Fuzz Bucket 2: The Assessment

Having done due diligence, the nurse had finished her day and left the dog with me.  Rid of him, she had deposited his luggage on the floor: A soiled polar bear rug with a roaring stuffed head, and a black throw-away plastic dish with a handful of dry food left over from whatever was on sale.  There was a leash of sorts, and an old collar made of royal blue nylon with heavy chain.   A pit bull could've worn it adequately, it was that big. Finally, there was the creature she had left behind, who hung his head under the metal weight of the collar, as though his neck was a disconnect from the rest of the quivering body.

At once, I resolved to purchase everything new for him, my eyes rolling at the impending expense.  I called for an appointment with Liberty's vet from many years earlier, and as our first afternoon together began to become evening, I started to study this beast in earnest. What at first might have seemed to be a menacing malcontent, became picture of sadness. He lay there, not a friend in the world; his only connection with familiarity, vanished. Precariously parked on top of the chair, watching the door and waiting for an opportunity to go home, he stayed there well into the night.  Watching, waiting, wondering.  What now...

As early evening began to approach, my Prince Charming stopped by for our after-work time together.  Himself, a dog aficionado acquainted with multiple breeds, the Prince entered through the door that was currently being kept under keen observation, slowly circling the dark green chair as he evaluated the beast on its top.  Quietly, steadily, Prince made himself a drink, went to his own chair across the room, and sat down.  He didn't say a word, moving like stealth, so as not to frighten the creature.  The dog, with a growl in his throat yet with no one to defend or protect, was silent.  Prince looked at the beast and watched him watching himself.  The two males were sizing up one another.

Attending to every sound, every move, the animal focused.  Still, he never left his perch on top of the chair, and like a large bleached rat, continued to face the door while he waited for the nurse to return.

Prince was thoughtful.  Then he made his assessment.  "This dog is smart," said he.  "He has excellent hearing, good eyesight, he knows enough to weigh his options, and he's not mean.  In fact, he's kind of a cute little fellow.  Small, looks like a 'roach' back to me--the way he's all humped over.  Fat--stomach hangs.  But not a bad sort.  There's something about him...I think he might be okay...  What's his name?"

"Butter," I  managed.  "He had a brother named Peanut.  This one is Butter."  I can't tell you  how really awful it felt to think of owning a dog named Butter.  Aside from the descriptive misnomer, each time I thought of the name, I was reminded that he wasn't an individual--he was merely half of a set.  (Peanut had previously been put down.)

"Humph," mused Prince.  As we spoke, he had all the time continued to watch the creature carefully, while he sipped his drink.  "To me, he looks like a...oh...  Yes, I think a Seymour? No, that's not quite right.  Something, someone...hmmm...  That's it.    He looks like a Syd."

There was indeed something about the dog, about Prince Charming's summing up, about the deeply earnest look in the huge balded eyes with the shaved, pointed muzzle, that really did seem like a Syd.  Hapless and alone, yet with enough panache to insist upon the very top of the chair, the little beast gave the appearance of exactly that name.

I had never changed a dog's given name before--having felt like it belonged to the animal. This time, however, I couldn't deal with "Butter."  It didn't fit the strawberry blonde coloring on the scrawny, angular hound, and it was more of a gimmick than a real identity.  After all, Peanut was long gone.

You know, it came to my mind that there might be some substance to him--more than just a hand-me-down taken in out of pity and resignation.  Perhaps, there was even a...well, a smile inside.  I perked up.  Syd...  Syd...  I was trying it on for size.  Out loud then, "Sydney," I confirmed.  

Nevertheless, not wanting to leave his original handle entirely behind, I gave him a middle initial--B ( for Butter). Then, from the color of his ears and matching tail that held a hint of orange against the pinkish blonde body, came "marmalade." Marmalade?  No.  A "Sydney" had to be Jewish. Marmelstein.

Sydney B. Marmelstein.

The Prince and I looked at one another.  It would be all right.  Sydney had found his name, a  home, and something I suspected he never had before: Attention.   I, on the other hand, had myself a dog.