I named the golden cocker spaniel puppy Beauregard Augustus Dog — B.A.D. Southerners nickname people and pets, so Beauregard became “Bo” and Augustus “Gus.” B.A.D. became Bogus.
Though I bought him for the kids, Bogus chose me as alpha leader of the evolutionary hunting pack embedded in his canine cranial cavity.
Wherever my pickup went, Bogus went — even to church. Although he never became a bona fide Baptist, he attended every Sunday (except when his master chose to fish instead of worship), snoozing outdoors while we sinners sought forgiveness indoors.
On cold days, Bogus hopped in the cab, but he preferred riding in back, hanging his paws over the side, Dumbo ears flapping like wings, and his cheeks ballooning as he snapped at the wind.
One hot August day we were shoveling, helping irrigation water work its way down rows on Dad’s Mississippi Delta cotton farm. Bogus soaked in the cool puddles.
Suddenly, pipes near the well separated, and a geyser of water shot upward. Floor-boarding the pickup, I raced to shut down the well. Bogus was in back, sopping wet.
When I rounded a curve his muddy paws lost grip, and he slipped over the side. At fifty miles per hour, he slammed into the ground, somersaulting several times. Scooping up the motionless mutt, I raced to the veterinary clinic.
Bogus sustained severe internal bruising, and survival was uncertain, but more than a bad fall would be needed to conquer his warrior heart. In time, he recovered, much to the relief of his many two-legged pals in our small farming community.
One day I needed a bolt and decided to borrow one from a neighbor rather than drive back to Dad’s shop. Nobody was there, but I knew where the bolt bin was. I parked outside the gate and started for the shop.
Halfway across the shop lot, several growling curs, their backs bristling, ambushed me. I was sprinting for a tree when a golden blur shot past me.
Bogus torpedoed straight into the lead dog, a mongrel four times his size. I watched helplessly, certain my dog would be ripped apart in the frenzy of growls, yelps, dust, and flying fur. Suddenly, the curs gave up and fled.
Although torn, bloody and limping, Bogus stood proudly. Proving that a man’s dog is his best friend, he hadn’t thought twice about sacrificing his life for mine.
Bogus aged gracefully and began staying home. One night we awoke to terrified cackles. A stray dog had ripped through the chicken yard fence and was slaughtering our hens.
Grabbing a rifle, I ran outside, dropped to the ground, and aimed at the dog’s silhouette in the moonlit horizon.
At the instant I squeezed the trigger, Bogus appeared out of nowhere and leapt toward the dog, straight in the line of fire. The bullet struck him. As I held him, the brave little cocker’s warrior heart beat its last.
Though many years have passed, I still miss him. B. A. D., R. I. P.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
I named the golden cocker spaniel puppy Beauregard Augustus Dog — B.A.D. Southerners nickname people and pets, so Beauregard became “Bo” and Augustus “Gus.” B.A.D. became Bogus.
Though I bought him for the kids, Bogus chose me as alpha leader of the evolutionary hunting pack embedded in his canine cranial cavity.
Wherever my pickup went, Bogus went — even to church. Although he never became a bona fide Baptist, he attended every Sunday (except when his master chose to fish instead of worship), snoozing outdoors while we sinners sought forgiveness indoors.
