the real thing

we had a silver blue Weimeraner named Boo (after Boo Radley). he had yellow eyes and a sweet disposition that was unusual for his breed. most of the ones i'd met were high strung bugged-eyed and scrawny. Boo was a shade on the mournful side. maybe because we had his balls cut off. what was left was an embarrassing prune that everyone could see under his clipped tail. and he hated being observed doing his business. he'd crane his neck around in the squat position to see if we were looking. he also had a serious fart problem. they would hiss out of his ass like a steam iron and he'd look more world weary than ever, staring at his behind with an 'oh God what WAS that?!...' expression, rise and lope to another room, repulsed by his own stench. as a kid i remember he would issue forth under the table where Granny was playing bridge with her friends. tap, tap, tap she'd drum her forefinger waiting to play a card. Boo would erupt, get up and leave the room, with a left behind odor so overwhelming it seemed to 'appear' under the table, wafting into the nostrils of Granny and Co. she was stalwart, her reaction - a single raised eyebrow. Boo's best friend in the world was a neighborhood Dachshund named Mopsy who was as diminutive and ladylike as Boo was substantial. copper brown with perfect sharp teeth and toe nails. she lived down the hill, across a skirt of lawn, over a stream and up a slope in a big brand new millionaire's mustard stucco mansion. every now and then she'd wander out onto our field, a nearly invisible spot against the grass. one afternoon, when my dad and his pals were driving golf balls from an imaginary 'tee' near our house, one of the balls hit Mopsy in the ribs. she blew up like a balloon. (she had a habit of getting in the way.) there was the time i was painting a 4x8 foot 'Picasso' rip off for an art show at school. it had to be laid on the floor for me to work on it. Mopsy clicked her sharp black nails across the painting i suppose in an effort to satisfy her curiosity or just to fuck with me. the paints were made from egg whites. (the fresco materials were a mix of pigment powder and egg). i picked her up by the skin on her back, heaved her across the room and out the door. i didn't feel good about it, but Mopsy didn't need human love. she had Boo who visited her every day. he had befriended Charlie the milkman, who tossed Boo a milk bone, let him hop into the truck and drove him down to the Mopsy mansion. there they'd hang out, go on a garbage hunt, get their fill and walk back up the slope to our house. there they'd sit, side-by-side, just off the flagstone porch and stare down the hill like a couple of old ladies in rockers. to us they were like lovers. when it was time for Mopsy to go home, Boo'd walk her the whole way and come back, a bit lonely we thought. after Mopsy left this world (at 17) Boo was never the same. he left himself not long after.