went to the table and but no fish was to be found. I thought I left the fish in the house and went back inside.
No fish there.
Hmmmm. No Bunkie around either.
I went around the corner of the house and there was Bunkie, chops still dripping from the Italian Dressing marinade. He had eaten the whole four pound chunk of fish.
I didn’t believe it and looked around; not a trace of it. He must have eaten the whole thing. It was Taco Bell for the family that night.
If I had any doubts that it wasn’t Bunkie that made off with the shark; all those doubts were put to rest later that night. You haven’t lived until you’ve been cooped up in a bedroom with a dog that has just eaten four pounds of shark. I mean Bunkie had some nasty farts previously, but that night was prodigious.
That dog had farts so bad that I was sure that the bedroom wall paint was discolored in some places and peeling in others.
I was afraid of setting my feet on the floor the next morning for fear that my feet would rot off at the ankles.
The next day Bunkie was banned to the patio, he was now an outside dog. Bunkie was home.
Bunkie’s Big Day
”The dust billowed up and away as the truck made its way along the back roads behind Lake Perris. It was summertime in the Inland Empire and it was hot. A dry searing heat that radiated from the windshield into the truck’s air-conditioned cab. The truck rolled to a stop; Master and dog looked at each other. Silent communication followed and it was agreed that it was just too hot to walk around out in the brush today. So they slept.”
It was summertime and hotter than hell in the Inland Empire.
I had a 1984 Ford Ranger and Bunkie liked riding in that truck bed almost as much as he loved to hunt. Bunkie was a friend to all he met, except for ground squirrels. He hated those critters, but man did he love chasing them.
I decided to do some trap shooting on the outskirts of Sunnymead, so I loaded Bunkie up and away we went.
I’m barreling down a dirt road outside Lake Perris with Bunkie and a trap thrower in the back. I must have been doing 20 MPH or so when I feel the truck lurch.
I look back over my shoulder and see Bunkie launching out the bed of the truck after a ground squirrel.
Oh crap.
That dog had always had terrible timing. He managed to jump out of the truck at the exact same time we were passing some huge boulders; the same kind of desert boulders that you see in any of the old westerns filmed in the 30's & 40's. Think Gene Autry, Roy Rogers or Hopalong Cassidy westerns.
If you've ever seen a Coyote & Roadrunner cartoon, you can envision what happens next.
Bunkie hits that rock at 20+ MPH and slides down the face of it just like Wile E. Coyote.
I figure he’s dead for sure.
I slam on the brakes and then back up to pick up my dead, stupid dog.
As I’m backing up I see the dog struggle back up on all fours. I’m amazed. He’s weaving all over the place like a drunken sailor on Hotel Street in Honolulu.
I get out of the truck and the dummy staggers up to me and then falls over. I check him out, not a scratch. I feed him some beef jerky and water and he’s starting act like his old self.
After awhile he gets up and goes to jump in the back of the truck. He misses and brains himself on the truck tailgate.
I help him into the back and off we go to shoot some trap. I find a good place to pull over and I have to lift the big baby out of the bed and set him down. I got the trap thrower out of the back and set it up.
For those that don’t know, a trap thrower is a spring-loaded mechanical device that hurls pitch tar discs (clay pigeons) out and away and a shot gunner attempts to shoot the thing to smithereens. The thrower has a long flat-ridged piece of aluminum that you set the clay pigeon on and when this thing is triggered you don’t want to be in the way of that arm.
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