Micky Kacavas is a sturdy, good lookin’ purebred Boxer. But he’s no Snob Nose. He’s kind an frenly, with a gold coat, white bib an paws, freckles on his nose, an Crispy Biscuits black polka dots on his skin that show through his white bib. An Really big paws. In fact all of him is Really Big: 100 pounds, ackshully. I stood as tall as I could, but I still felt a liddle on the short side.
Micky an his humans were at the door to greet me an my assistant. With welcoming wags, he came right up to, ackshully up ON, my assistant, who patted his big head and laughed. But he didn’t approach me for the truh-ditional Wag-an-Sniff. What the Woof, I thought. Instead, he sqwunched down on all fours, so he was ackshully looking UP at me.
Then, soon as I innerduced myself, he stood up and came over for the Wag-an-Sniff, as usual.
“So glad you’re here, Mr. Bonz. I’m usually the biggest pooch in the room and I sometimes accidently scare the fluff outta smaller pooches, which most of ’em are. I always sqwunch way down so they won’t be conCERNED. I can tell you’re not concerned.”
“You ARE a good size poocheroo,” I acknowledged, with a keen grasp of the obvious. “And a Cool Kibbles, frenly sort. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Back atcha,” Micky said, leading the way into the living room. “This is my Pa-POO, Ted, an my YaYa, Denise …”
Before I could say “Ummm, your …?” he explained. “That’s like your grampa an gramma. It’s Greek.”
“Oh! Greek! Cool Kibbles!”
“My Dad, Adam’s working. He’s a Shef!”
Micky was showing a good deal of intrest in my assistant’s satchel, which, as usual, contained duh-lishus snacks. With the go-ahead from his Pa-POO, Micky sat puh-litely an received one.
Then his Pa-POO signaled him over and, to my amazement, Micky hopped onto the couch an settled himself smack in his Pa-POO’s lap. Most of him hung over the sides, an his head was higher than his Pa-POO’s, but they were both all happy an relaxed.
“Well, Shut the Doghouse Door,” I thought to myself. “Micky is a 100-pound lapdog.”
“Can’t wait to hear your story,” I told him. An he began.
“I was born in Maine. Which is way up at the top. About four-ana-haff years ago, Pa-POO, YaYa and Dad had just lost Rocky, also a Boxer. An YaYa said That Was IT! No more pooches. Never!
“Well, Never turned out to be about 2 weeks. See, YaYa an Dad had both been secretly lookin’ online for another Boxer. An they found this nice breeder who had a new litter. I was the RUNT, if you can buh-leeve it. (When we had our 2-year reunion, I was the biggest. Now, just my head is bigger than my whole pupper self was.) Anyway, I knew Dad an Pa-POO an YaYa were my Forever Famly right away. It took a liddle longer with Maggie, Jasmine an Shawny.”
I looked around the room in case I’d missed anybody.
“They’re my cat sisters and brother. We get along fine but we don’t play that much, cuz I could accidently squash them. I really love snugglin,’ an kisses and playin’.
“I got named after another boxer, Micky Ward. He’s not a boxer like me. See, a human boxer puts on big funny paws and then bounces around with another human with big funny paws, an they bop each other.”
We both shook our heads. Humans!
“Anyway, you’d shoulda seen us when we moved to here from Maine about a year ago. It was Dad an PaPOO, an YaYa an me an the cats. It took 29 hours, with only potty an water stops. We had the very first house in our subdivision, so we ended up being the Official Welcome-to-the-Neighborhood Greeters. We have wonderful pooch an human neighbors.”
“You must have lotsa pooch pals?”
“Oh, Woof, yes: Nathan, Nana and Tommy, they’re dachshunds; Sadie, she’s some kinda Poo; Shane; Ty an Kaia from Hawaii. Kaia’s always given’ me kisses. She’s liddle but fearless. Then there’s cousin Rocco, a Cane Corso Mastiff.” (Micky lowered his voice). “Full disclosure, he’s the only pooch I know who’s bigger than me, an he makes me a liddle nervous.
“I love ridin’ in our convertubble, strapped in, of course, when we go to the Saturday Morning Farmers Market. There’s lotsa vegtubbles an stuff for the humans PLUS, this just-for-dogs barkery booth where we get samples of homemade treats with applesauce an steak an eggs an stuff in ’em. Way duh-lushus. You should go sometime.”
“Any favrite toys?”
Micky laughed, and his YaYa went over an opened a door. “Take a look,” he said.
I’d never seen anything like it. There were heaps, piles an baskets of stuffies, more stuffies than
I’ve ever seen, even at the pet store. Maybe Zillions.
“Seriously? How do you pick a favrite?”
“Ackshully, my favrite toys are empty water bottles. Some of our neighbors leave ’um out for me when we go on Leash Walks. Or finish their water and hand me the empty out the car window. I LOVE the way they crinkle. Whenever I get one, I HAFF to go home Right Away an put it in the recycling bin. It’s the re-SPONS-ubble thing to do.
“When Dad’s home I hang out with him 24/7. If he’s gone, it’s Pa-POO. Since I was a tiny pupper, I sleep with Dad or Pa-POO an YaYa. One time I rolled over, bopped Pa-POO with my paw an gave him a shiner. I felt really bad, but he wasn’t mad or anything. For a while he looked like one of those human boxers.”
Heading home, I was thinkin’ of frenly, thoughtful Micky, the Gentle Giant who sqwunched down so as not scare liddle dogs; an recycled plastic bottles. I made a mental note to let my Gramma an Grampa know about the special dog treats at the farmers market. I wonder what they’re doing Saturday.
