The Dog Who Told Us His Name
Whenever he heard a word that rhymed with “blue,” the dog got excited.
By Gerald Grow
The Lost Dog
One day I got a call from Mrs. Culpepper, who lives around the corner, saying that our German shepherd was in her back yard, scaring her cats, eating their food, barking and snarling at her. She was afraid of him.
But our dog, Brownie, was lying on the kitchen floor, watching me talk on the phone.
I said, “That’s not our dog, but I’ll come over and have a look.”
I put a leash in my back pocket and walked to Mrs. Culpepper’s house with our son Stefan, who was 8.
There we found another German shepherd — smaller than Brownie, younger, with shorter legs and longer hair. He was running back and forth, nervously barking. His fangs were showing, and he looked like he was snarling at us.
We stood at the edge of the yard and watched. After watching for a while, we could see that he did not look like an angry dog. He was wearing a collar. The vaccination tag had this year’s color.
The dog ran back and forth, back and forth, in front of the neighbor’s door, bristling, barking any time we made a move.
I asked Mrs. Culpepper if we could please have a bowl of cat food and a bowl of water. She brought them to the side door, keeping a safe distance.
I took the bowls and slowly walked halfway to the dog, speaking quietly the whole way, “You’re a good dog. What a good dog you are. Here. Here’s some food and water for you.” I glanced at him as I walked up and kept my eyes soft, careful not to stare.
I set the bowls down, slowly walked back a dozen steps, and sat with my legs crossed, facing the dog — all the time murmuring quiet, soothing things. Stefan stood back and watched.
The dog stopped barking, but he watched us intently as he eased up to the bowls. He took a long drink from the water bowl without taking his eyes off me. His eyes were watchful and he seemed more scared than angry. Next, he sniffed the bowl of food.
Then the dog did an amazing thing. He lowered his tail and his head, trotted right up to me, sank down on the grass and laid his head in my lap as if he were a puppy.
I kept speaking quietly, stroked the dog’s head once, then put my hand back on my knee.
The dog hopped up, ran back to the food, and gobbled it down, with his tail wagging. While he was eating, he stayed facing us and watched us the whole time. I kept speaking gently to him: “Ohhh, look at you. Your funny little nose is bent to one side, isn’t it now? And that makes you look like you’re snarling, doesn’t it? But you’re not snarling, are you? You’re just a little lost dog, aren’t you?”
When the dog finished eating, I said quietly, “Good. That’s good. You’re a good dog. You were hungry, weren’t you? I’m going to get up now. I’m getting up now. I’m standing up slowly. And I want to show you what I have in my pocket!”
I slowly took out the leash as I said quietly, “Would you like to go for a walk? How about a little walk?”
At this, the dog leapt up, wagging his tail, gave a bunch of little, short happy barks, ran to the leash — and sat.
I kept talking to him and smiling. “There. You know what a leash is, don’t you? See, you’re somebody’s lost dog, aren’t you? Let’s go for that walk now.”
The dog sat wagging his tail and smiling his crooked smile while I clipped the leash on. “There’s something you know,” I said said to the dog, who now listened happily to anything I said. “Food and water, a leash, and a walk. Things are getting back to normal again for you, aren’t they?”
We waved goodbye to Mrs. Culpepper, who was watching from her screen porch, and as we walked home together, the dog seemed happy and at ease — as if he had always gone for walks with us.
The Dog Tells Us His Name
Our Brownie got along well with everyone, so she liked the new dog just fine. But Brownie was bigger and older and didn’t play much any more. The new dog loved to play, and he especially loved to play with Stefan, so the two of them spent hours that afternoon playing together in the back yard.
He loved to fetch. He loved to crouch down on his front paws, then jump up and play chase. He loved to play tug-of-war with a stick. He loved to race around the yard at top speed, just for the joy of it. And he had a curious little twist in his snout that caused his upper front teeth to stick down on the left side. That’s what made Mrs. Culpepper think he was snarling. But he was sweet, and happy, and he loved to play.
Stefan talked to him a lot and began to notice something interesting. Whenever he said a word that rhymed with “blue,” the dog got excited and wagged his tail and gave a happy little whine.
Stefan showed us this discovery. He said, “Red!” and the dog looked at him curiously. “Yellow! Orange!” He kept looking expectantly. When Stefan said “Blue!” the dog jumped up, grinned and panted and wagged his tail and whined with excitement.
My wife and I were amazed. She said, “He must have a name that sounds like ‘Blue.’”
Later in the afternoon, Stefan called us into the yard again to show us his great discovery.
While we watched, he spoke to the dog in words that rhyme with Blue: Boo! Clue! Do! Few! Goo! Moo! New!” Each time, the dog looked at him intently. When he came to “Pooh!” the dog went crazy with happiness, ran in little circles, whined and wagged his tail and leaped up.
“See!” Stefan said. “His name is Pooh!”
He tried other words: Roo! Stew! True! View! Woo! Zoo! — but the dog just looked at him till he said, “Pooh!” Then he leaped up, wagged his tail, and raced around in happy little circles.
We were amazed. The dog had told us his name.
Pooh Goes Home
We phoned the newspaper and put a notice in the Lost Dog column that read, “Medium shepherd, male, with bent nose,” and our phone number.
The next day we received a call from a man who said, “I think you’ve found my dog.” I gave him our address and we waited to see how Pooh would react to the stranger.
When the man arrived in his pickup, Pooh raced up to the truck, and as soon as the door opened, sailed in, and took his place in the passenger seat. No doubt about it: the dog knew this man and this truck.
The man and I chatted for a few minutes. I asked what the dog’s name was. The man said, “Pooh-Bear.” I asked if they ever called him “Pooh.” The man replied, “Most of the time.”
I asked how Pooh’s nose got bent. When Pooh was a puppy, the man said he was sawing some wood one day in his workshop when he heard Pooh cry out from behind some equipment. When the puppy came out, his nose was bent. “I never figured out how he bent it,” the man said.
The man said to Stefan, “I have a son about your age, with hair like yours, and he’s coming to visit in three days. He’d be real disappointed if Pooh wasn’t there to play with him.”
The man tried to give us a $20 bill as a reward, but I said, “Just buy something for your son and his dog, and we’ll be happy.”
We watched them drive away.
Pooh sat in the truck, his face out the window, the wind blowing through his hair. He never looked back.
Pooh was clearly on his way home.
Gerald Grow is a retired journalism professor. More at longleaf.net.
