A Tale of a Dog and an Ironman's Tears

He wasn't much when we picked him up. He was just a small guy with huge legs and a tail that was too big for his body that flopped around and got excited with everybody. He was just happy to be going home with us; happy a family had taken him.

He ran all over the car that afternoon. He was so tiny he could duck under the seats, races over to Mom, squirm up on the seat and lick her face and then jump down, race back under the seat to one of my other brothers and jump all over him. All the while, his tail never stopped wagging and at this stage that meant his whole little five-pound body wagged from front to back.

He was a strange-looking little lad! They said his dad was a Boxer and his mom a pedigree Poodle, which, of course, would never do in the proper circles of dogdom, so he and his littermates were abandoned for adoption. Our little flop-eared guy was certainly black and you could see Boxer in him (his snout was square) but the rest of him said Poodle, including his very non-Boxer hair (Boxers tend to have straight hair, while Poodles have kinky hair. He had definitely inherited his mom's hair genes).

As to how he got his name, he had one distinguishing feature that stood out in his otherwise all-black body, a blaze of white hair on his chest and that's how he was named.

From the start, we knew there was something a little strange about this (Boodle? Poxer? You choose!)!! Actually, he was downright strange. A young male, he quickly grew into the gangly paws and tail and quickly became our Mom's dog. Oh, he'd tolerate us, Mom's from Day One. That was the day the pipsqueak pup proudly walked under Mom's chair and fell asleep. From then on, unless Mom was at work, the team would always be together. Wherever Mom was, well, there was the Mooch (our other name for him).

And, when the team wasn't together, he knew how to work things his way. If he wanted something, he'd start with Dad and the our Uncle and then work my brothers and I. He always managed to get at least a blizzard of treats, if not a bowl of food, by working his moochick. I was really the weak link in the chain and we both knew it, if he looked at me with his baby browns, he could have a piece of cake and I wouldn't mind. He never even had to do his crawling, pleading act with the morose face telling us he was just "wasting away to 75-pounds and needed FOOOD NOW. It was a cute act and I knew it, but, what could I do, he was our dog? (I have had two other cats in my life in the last 36 years and the first one could and second one can spot the sucker a mile away - so just call me Mr. Lollipop.

In our own way, Blaze and I bonded and sort of became friends. He would actually answer when I called. I think the moment I remember most about him was the day I got off the big yellow bus at 3 p.m. and looked all over for him. He was usually there to greet us. This day was different and it took me a few minutes of scanning around to see this black dot doing something nasty to someone's rubbish barrel. All it took was a call and sure as a laser, I had a dog beside me about a minute later. We never did tell anyone about the rubbish.

That our Boodle had problems was a given. After all, what self-respecting dog could have trouble with a mouse? After all, our dog was 15 or 20 times the mouse's size, but Blaze didn't know what to make of it. So, if there was a mouse around and wanted to walk where Blaze was lying, he simply started bumping and pushing, and Mr. Airhead, at first aggravated that his sleep was upset, would look at the tiny intruder, half-bark and trot away and the mouse just went on merrily as you please.

And, if Ma was home, it was usually right under where Ma was. You see, we had this overstuffed furniture with about six inches of ground clearance but somehow he would work himself right underneath her and stay there for hours as Ma did her crosswords or puzzles. And, of course, if it was dinnertime, then guess where the Mooch was - patiently sitting beside Ma waiting for his inevitable handout (he did eat well).

There was this one day, though, I'll never forget. I was the only one home that afternoon - I must have been about 11 or so - and I got off the big yellow bus. As I looked around the yards down he street, I could see this little black thing off if the distance (must have been nearly a mile - truth be told after 50 years, he was having a ball with a certain family's rubbish, but we won't mention more). Now, I don't know I his internal clock told him I'd be home or whether he heard me call him as I did, but suddenly, the black thing stopped doing what he was doing) and just like a laser, he came running up to me.

We were best friends, of course, until Mom got home; and there the pair went again. Wherever in the neighborhood Mom went, there was Blaze patiently waiting the yard to accompany her home. Dad never had to worry about her safety.

Blaze was at his funniest in our folk's faux Japanese-themed bedroom. The bed had, I swear, two inches of clearance and somehow this large 70-pound dog shoehorned himself right under where Mom slept. And, when Mom woke in the morning, there was this suddenly this 70-pound pooch squeezing out from under the bed and jumping up to say good morning.

Unfortunately, Blaze got involved with a bunch of kids who loved to taunt dogs and he fell for it. The fateful summer day - I was out doing something with AP summer school enrichment classes - and the kid got into our house.

There was one thing you had to know about Blaze - he had a long memory - and I guess this kid did something he didn't like, so Blaze made up himself. About a week later the town Selectmen made up for it, too, by banishing our wonderful Blaze from town.

So, the fateful day arrived where we had to say goodbye to our boy. Dad, who had helped pick him out years earlier, had the sad duty. He led our Blaze inside and came out alone, carrying only his leash. To this day, I think I'm the only one who noticed that Dad had tears in his eyes as he walked to the car and we drove away. Dad saw me in the rearview at the same time. It was one time he and I would never mention again.