Bad to the Bone:. Bo Hoefinger

who wouldn’t say boo, but he was cute in a quiet kind of way.

      Destiny would provide for several more chance encounters throughout the summer, allowing them to get to know each other. After a street festival filled with drinks, my father finally got up the nerve to ask her out.

      Their first dinner was at Margarita’s, their first movie Crocodile Dundee, and their first kiss was in an apartment overlooking a Dunkin’ Donuts. If it was me, I would have passed on the kiss and opted for an apple fritter instead. The important thing was that my parents had found each other, and in the process someone they could each count on when times got tough.

      Now, many years later, they were completing the first year of their marriage and getting to know me—their first dog.

      Over the few months I’d been with them, I noticed they had a loving relationship. They didn’t show it in traditional ways like licking each other, or smelling each other’s crotch, but rather by giving a pat on the rear here and a smooch there. With some people you can just tell they were made for each other.

      As a rule, I didn’t generally trust humans, although these two were tough to resist. Take for instance my mother. Although I wasn’t sure why she wasn’t working, it allowed us to take many walks, go on spur of the moment car rides, or just lay around watching TV during the day. I loved the feel of her hand on my head, the sound of my name passing her lips, and the smell of her Chef Boyardee cooking. The tentacles of a lifelong bond started to grow.

      The relationship with my father, on the other hand, was based on the games we played in the limited hours we spent together when he got home from work. Most notably we played tug-of-war. With my strong jaws, I won easily unless he cheated, which he often did by blowing in my face. Trust me, you would have let go of the rope, too—the man did not like to use Scope. Regardless, I’d still let him win every once in a while. It helped to boost his confidence and it brought us closer together.

      All in all, things were progressing rather nicely and I was slowly letting my guard down.

      It wasn’t long, however, before my mother found work outside of the home and changed the dynamics of our routine.

      She held a criminal justice degree and was eager to put it to use. Her opportunity came in the form of a paralegal position for a real estate attorney. Her primary job duties were to file this, copy that, and collate it all until her head hit the desk. If her doing this wasn’t a crime, she didn’t know what was, but it helped pay the bills. At least for a few weeks, anyway.

      

      Top Ten Reasons I Love My Mother

       1. She feeds me.

       2. She saved me from a life in the big house.

       3. When I bark at her, she’ll bark back.

       4. She falls for my hard of hearing routine.

       5. She’s a sucker for the doe eye look.

       6. She feeds me.

       7. She lets me sleep on the bed.

       8. She lets me sit in the passenger seat.

       9. She has the patience of a saint.

       10. She feeds me.

      T-Bone = Love

      

      The downside was that I was now alone during the day. Sure my mother would try to break free at lunch to feed me and let me do my duty outside, but it just wasn’t the same as before.

      Life became boring, especially during the long stretches of “me” time I now had. Let’s face it, there’s only so much furniture and shoes one can chew on before it gets dull. Yeah, you can throw in a precious collectible to spice things up a bit, but the real action doesn’t start until the family comes home. That’s why I was pleased to hear my parents discussing the possibility of adding another player to the game of life, Bo’s Life.

      In an effort to explain away some of my recent bad behavior to my father, my mother told him, “He’s lonely. That’s why he keeps chewing the leg on the couch.”

      “I don’t know. I think he’s doing it out of spite,” he said. “I mean look at what he did to that Barbara Woodhouse training book I got. No bad dogs, my ass.”

      “Remember, he just started the chewing thing since I went to work. I think if we got him a companion, he’d settle down and become less stubborn.”

      “I don’t think we’re ready for another dog. We can’t even handle this one.”

      Giving it some thought my mother offered, “How about a cat? They’re low maintenance and Bo can play with it during the day.”

      “A cat? I’m not really that keen on cats.”

      “What do you have against cats?”

      “I don’t know. I guess it’s that they don’t do much. They lay around sleeping all day, only getting up long enough to eat.”

      Huh. Not unlike my father on a weekend.

      Over the years, my father had developed a tainted view of felines that began with his boyhood cat, Ooshie. At the age of eleven he mistook the awful sounds of Ooshie having “sexy time” late one night for fighting. He rushed into his parents’ room and woke his father, begging him to save Ooshie. By the time they got to the scene, Ooshie lay on her back smoking a cigarette, clearly satisfied with her encounter, thus giving my young, innocent father his first lesson of the Birds and the Bees.

      Stranger still was my mother’s willingness to get a cat. You see, she was actually afraid of cats. What caused this fear was anyone’s guess, but rest assured, in the deep, dark recesses of her mind, a boogeyman cat lounged about. I’m not talking about a big mountain lion or leopard or even lynx-size cat, but a regular, run of the mill house cat. That’s why I have to give her credit for showing such bravery, and all just for little ole fuzzy me.

      But it wasn’t a done deal yet. The conversation continued over the course of several days, and it became clear that I needed to do something to expedite the decision. A box of chewed baseball cards strewn about the guest bedroom did the trick quite nicely.

      My mother turned to her sister, Marcy, for support in moving forward with the decision. Marcy owned so many cats that, had she not been married, she would have been referred to as the cat lady of her neighborhood. Fortunately, marriage to her husband, Jon, saved her from that fate. Today, neighbors simply call them the cat couple. Marcy had plenty of feline experience and my mother was determined to tap into it for my benefit.

      It began with a long telephone conversation between my mother and Marcy outlining the pros of owning a cat. My mother did most of the listening. By the time she hung up, she was excited to find me a partner.

      “Bo, we’re getting you a cat!”

      That enthusiasm didn’t last long, for on the day of the adoption, I could smell the fear emanating from my mother’s pores. It was cat-induced fear, and once you smell that, you never forget it. Fortunately she was still committed to following through on her promise.

      She left early that morning and I sat patiently, waiting for her return.

      Hours later, the grind of the garage door’s gears signaled the action was about to begin. I sprang from the floor, ran to the door, and barked with anticipation at meeting my new housemate.

      The door opened slowly and in walked my mother, clutching a gray-striped tiger cat. That cat didn’t know it yet, but she was about to inherit the bottom spot of the Hoefinger household pecking order. No doubt, a position my mother was happy to relinquish.

      I jumped up to get a good whiff of the cat’s behind, only to receive a quick right cross from her tiny kitty paw. Interesting. This cat was a fighter and a female one at that.

      “Bo.