"Pup-pup-pup? Puppy, puppy!"
I may as well have been reciting the Pledge of Allegiance — Skid was not interested, intent instead on snuffling around in the dog yard. So, chances were, his previous person didn't call him and his litter mates "pup" or "puppy."
Right away, Skid required two collars because he figured out how to slip out of the regular collar about 30 seconds after I'd snapped the leash to it.
Before he ended up in my karma on a Chatham County road, he had to have been around at least one good person. Dr. Powers and her assistants said he'd been a stoic little gentleman, and had not offered to bite. From the beginning, he liked female humans and would come and sit in front of one with the Puppy Eyes at full power, willing her to fuss over him.
If he'd been whelped in the wild or if his person had been neglectful or cruel, I reasoned, he would be fearful and distrustful of all people.
"So, what should I call you, bubba?" I finally asked, after trying various other dog names. (Hey, I'm from the South. "Bubba" can be an affectionate generic nickname here.) Skid took it personally. He snapped his head around and listened so hard that the skin between his ears wrinkled.
"Bubba?"
He wagged his tail and trotted over.
"Okay, Bubba Skid," I said. "Let's go in." >>
