The Dog’s Rules

Beelzebub did not play fetch, and he did not respond to any shortening of his name.

His name was Beelzebub. If you wanted him to respond to you, you had better say the whole thing.

If you threw something away, you obviously did not want it. He took the trouble to go get it, so now it was his, and you were not going to get it back.

These were his fast and firm rules, which went completely out the window when either my uncle or Papa would visit.

My parents got Beelzebub when they still lived near my father’s family. He had a soft spot for my father’s father and brother. For them, rules could be broken.

For my uncle, he would fetch. Not for long, mind you. That stick would get brought back once, maybe twice, but after that, it was his to chew.

As for Papa, Dad used to tell me he tried to Beelzebub, but it just never all came out. All we would hear was “Bub”, but it brought that dog quicker than anyone other than my father calling him. Once, while my grandparents were visiting, I tried calling him Bub. You would never have known I’d even spoken.

Beelzebub would have done just about anything for my brother and I, but it was important for him to make sure we knew: He was not our dog. We were his children.