The release of over fifteen hundred beagles – with more to come – from a biomedical research and testing lab has been flooding the news lately. As they are removed from their hellish existence and dispersed throughout the country by various rescue groups, one video after another has been showing these gentle souls tentatively making their way out of a cage to feel the grass beneath their paws for the first time in their lives, to sniff fresh air and to finally feel compassionate touch. It has been deeply moving.

Seeing these videos has aggravated an old wound that has never quite healed. For a long time I have wanted to write about it but have never known where to begin. Seeing the rescue beagles has opened this cage for me.

During one of those random conversations I used to have with my dad long ago, he once shared /joked that after having a couple of daughters in a row, if the next child was yet another girl he was going to go out and buy a male beagle. However, the next child happened to be a boy after all, negating the necessity; thus our household remained sans beagle. Luckily our brother Pete was a good kid, although a bonus beagle would have been nice too.

My mother’s dog story was not as happy. Over the years she would occasionally mention a dog named “Frenchy” she briefly had as a little girl. One day when she came home from school she found Frenchy was gone – her mother had given Frenchy away. No doubt there was a good cause – probably allergies, perhaps expense, possibly the inconvenience of keeping a dog in a very small fifth floor walk-up tenement apartment. Whatever the reason was, her beloved dog was unexpectedly given to some unknown person or place. Over her lifetime, as a child, as a mother, as a grandmother – whenever a conversation would lead to discussing dogs, my mother would well up with tears for the painful loss of Frenchy.

In a strange way, these dog references from my parents present as a convoluted intersection in my own dog story.

To begin, I have always very much been Team Dog, so working with and caring for dogs in my late teens and early twenties was a logical direction. It was during my employment at a veterinary hospital where I met a coworker whose dog had a litter of five puppies that would soon be needing homes. Sometimes there is a point where you suddenly feel the need to have a dog in your life – I know it is that way for me. I had reached that threshold and let him know I was interested in taking one of the puppies once they were ready to be weaned (and maybe I was a little bit interested in him too. But that is another story).

When they were old enough to leave their mother, he gave one to a good friend and another to that good friend’s aunt. He traded the third one for an entire car trunk-load of clay pipes with monkey faces on them, which he gave out to almost everybody he knew. The puppy I really wanted was a beautiful gray female he had called “Lady.” Needless to say, I was beyond upset to discover he actually traded that dog away to some guy for an undisclosed amount of windowpane LSD. Finally there was one left, which I was sure would be my puppy, only to find out he gave him away to a former girlfriend.

On many levels I was (way more than) annoyed, but decided the hell with him, I didn’t need one of his puppies and was clearly was not meant to have one, which sent me on a mission to the local humane society to find the dog destined to be in my life. There was no need to look around, as the very first cage I saw held the one I instantly knew was mine – a young male beagle. I can’t imagine why he was surrendered. He even came with papers which said he was born in Osceola, Missouri on April 30th – probably from a puppy mill. This poor little guy was then shipped off to a pet store and onward to someone’s home. For some reason the new owners decided they couldn’t keep him and brought him to the shelter. It was my lucky day.

Now he was mine. It cost only twenty dollars to adopt him back then. It seemed we were meant to be. I named him “Petey” partially because of my father’s story, but also I was a fan of the dog named Petey in a childhood TV show called The Little Rascals. Although they are nothing alike, here is Petey from The Little Rascals, just for reference.

Here is the first picture I have of Petey. None of the photos of him are very clear, as this was back in the 1970’s, taken with my poor excuse for a camera. Also in most of these photos other identifying details have been cropped out, as there is no need for that here. Petey was pretty young – his ears were still black and he had a mouth full of puppy teeth.

My Petey had shorter legs than other beagles I was accustomed to seeing. His paws were very round and compact and smelled like popcorn. I loved the black patches on either side of his face in front of his ears. When his ears eventually changed from black to brown, the dark patches remained. He also had a narrow finger of white on the back of his neck that looked a little bit like a tiny bolt of lightening. No matter what you fed him, he would generate incredibly smelly farts. Among my small circle of friends he became famous for his intensely bad smelling gas.

The period right before and throughout the time Petey was in my life was one of many painful transitions, upheavals, abandonments and deep losses. My immediate family was living three thousand miles away and were going through some complicated changes and dynamics. I had moved five times, ended a relationship that was sadly going nowhere and started one that was tumultuous and probably (definitely) a little dangerous and unwise. Petey was my constant through some very lonely, rocky and evolutionary segments of growth and discovery. At times it felt like that little dog was the only thing keeping me together at all.

For a while it was just the two of us living up a dirt road in a little red cottage on a hilltop, overlooking a body of water, surrounded by the woods and a small field filled with clover and fireflies.

He was such a good-natured boy and never had an issue with other animals – playing with dogs of all sizes, running as fast as he could after long-legged dogs on his short little legs, all the time letting out throaty beagle-barks.

He easily accepted any visitors or houseguests. He did not chase cats, although he would go off looking for rabbits, as was true to his beagle nature.

Petey was a greeter – first to say hello with a friendly, wagging tale. The same way cats will purr when they are happy, when he was deeply content he would make a percolating noise that sounded like “bucka-bucka-bucka”. Because of that I began calling him “Petey Bucca” (which I spelled with two C’s, I don’t know why). Petey Bucca. My Bucca-boy.

For a short while I also had a couple of kittens in the house. He especially got along with the one called Bogart.

In front of the cottage was a small open field where Petey loved to run. His favorite game was to grab a deflated football and hold on so tightly that you could swing him around, lifting him right off the ground, and he would not let go. As he ran around the property, his full baying hound-voice would carry on the wind.

When I called him he would run at me full force and leap up into my arms. He was a shiny, healthy, compact twenty-five pounds of muscle when full grown.

We spent so many days just hanging out on the property, enjoying each other’s company, Petey Bucca and I. Here he is, basking in the early spring sun, making his “bucca bucca bucca” sounds.

He slept by my side

and always kept close by. During the hardest of times I felt more brave and less alone because he was there with me. I would say without a doubt that he was my closest friend.

Petey actually had the opportunity to meet his namesake, my little brother, when he came to visit one year. They got along so well.

He never growled at anyone, was well trained, always came when he was called and knew a number of tricks. His signature trick was standing on his hind legs and twirling around for a treat or attention if you said “Petey-go-round!” Friends who came to visit would always ask Petey to “go round“, which he enthusiastically obliged.

Basically everybody loved Petey. When I took him out to visit my mother in Los Angeles she even let him up on her living room couch. If you knew my mom, you would appreciate what a big deal that was. He traveled well, whether it was across the country on a plane or just accompanying me to work every day at the animal hospital. There was a big fenced in yard behind the runs where he would hang out with the other employee’s dogs, a pack of friends. When the day was done he would ride home with me, lying across my lap as we headed north, keeping his head low to avoid the Volkswagen steering wheel. As we got in view of the distant mountains he would somehow suddenly sense we were close – his head popping up, then leaping into the passenger seat with excitement so he could look out the window.

What I am trying to impart is that this little dog was my heart.

With the advent of a new relationship, Petey and I eventually moved from the cottage into a house further north, which sat in front of two hundred and fifty rural acres. There were fields in back and views of the dairy farm across the main road. It was a busy place, with at least six people living there and a social scene that often had many others coming and going. Petey got along with every person, while keeping a healthy, respectful distance from a couple of cats there that ruled the house.

All were in agreement about how sweet and gentle he was, despite his reputation for letting off some wicked gas (sometimes enough to instigate a mass clearing of the area) while sitting on a lap or hanging out in the midst of wherever people were gathering. He joined us on hikes through the back property, taking off for a little while as beagles are wont to do. You could hear him baying in the fields as he chased whatever scent he found, and then always returned, bounding through the grasses towards us with joy. He still accompanied me to work every single day – the routine was that I would take Petey out for a brief walk first thing in the morning and then he would wait inside the house while I made my lunch and got my things together, until it was time for us to jump into the car for the ride to the animal hospital.

Because of this, it was immediately apparent that something was terribly wrong when I got ready to leave for work one morning and Petey Bucca was not waiting in the living room by the front door. Where was he? There was a sudden, inexplicable and instant feeling of knowing dread.

One of the guys who lived there told me he had let Petey out the door. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? You KNOW he comes with me to work every morning!” With kind of a clueless look on his face he said “He wanted to go out so I let him out.” And that was it.

The thing was, Petey ALWAYS came when he was called. Yet there was no response. It had not been that long since he was let out the door. I called and yelled for him until I was hoarse, with a growing sense of panic; walked up and down the property, out to the road, into the neighbors yard. Other people in the house also joined in. Then I had to leave for work, but people were still home and assured me they would call me when he returned, after most likely having caught a scent of a deer or rabbit and would surely be back.

But he didn’t come back. I searched. We searched. I put up posters, called the local dog pound, called the highway department and veterinary offices to see if he had been hit by a car or found on the road. He had a collar and ID. I walked along the road and looked in ditches. I put ads in the local paper, which was not much of a paper. This was in the 1970’s. There was no internet, no cell phones, no social media to help. He had vanished without a trace.

Had he been stolen? Had he been shot, or trapped, or hit by a car? Could someone have sold him to a research lab? Was anyone hurting him? I was heartsick, anguished, my mind spiraling in terrible directions and possibilities. And furious, almost hateful towards this oblivious, unthinking idiot who….why, why, WHY??? for the first time ever, had let my dog out the door in the morning.

When I replay it all in my head, I torture myself. Did I do enough? Could I have done more? What else could have been done to find him? Any time a beagle was seen loose somewhere I went to see if it was him, but it never was. One night a few friends called me to say a beagle had shown up at their house miles away. I immediately drove out there to discover them all standing around in the dark chanting “Petey-go-round” to see if this strange dog would go round, indicating it was him. This dog did not go round. It wasn’t Petey Bucca and I knew before I even got there that it wouldn’t be.

What happened to my beautiful boy? I was devastated, and as you can see, I have never gotten over losing him.

It is impossible for me to articulate the level of grief, how broken I was. While it is not a human being, it is still a being. Those who have lost their beloved animals and are in pain over it often understand it is not “just a pet” but “family.” Not knowing what happened to him made it so much worse. He was trusting and so filled with unconditional love.

Was he alive somewhere? Was he hurt? Did somebody hurt him? I wondered if my housemates actually knew what had happened to him and just weren’t telling me, perhaps trying to spare me from some awful truth. I wanted and needed the truth. Years later, actually days before one of those old friends unexpectedly passed away, I asked him if he really had known about what happened to Petey. He told me he honestly never did, although he always surmised the dog might have been flushing out deer and subsequently been shot by one of our redneck neighbors. Recently I saw another old friend and former housemate from our time back then and asked him if he knew what really happened. He also assured me that he didn’t, but shared that he always thought the dog had been stolen because he was so friendly and so incredibly cute. He also made mention that Petey had the worst farts ever. A defining trait he would ever be renowned for.

Time moved on. I got used to it but never got over it. After twenty-five years had passed and there was absolutely no chance that dog could have been alive anymore, I was still searching for him in every beagle I saw. I deeply understand why the memory of Frenchy could still bring tears to my mother’s eyes.

It has been over fifty years now since Petey Bucca disappeared. Fifty years. Half a century. Although I’ve never brought it up, I’ve also never been able to forgive the guy who let him out the door. Repeatedly, for years I would have dreams about looking for Petey, endless searching, always hoping to find him, always failing. Over and over I would find my way back to the cottage we had shared, beneath a gray sky heavy with fog, the cottage abandoned and cold – the door unlatched and partially open, entering the dusty rooms filled with cobwebs……and he would not be there. Then I would wake up with tears on my face. This went on for decades, this recurrent dream with slight variations, accompanied by a feeling of loss and a deep ache tangled up in so many other things I could never begin to explain.

Then one night, the same dream as usual; searching, up the hill, back to the cottage. And suddenly there he was, my boy.

Weeping with happiness to find him at last, he was wriggling with excitement to see me again, his eyes shining as he leaped into my arms. Bucca bucca bucca. It had finally happened, we found each other, we were together again. If only a dream, it was as real as real could be. Closure. After our reunion, I have not had those dreams since.

I am crying as I write this.

Petey’s picture graces the desktop of my computer. His photos are in my phone, in my computer files, pasted into old photo albums and framed on a table in the living room along with some of my other beloved dogs. There used to be a faded, battered snapshot in my wallet. I even have a couple of his puppy teeth and an old ID tag (calling him P.D. Bucca – I thought I was being cute) from our prior residence.

The truth is that the time period Petey was with me was not very long. He is one of a handful of treasured dogs I have shared life with, most of them for many years longer than Petey Bucca, but our time together had tremendous impact. Every one of my dogs has been a unique companion with a distinctive personality. Each dog has walked a life path by my side, fraught with challenges and wild emotional terrain, as well as moments of pure happiness, adventure and wonder. Every single one has been special. One and all have been and still are greatly loved. I could not choose between them any more than a mother could choose between her children.

This is a very long post and clearly it is written for me more than anyone else. Perhaps it borders on the maudlin, but this is how it was, and is. Petey deserved to be remembered. It was long overdue, but until now I just couldn’t.

Many times I have seen the quote “Heaven is a place where all the dogs you’ve ever loved come to greet you.” I so much want to believe that. If this were true, what bliss it would be to find Petey Bucca waiting for me among them.

As the rescued laboratory beagles have been dispersed among different organizations, shelters and fosters in this country before going to the Forever Homes they deserve, I recently read that a few of them have ended up in the very same SPCA shelter where Petey was adopted from all those years ago. I admit I have had fantasies of going there with the intention of bringing one of them into my home and life. In this fantasy, it is a male beagle with dark patches in front of his ears and a little white snippet of a lightening bolt on the back of his neck. I know I am not in a position or adequately situated at this time in my life to take on the challenges of what one of these precious souls need in order to help to move into a new, safe, pain-free future. Also, I have Rudi the chihuahua/papillon, a little old man of about thirteen years now, who would definitely be upset about having his life upended by a larger, younger and needier dog. But I can’t help but get a lump in my throat every time I see another video of these rescued beagles, or the ones still waiting to be saved. Or any beagle, actually.

Finally, while digging out all this Petey memorabilia and after I had finished typing all of the above, I found something I had written in a journal a few months after he had disappeared. It is pretty much redundant, as it mirrors what I have already shared, but also interesting (to me) that similar phrases were used back then that remain in my mind about him now. It’s not particularly well written, but I’m adding it in order to keep all my “Petey stuff” together. This is how it was fifty years ago as a young woman living alone in the woods and then navigating a loss, and here I am now, an old woman, navigating again. Just as finally finding him in the dream provided some closure, perhaps writing this here is the last part that needed to happen.

“Gray and moist air, forest heavy and dripping, wooded smokey clean-scented. I stand outside my barnwood womb, bare feet on muddied steps. I hear joyous hound-cries echo above and around me. He chases his dreams, a rabbit, a deer, a mystery scent, the sounds of freedom bursting from his lungs. And then I call and wait. Crackling brush and wet moss fur, bounding, spinning, propeller tail says hello and he slips inside our red hideout and fills his belly. And curls up next to me so small to make a warm spot as I sew or read or dream. Little one, I tried to keep things right, you came to me, I loved you so, eyes and coat glowing, well muscled and mannered, I planned this way forever us, the woods, the freedom, and they took you away. Someone stole you from me. And I loved you Petey Bucca, my hound, my boy, my friend.“

~*~

*For Petey Bucca and all the beagles – or anyone who has ever loved a dog.*