Bucking Basset

Did you know that bassets buck? This happens at happy times, but also when cutting their toenails--as I attempted to do yesterday. Imagine trying to pin down a bucking basset, get the clippers around the nail and squeeze at the same time--or, for the real problem nails, position the dremel tool so as not to grind down the foot pads. All this is no mean trick, but the deed was done with a minimum of yelping and a victorious wrestling match.
This got me thinking about bucking---a strange word at that--conjures up images of cowboys--and bucks, as in Harry Truman waiting for some hovering buck to stop on his desk.
So, I looked up "buck" in the internet dictionary. It just reinforced why English is such a hard language to learn. Here is this four letter word whose meaning as a verb ranges from leaping to dislodge a rider to objecting strongly to butting to gambling. And then there are the nouns-- Bambi's father, dollars. Remember white bucks? What about young bucks or sawbucks? When were you last buck naked? "Buck, buck," go chickens. Confused yet?
This dictionary also offered translations. My favorite was Swedish " hoppa och sparka bakut ." Yep, that's just what my basset did. So buck up, little buckaroo, and buck the system. Maybe next time your toenails can keep on growing.

I now live with only the basset. The 15 year old cocker spaniel died peacefully in his sleep on the rug by my bed. I felt relieved at not having to clean up his pee when he couldn't make it to the door. It was hard to be incontinent for that little gentleman. I do miss his constant companionship. The basset is a love, but not a velcro dog. He often keeps his own company, but I do believe he is mopey about not having the old cocker around to pester. At least he could get a growl and a snap out of him on occasion. I guess it's like some human relations where a growl and a snap at least confirms our existence.

I'll get him a new friend in May or June.

Is a blog every 2 years sufficient? ...and in that time the dogs changed. My velveteen mama basset succumbed to cancer. My showgirl PBGV died in the night after a short illness. She was 15, so it was not unexpected.

I now live with a 14 year old creaky cocker who can't hear, is incontinent, riddled with fatty tumors and rheumy eyes. Yet, he is dog happy--waggles his stub, gobbles with relish and sticks to me like velcro--which is particularly difficult as I bound up and down my three floors.

The backup pooch is another basset--a very handsome boy mistreated in West Virginia and rescued from a beating by the cops then turned over to BROOD, the local basset rescue. They cleaned him up; I fattened him up a bit, and now he's a barky, loving gem. They both reside at my feet as I type. I can almost forget the losses.

Snarf, urf, urf. Snarf, urf, urf! She lies behind me with her head scrunched up against the lamp, her legs and eyes randomly twitching. Her lip pulls back and her nose wiggles. Snarf! Is it a dream about chasing a rabbit? Urf, urf! Is it a fantasy of a lost puppyhood? Why does looking down on the unconscious velveteen Basset make me smile? Maybe it's the trust she has that I won't roll my chair over her as I sit here computing. Maybe it's her silly wrinkles and saggy belly from her years as a breeder in a puppy mill. Maybe it's just that in her silence, she seems wise and understanding. What could be more comforting?