Bad to the Bone:. Bo Hoefinger

it with a healthy splash of Eau De Bo cologne. Targets varied from the VCR to the couch and to my favorite…the TV.

      My mother was upset. She was used to living in an odor-free home, and even I had to admit, it wasn’t easy enjoying Oprah with an electric-charged urine smell coming from the boob tube.

      “Maybe he’s got a bladder infection?” my father suggested.

      “I don’t have a bladder infection! I miss Moose! Bring her back and we all go back to the way things were.”

      “Bo, be quiet,” my mother scolded, then she picked up the phone and made two appointments: one with the carpet cleaners and one with the vet.

      It wasn’t long before I was back in the cold exam room. The doctor felt and prodded along my private area, acting as if he were the second coming of James Herriot. He took some blood along with a little bit of pride and told me to go into the bathroom and pee in a cup. When I was done I put my name on it and placed it in the medicine cabinet with two-way doors.

      Do you know how hard that is to do with the oversized, furry paws I possess? Peeing took me forever and getting it into the small cup was no easy task. It turned out that writing my name on the container was the easy part.

      When it was over, my mother drove me home, but not before stopping at the local ice cream stand to get me a baby cone. Even when she wasn’t happy with me, she always thought of me. I would probably have gotten a banana split if I had been pooping uncontrollably in the house rather than merely peeing.

      A few days later the clinic called and confirmed that I did not have a bladder infection, but a bad attitude. Of course I had a bad attitude! I ask you, did Mrs. Hoffa have a bad attitude after Jimmy disappeared? I’ll guarantee you she did, although I’ll concede that she probably didn’t wee on her TV.

      Afterward, my parents discussed my “issue” at length.

      “You think he’s mad because we changed his food?”

      “No. He likes variety. You think it’s because we move around in bed too much?”

      “No. He sleeps right through it. Maybe it’s because he’s only escaping twice a week now.”

      “No. He breaks free whenever he wants. Maybe it’s because…”

      Oh boy…this could take forever. If I could have me-owed, I would have.

      Seven theories later they came upon the motivation for my inappropriate behavior. They called Marcy Catcollector, thus securing Moose’s release.

      We all make mistakes, and they were open to correcting theirs, so the least I could do was let them off the hook. I decided to stop making lemonade on their things.

      Moose and I were together again. We caught up on our soaps, snuggled in the sunlit living room, and enjoyed each other’s company. Our relationship was stronger and better than before.

      

      Vanity Plates I’d Get

      (If I Could Get Insurance and Own a Car)

      

      My relationship with my parents, however, had suffered. They needed to regain my trust after what they’d done.

      They’d have plenty of opportunities, especially around dinnertime.

      CHAPTER 6

      The Hand That Rocked the Cradle

      On a small, quiet side street peppered with sensible homes, a car teeter-totters atop a four-foot-high retaining wall, its two occupants sitting in the eerie silence of an adrenaline aftermath. In the driver’s seat is my mother; occupying the suicide seat is an adorable fuzzy-faced canine: me.

      The night had started out promising…how could it have gone so horribly wrong?

      I blame it on Fahrvergnügen.

      Fahrvergnügen. “What is it?” you ask. It’s basically when humans become one with their car. Some people have it, others don’t. My mother, she didn’t have it.

      Due to her parents’ aptly placed fear in her driving skills, my mother didn’t learn to drive until she was twenty-one years old—old enough to vote, old enough to drink, and too old to date Hugh Hefner. Perhaps due to being a late bloomer, she never gained adequate confidence behind the wheel, which resulted in numerous mishaps throughout the course of her life.

      On that wintry eve, less than a year after my adoption, my mother decided to head over to her parents’ house for a free meal and some conversation. I was lucky enough to be asked along for the ride and hopefully for some treats. I zipped up my fur suit and hopped into my mother’s Ford Mustang, a vehicle that—at best—handled poorly in the winter and that had recently had issues with its gear shifter mysteriously popping into drive. Based on my experiences, it wasn’t so much a mystery as it was driver error, but who am I to judge? I don’t have opposable thumbs.

      I jumped up onto the cold front seat. Seconds later, my ears flapped in the gusts of frigid upstate New York air coming from the vehicle’s vents. A few blocks from our destination I picked up on the scent of my grandfather’s meal. My drool started its uncontrollable flow; my grandparents had proven themselves to be the easiest treat targets this side of the Hudson River. A few hearty sniffs confirmed I would be partaking in some of their brisket, decked out in their famous homemade sauce.

      As we turned left onto my grandparents’ dead-end road, our headlights illuminated several trash cans placed at the ends of the driveways. Garbage night. Yum. My mother slowed down a few houses from our destination and peered through the frosty passenger window before coming to a complete halt. “Bo, what is that on the side of the road? Is that a doll cradle? Now, why would somebody throw that away?”

      Why she found it necessary to ask me questions when I had food on my mind always perplexed me, so I ignored her. As she was apt to do she answered her own question, “I don’t know why anyone would toss that out, but I bet Aunt Marcy would love it.”

      She laid out the strategy. “Here’s the deal, Bo. I’m going to drive around again so the cradle is on my side of the car. I’ll stop, grab it, and drive off without anyone being the wiser.”

      I wanted to reply, “Hey, I’m not on a scavenger hunt, I just want dinner,” but I knew that once my mother got a thought in her head there was no stopping her.

      She drove to the end of the street, turned around, and headed back for her prize. As we neared the crib, she swerved to the other side of the street so she could reach it from her side. She put her foot on the brake and shifted the car into neutral, then stopped