This little boy puppy came into the world as a little tiny guy. He is Samantha's brother (you met Sam, she was the first paw). His mom was a Shih Tsu; his dad was a Chihuahua. Samantha came to live with us, and he went to live with some other people (kind of how Snoopy went to live with Charlie Brown, and Spike went somewhere else). They named him Buzz Lightyear.
And so it was that a year and a half later those other people said, "Hey . . . would you watch our dog while we go on vacation?" And so we did. But we soon learned that his little guy was NOT a people person. He also was NOT a dog person. In fact, the only creatures in our house that he remotely identified with was our cats. This little guy had clearly gotten his dad's Chihuahua frame, weighing about nine pounds (his sister weighed in at 16-18 pounds, and clearly got mom's Shih Tsu frame). You couldn't touch him. You couldn't hold him. If he was sitting in his little dog bed (and he was always sitting in his little dog bed), you couldn't put your hand over the edge of the dog bed. It was as though there was an invisible wall, and if your hand penetrated it, he would lash out at you. We would tell Samantha, "That's your little brother." She was not impressed.
When the people came back from vacation and took their little dog, the saddest person in the house was the man of the house . . . the guy who didn't want anymore animals in the house. He fell in love with that dysfunctional little dog. He asked me to try and get the dog back. Everyone thought the dog was likely mistreated, as he appeared to have been abused. I did nothing. And then a few days later, the people said . . . "Hey, did you like him? Do you want him." And that's how Buzz came to be a Bonczek.
When Buzz came to stay "for keeps," he came with a bed, a collar, a blanket, lots of toys, a leash, some food and some treats. The joke was that he was the only pet we got that came with his own accessories.
Truth be told, the little guy had problems. BIG problems. He clearly thought he was a cat, and our vet insisted he showed signs of abuse. If you raised your hand, he flinched. He would yelp if you brushed past him. He didn't want to socialize, except with the cats. He didn't want to be touched. He didn't want to move (too much). He just wanted to hide under blankets in a crate until it was time to eat, take care of his business, or give a kitty a little head butt. In order to force him to socialize, we took away the one thing that he loved . . . his crate. It was like his little man cave, and if he was going to become a member of the family, it had to go! It took this dog nearly two years to move outside of the kitchen/family room area under his own power. If you held him, he would spring off of you like a flea.
At eleven years old, he can be a bossy little guy (to some of us). He does as he pleases for the most part. He enjoys an occasional car ride (loves to look out the window). He will come to you for a little ear scratching. He will climb on you to deliver a few quick licks.
Buzz loves to play with his toy, Bobo. There have been many Bobo's that Buzz has loved to death. In fact, if you look at the photo above, Buzz is sitting next to his Christmas Bobo (brand spanking new on December 25, 2009), while his former Bobo sits on top of a book titled, "Loved to Death." If you look closely, you can still make out the smiling teeth on his old pink Bobo atop the book. The book is about dog toys that have been loved to death by their owners. Hmmm . . . how appropriate.
In the photo below, you see Buzz with Christmas Bobo again . . . it's just that Christmas Bobo has become a bit of a shell of his former self. He still has his head . . . and there is a new Bobo (a larger yellow one) waiting for it's turn to be loved to death.
He's still a little odd, but we tell him all the time . . . "Buzz, your a real dog now."
And he believes it! He believes almost everything we say.
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