By Jim Souhan
We had a routine. When he sensed I was settling in to watch sports on TV, he would approach the couch, and peer over the edge, his eyes and ears signaling his presence as if he were a landlocked alligator.
I’d lift him, and he would execute an move worth of an illusionist. Somehow, as I tried to set him on the chaise so he could have his own space, he would flop and twist so that his legs rested on my belly and his head rested by my knee. Suddenly, I was a futon.
We spent thousands of hours that way.
His name was Boyd. He was a black French Bulldog. I didn’t know what a French Bulldog was until my wife started stalking them near our home in Minneapolis. I wasn’t sure owning a dog made sense, given our schedules.
Cute, that I thought I was making the decision. Suddenly, we were driving to a farm in Iowa to pick out a palm-sized pup.
I saw a skinny little Frenchie acting feisty. I picked him up, and he fell asleep on my shoulder with his tongue hanging out. We took him home.
We loved Boyd so much that we bought a second bulldog, Gus, who would wait until Boyd sprawled on me, then leap up and carve out his own space between my knees.
Gus and I have more room on the couch now, and we’re devastated. Boyd died last week, suddenly and unexpectedly.
He had been panting and in pain, and the medicine didn’t seem to be working. We took him to the all-night vet to adjust his meds. We did not get to take him home.
Is this a sports story? It is for me. Those of us who love sports – or are obligated to watch them – spend way too many hours on the couch, clicker in hand. Boyd made me love that time.
I can’t explain how much we miss you, buddy.