The Boys

BANJO

“Brown dog” wandered into my life one  afternoon while I sat enjoying a well deserved beer at the Bulldog in NewOrleans. It was the last Sunday of Jazz Fest and the whole city was spent.  He walked up with a girl who’d found him about a month before when she and some friends were camping in the woods of  Mississippi.  I fell immediately for his lazy southern charms and when she told me “brown dog” was looking for a good home, I wasted no time in offering my own.  That was 6 years ago. Since then Banjo and I have evacuated for hurricanes, moved across the country, endured doggy knee replacement, worked many Saturday night shifts together at “Whiskey in the Jar”, married a wonderful man, and generally made alot of friends.  This old guy is the stuff of legends. Banjo drops everything whenever there’s a siren in earshot. He throws his head back, closes his eyes and howls like the wild dog he believes himself to be. God, I love that. He has taught me many things, but most importantly to never leave any roasted/grilled/raw/marinating/sauteed meat anywhere near the edge of the counter.

REGGIE

This bullmastiff, down on his luck, was picked up loping through the streets of Detroit by animal control.  ”Dead dog walking” had one day left when my husband, Snakes, showed up with a pocket full of milk bones and a heart full of love, looking for a new friend.  Although I am not a Star Wars geek, I am a child of the 80s and Reggie has proven to be a big drooling wookie who would lay down his life in an instant for us (especially Snakes). Remember how pained Chewie was when Han was thrown into the freeze chamber and delivered to Jaba? (okay- so maybe I did wear my hair in Princess Leia buns), well that’s a close approximation to how Reggie acts whenever Snakes leaves the house. I have never witnessed such an unflinching and remarkable devotion as the love of a mastiff for his milk bone savior.