Bogus

All my life, I’ve loved dogs, and cherish the memories I have of so many of them.

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Recently, I came across a note recorded in my Bible way back in 1988. It read, “Today, after so many years of being my constant companion, Bogus died. I wrapped him in his favorite blanket, scratched his big floppy ears one last time, and laid him to rest. I will never forget him.” And I haven’t. I named the gold cocker spaniel Beauregard Augustus Dog. Beauregard became “Bo” and Augustus “Gus,” and my little pal was known by all as Bogus. Wherever I went, Bogus went — even to church, snoozing sinlessly in my pickup outdoors while we sinners sought forgiveness indoors. Although he never became a bona fide Baptist, he attended every Sunday, except when we played hooky and went fishing. One hot August day, while I was irrigating a field on my father’s Mississippi Delta cotton farm, Bogus soaked in the cool water that was coursing its way down the middles.

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Suddenly two pipes separated, and a geyser of water shot upward. I jumped in the pickup and 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, slammed into the ground, and somersaulted several times. Scooping up the motionless mutt, I was certain the severe impact had killed him, but it would take more than a bad fall to conquer his warrior heart. In time, he recovered, and was back where he loved being most — with me. One day, I needed a bolt, and drove to a neighbor’s shop to borrow one. Nobody was there, but I knew where the bolt bin was, and parked outside the gate. Halfway across the shop lot, four 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 to pieces in the frenzy of growls, yelps, dust, and flying fur. Suddenly, the curs bolted. Although torn, bloody and limping, Bogus stood proudly. He hadn’t thought twice about risking his life for mine. Years passed, and arthritis began to take its toll on my beloved companion. Even a short walk pained him. One night he and I awoke to terrified cackles. A fox had broken into my henhouse. Grabbing a rifle, I ran outside, dropped to the ground and aimed at the fox’s silhouette in the moonlit horizon. Suddenly, Bogus appeared out of nowhere and leaped on the fox. Despite intense pain, he out-fought the hen-killer and sent him fleeing. That was his last act of courage. When I scooped him up in my arms, he licked my face, yelped painfully, and breathed his last. His warrior heart had played out. Even after all these many years, I still miss that dog. Rest in peace, Bogus.

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