Wow! This week I yapped with a pooch who has one of the most unusual stories I’ve ever heard. I bet you’ll think so, too. Nowadays, Marco Burkhart lives here in Vero with his human dad, Mike, but the journey to his Forever Home in Florida put a lotta miles on his paws.
Me and my assistant had been briefed before the interview that Marco was pretty much a loner, and we shouldn’t get our feelings hurt if he seemed sorta aloof. When the door opened, Marco’s dad greeted us, while Marco stood behind him sizing us up. Then, in a low growly voice, he said: “I need to see some ID.” I showed him my Dog Tags and vouched for my assistant. Marco is not a Wag-and-Sniff kind of pooch.
We got settled at the breakfast bar. In my Serious Voice, I said, “I understand you have an unusual story to share.”
“Yes. I feel relatively comfortable talking to you because I researched you extensively. And my Dad assured me you’re A-OK.” I whipped out my pencil, and he began.
Back in 2000 Marco was a stray – just a rough and raggedy pup – trying to survive on the streets of Amman, Jordan. Well, Mike and his sister, Katie, had travelled a lot cuz their Dad worked for the U.S. State Department and, back then, they were stationed in Amman. One day Katie was taking their Jack Russell, Polo, for a walk. Suddenly Polo saw this little pup rooting around in a garbage can, covered with some kind of black gunk, and she went right over to him.
“I was about the size of a football,” Marco said. “I’d been trying to find something to eat and a warm spot to rest and I somehow rolled in a bunch of tar. I was covered, head to toe, and it had hardened by then. Being so young, I was scared – whining and crying.”
Well, Polo wasn’t about to leave the poor little pooch, and neither was Katie. She picked him up and brought him home. (At this point, I was writing as fast as I could cuz I didn’t want to interrupt his story by asking him to slow down.)
“As soon as Katie and my Dad’s dad saw me, he said, ‘Well, we’re going to have to shave you.’ He put me up on the table and Dad and Katie held me still while he carefully shaved me, until all that tar – and most of my coat – was off.
“No big surprise, they decided to name me Marco. I was obviously some sort of unknown mix, so my grandfather decided to call me a Hashemite Hound.”
“’Scuse me, I don’t. . .” I interjected.
“The official name of Jordan is the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, named for its first royal family,” he clarified.
(I love learning new stuff, don’t you?)
He continued, “I lived with them in Amman for four years, then my Grandfather got transferred to Virginia so we all moved there. Polo and I had become very close. It took a while for me to realize I was safe and didn’t have to be cold or scared anymore. And I didn’t have to fight for my food, either, but I still guarded it – those habits are hard to break.
“And it took a long time before I’d go for walks: the street had always meant danger and I NEVER wanted to go back out there. Eventually, I got over it, but it took a while. My Grandfather figured out that I was suffering from a canine version of PTSD. That never really goes away, you know? Then my Grandfather was transferred to Cairo, Egypt. While my Dad went away to college, the rest of us headed to North Africa.
“When we got back to the States and my Dad graduated from college and got his own place, I moved in with him for good. Now I have a Mom, too, Moreen. She’s great! Mom and Dad understand me. I’m not much into people, except family. Not into toys, either. I had a toy duck once. Hated it. Sometimes I get in this mood where I tear up my bed and play with the pieces. Also, I’m not into other dogs, except Polo. Nothing personal. Polo died in 2011. I still miss her.”
He leaned in closer, lowered his head and said, real soft, “I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone. Even my family doesn’t know.”
I was All Ears.
“After my Forever Family saved me, while I was still a young dog, I was recruited by a secret branch of the government, the CISTSTFWFBGAC.”
When my pencil pawsed in midair, he said, “That stands for ‘Canines In Service To Save The Free World From Bad Guys And Cats.’ ”
“I bet you thought Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin and Hooch were just movie stars, right?”
“You mean . . . they were . . .?”
“Yep. And Old Yeller, he didn’t really die. He just went undercover. Oh, the stories I could tell you. But, then, of course, I’d have to. . . . .”
“I get it,” I said hastily. “So, do you still, I mean, are you. . . . .”
“I’m retired now,” he said. “But I’ll probably always look over my shoulder. That life isn’t for everydog.”
It had been a very unusual and fascinating yap. Heading home, I was daydreaming about being a Secret Agent, bumping shoulders with the Creme-de-la-Pooch at Westminster. Drinking nothing but Perrier. Spotting a beautiful, long-legged Russian Wolfhound, I’d casually trot over and suavely say, “The name’s Bonzo. . .Vero Bonz.”
Sigh.
Till next time,
The Bonz
