Bonus

Mama and Bonus

Adopted 14 July 1985 in Tulsa – died 10 August 1988 in Tulsa

In the backyard accross the street from mine, a majestic Alsacian languished in all kinds of weather at the end of a chain; ramshackle cover and a fistful of kibble thrown on the ground were his only comforts. Water? Never saw a bowl. A break in his tedium came from an unexpected source, my mother – who made much ado about not caring for animals, but didn’t stand idly by to see one suffer. Once or twice a day she crossed Zunis bringing “Beau” a slice of ham or some other treat, telling him in Spanish what a handsome boy he was and that his owner was a witch who'd burn in Hell. 

No ... there’s simply no rhyme or reason as to why I didn’t approach the owner about her abominable treatment of the dog and, also, of her infant son who, judging by her yelling, didn’t fare much better indoors. My crime was of omission in difficult times. 

Until I was jolted back to reason early one Sunday morning. On putting my two dogs out in the yard I saw Beau hanging by the neck outside his fence, strangled by the choke collar at the end of the chain that for more than one year had tethered him to a denuded, filthy, small radius.

Still in pajamas I rushed to lift his dead weight to remove the collar, whereupon he plummeted limply on the grass. Enraged, instead of initiating CPR I ran to the front door of the duplex kicking the door until the woman opened. “You killed your dog; I’m calling the police.” Before she could answer I returned to the body, pondering what to do with a dead dog who wasn’t mine ... and the body moved. Based on Beau’s historic dislike for me whenever I approached his fence, I proceeded with caution. Dazed and panting, he looked up at me, slowly got up and followed me home without any encouragement. I was his best and only option.

Watching us with concern were Xuska (Bio blog 2 JUL 12) and Ponsón (Bio Blog 25 FEB 17) who, both combined didn’t approach the size of the dog about to occupy their yard. To my immense relief, Bonus ignored them, laid down in the shade and rested. Next, I had to sell my resident parents on the idea that in a deteriorating ‘hood, a giant German Shephard was what we desperately needed. Yes, I very much wanted the dog, and I also knew about the lengthy (often futile) process and the boarding costs of finding homes for large, middle-aged dogs.  We renamed him “Bonus” – i.e., “good” in Latin and also “reward” for doing the right thing. 

He was resting contentedly in freedom when his tormentor headed our way carrying a bag of dog food.  She and I were spared an awkward moment when Bonus charged the chainlink fence yelping and snapping until his gums bled. I waved her away but the dog kept defending his right to be free until she was out of sight. The woman and her unfortunate son moved away a week later. 

Bathed, innoculated, neutered, and fed like a king, Bonus reached his full majesty. Cyd Charisse in shorts could not have attracted more attention wherever we went; his impeccable behavior – obedience trained, not by me — was also admired. There was just one imperfection as I learned when he wringed off the leash and, to my terror, assaulted a police cruiser with such ferocity that he ripped off the grill, tossing it in mid air, determined to dismantle the car. The officer wisely stayed inside, stopping by my house later with some cautionary words. TPD spared us a citation or a bill for the damage.

The causes of aggression in rescued dogs are often rooted in the abuse they suffered. Bonus may have had a score to settle with a police officer, but he was harmless to other pets, wildlife, and children. Still had the wanderlust of one who has lived in chains and occasionally would jump the fence and patrol the neighborhood for a while. My intention to replace the fence was put on high gear by Janice Allyn, a Yorktown Avenue resident who threatened "to call the authorities." Still, no better testament to Bonus' gentle nature than the gradual thinning of his colossal foxtail as Ponsón, smaller than the tail, kept pulling at it during play. Bonus never retaliated. He faithfully stayed by my mother’s side during her many lonely hours after my father died in 1986.

Bonus suffered of chronic gastrointestinal problems and nose bleeds, diagnosed by Dr. McCoy as “Nairobi bleeding disease,” which also goes by less exotic names and is transmitted by brown ticks. It affects German Shepherds most severely. Another common problem in large, sloping back dogs, his hind legs were growing weaker.

Despite the ups and downs of his health and of our household, Bonus lived three peaceful years there, never once chained and never alone. In his final hours, however... On 10 August 1988 he was running a high fever. Then he suffered a seizure, and in a macabre replay of my father’s final hours, I went to work! Both times my mother called the office in great alarm and I returned home knowing I should have never left.

Dr. McCoy met us in the house. Bonus was on the bedroom floor, panting heavily, with the faraway look that presages the end. The injection he received would either pull him through the crisis or possibly kill him, warned the vet on his way out. I left the room to take my work clothes off – and that’s as long as it took Bonus to die. Alone. 

Bitter regret has no tears. The perfect companion was no more. Bonus opened my eyes to the absolute superiority of the German Shepherd to all other races, both canine and and especially human.

Missed and revered 27 years later.