This week I hadda nice yap with two rescue pooches, Jumbie an Duncan McDowell, both in what I like to call the “Older an Wiser” age group. Like myself.
Jumbie, probly 15, was born onna eye-lun called Bequia inna eye-lun country called Saint Vincent an the Grenna-deens, which I hadda look up. She’s a long-leggedy terrier mixture: short fawn coat, white sox, pretty brown eyes.
Duncan’s probly 12. He’s a mixture of Sheltie (probly) an Corgi (probly): very Sheltie lookin’, plus freckles on his snout.
At the padio gate we heard woofin’, an as we entered the screen porch, both pooches approached for the Wag-an-Sniffs, very CORE-jull.
“I’m Jumbie (aka The Wiggle or JumberJuice),” said the taller pooch. “We know you’re Bonzo: We recognized you from the pick-chur in your collum!”
“True,” said the other. “Plus, you have a notebook. I’m Duncan (aka The Dunk) an this is our Mommy Danette. Our Daddy Dan’s at work. We’ll talk right here on the porch, OK?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “How ‘bout start with how you met your Furever Famly.”
“Me first! I’m oldest!” said Jumbie. Throughout the innerview (when she wasn’t talkin’) she’d walk in slow circles around the porch, pawsing to stare at her ree-fleck-shun every time she got to the side window.
“Mommy an Daddy rescued me down in the EYE-luns when I was only about 5 weeks old, probly. At night, I’d stand outside in the moonlight an make Really Weird Screechin’ Noises. I dunno why. So Mommy an Daddy let me sleep with ’em so I’d feel SAFE. They tried to locate my owner, but couldn’t so they ’dopted me, got a cat carrier (I was cat-size back then) and, when they went back to the You Ess, they took me with ’em!”
“Crispy Biscuits!” I exclaimed.
“They already hadda pooch, Garbo, a Chow/Golden Re-tree-ver mixture,” Jumbie continued. “She was about 3 an didn’t like me at first, cuz I was too liddle to ruffhouse with her on the beach. When I got big enuff, we buh-came tumble-around pals. A coupla years later, she hadda go to Dog Heaven an I got Very Sad an Lonely. Since Greta had been the Alpha pooch, I tried to step into her Alpha Paws, but, I hafta admit, I did a Soggy Biscuits job. I was just sorta actin’ CRAY-zee. Now I’m the Alpha,” she added with a Small Smile, then pawsed an wandered over to contemplate her reflection, an Duncan began his tail.
“That’s when Mommy an Daddy started lookin’ for a liddle brother for her. It was 2011. I was about 8 weeks old when I was discovered, in Loo-weezy-ANNA, stranded on a Very Loud, Scary Road called EYE-10. I was rescued (Thank Lassie) an taken to a foster human, an my pickshur was put on Petfinder where, a few months later, Mommy an Daddy found me. I was in Maine when they ’dopted me.
“Me an Jumbie met at a Noo-trull Park. She was shocked an jealous for about a minute, then we hit it off an started ruff-housin’ Pretty Quick (even tho she’s a People Pooch, an I’m pals with pretty much every pooch I meet). When I was younger, I was a liddle wild. I felt it was my DOOTY to protect my home: One time, I chewed smack through my collar an leash, wiggled free in about 1 second, an went flyin’ down road after the UPS person.”
Seeing my look of concern, he quickly added, “I totally don’t do that anymore.”
Returning from another porch circle, Jumbie observed, “Both of us – what’s that funny thing humans say? – Hit the JackPot, fur sure! (I guess I was too young to remember hittin’ a pot. Or dish. Or anything like that. Maybe Duncan does.) Now we summer in Maine an winter in Florida.”
“I don’t recall hittin’ a pot, either,” said Dunk, “but we’re totally lucky poocheroos!”
“What kinda ad-VEN-churs have you two had over the years?” I inquired.
“Ack-shully,” Duncan replied. “She’s probly more of an ad-VEN-chur kinda pooch. I’m more mellow. Like, there was this one time when Mommy an Daddy had put up an invisible fence, ’member, Jumbie?”
“Do I ever,” she replied. “I kept tryin’ to figure it out. I thought, sooner or later, I could sneak up on it an make it through without gettin’ that liddle zap. But I couldn’t.”
“I’m way more mellow,” Duncan explained. “Didn’t push the envelope. Just stood there watchin’ Jumbie an shakin’ my head.
“Up in Maine, we chased squirrels, moles an, um, chip-muffs. I usta dig holes an bury stuff. One time, I got a Cookie as a speshull treet. So I dug a hole, an deposited the cookie, you know, like a savings account. I kept diggin’ it up to be sure it was still there, then re-depositin’ it. It’s probly still there.”
“Ooo, Bonz, guess what?” innerjected Jumbie. “I was inna speshull book up in Maine called ‘Dogs of New England,’ with my story an phodo! Cool Kibbles, doncha think?”
“Pawsome, Miss Jumbie!” I agreed.
“When we were puppers, we were a liddle ram-BUNK-shus, weren’t we, Dunk,” Jumbie volunteered.
Before I could ask her to elaborate, Duncan innerupted, “For Lassie’s Sake, Jumbie, do we HAFF to go into THAT?”
“No worries, Dunk,” she replied. “Puppies can’t be held responsubble. So, anyway, I usta chew the legs on Mommy an Daddy’s dresser. I ackshully chewed them, well, OFF. They hadda get a new dresser.”
“OK, FINE,” sighed Dunk. “So, in my puppy days, I accidently Did My Doody in Mommy’s closet. In her favrite shoes. Then I covered ’em with a shirt or something. Just that one time. Now,” he swiftly changed the subject, “I have an ackshull grrrlfren, Lola, an adorubble Jack Russell, who lives 4 blocks up. We do nose kisses through the fence.”
I couldn’t buh-leeve an hour had passed! Headin’ home, I was still smilin,’ thinkin’ about Miss Jumbie and Dunk’s amazin’ advenchurs an happy endings.
Till next time,