Friday, February 24, 2012

Doggy humor: Mom’s Christmas present

By Hobo Hudson

I had been racking my brain trying to decide on the perfect Christmas present for Mom this year. I thought of this, and I thought of that but immediately discarded all ideas because they just didn’t seem right. I was still cogitating when I heard Mom scream for Dad to come because the oven was on fire.

When Dad ambled into the kitchen, he took one look and said it wasn’t a fire but, rather, an electrical short in the oven heating element. He turned the oven off and the flame immediately disappeared. After placing a call to our friendly repairman, Dad told Mom the guy would be out in a couple of weeks to “have a look at it.” Mom was none too happy about the long wait, but there wasn’t much she could do except grin and bear it.

Ah, I thought, the perfect Christmas present. Mom’s stove was 25 years old, and Mom had marveled at the new ranges with the ceramic tops for a long time. I knew she would have liked to have one. I also knew she had been hoping Dad would buy her one but, knowing my dad, she would have a long wait because he would rather save a dollar by fixing instead of replacing.

After we had eaten an early supper, I casually announced to Mom and Dad that I had too many bones on hand and was going to deposit a few bones in my bank. I pulled my little red wagon into the office I shared with Dad and opened my safe. I carefully selected a few choice bones, loaded them onto the wagon and off I went to the appliance store.

When I arrived at the store, my nose led me directly to the stoves, displayed on one side of a long aisle. In order to see which ones had ceramic tops and which had the old-fashioned burners, I jumped on top of the first stove and then hopped from one to the next. After sniffing out a few possibilities, I jumped back down to the floor and barked at the salesman to open the oven doors so I could see inside.

It only took me a couple of looks before I decided on the perfect stove and told the salesman to “write it up.” While he typed all the information into the computer, I casually asked him for his current rate of exchange between bones and dollars. He looked kind of funny at me and explained they only accepted dollars, and I would have to exchange my bones at the bank before we could complete the sale.

Being a business dog, I have been accustomed to getting the job done without wasting time. I left the salesman at the computer fiddling with the keys to place a hold on the sale, grabbed my little red wagon full of bones and rushed to the bank only to find it already closed. Since it was a Friday evening, it wouldn’t be open again until Monday.

I quickly decided my best option would be to hightail it to Tampa International Airport which had a 24/7 exchange kiosk. Even though it was 30 miles away, the rates were much better than the local check cashing places. Pulling the heavy load of bones behind me, I switched between trotting and running, and when I finally arrived at the airport, I relaxed a few minutes to get my panting under control. As I started to squeeze through one of airport’s main doors with my little red wagon, a guy from Homeland Security, big and muscular, immediately stopped me and asked with a frown on his face what I was doing with a wagon load of bones at the airport.

Knowing all about the security issues at airports, I looked the guy straight into the eyes and explained that I wasn’t flying—just visiting the bone exchange booth. The guy stared at me kind of funny, just like the salesman did at the store, but agreed to accompany me and helped me avoid going through the X-ray machine or the pat-down procedure on the way to the kiosk.

Looking at the posted exchange rates, I saw the best rates were for soup bones. I inquired at the kiosk window how many soup bones it would take to get the desired number of dollars. After receiving the answer, I bent down to my wagon, counted out the determined amount of bones and threw them on the countertop. The lady behind the window, giving me a big smile, recounted the bones, put the equivalent amount of dollars into an envelope and handed it to me.

With the envelope full of dollars in one paw and the other paw holding the handlebar of my wagon, now easier to pull without the heavy load, I was ready to trot back to the appliance store. Just as I was leaving the airport building, my eyes caught the clock hanging at the wall over the glass door leading to the taxi waiting area, and I realized I would never make it to the store on foot before it closed. Luckily, I noticed an empty cab waiting for passengers, and rushing outside, I was able to negotiate a ride to the store for only two chew bones.

I arrived back at the appliance store a few minutes before closing time. I ran into the store and spotted the salesman who had started to process my order earlier waiting for me at the cashier desk. While I handed him my envelope of dollars, I told him to go ahead and arrange delivery and to haul away my mom’s old stove.

The following Monday morning, the phone rang and Mom heard one of those robot voices saying her delivery would arrive within 30 minutes. She was very puzzled about it, and I explained it was my Christmas gift being delivered a little early. When Mom saw the new range, she was really thrilled and started giving me hugs and kisses. I knew then my efforts were well worth the exertion.

Sometimes it’s not easy being a business dog in a hooman world.



About Hobo

This was Hobo Hudson, my doggy brother, a little terrier mix with black fur. He became famous after his first attempt at writing stories, which was an article published in the newsletter of our local animal shelter, the same shelter in which I ended up years later before Hobo and his parents adopted me. Hobo’s fame quickly spread as he made a name for himself as a business dog and an adventurer. To keep his memory alive, my three kitty siblings and I, Wylie Hudson, are continuing his blog. Our mom, the blog’s editor, is publishing a Hobo Hudson adventure in sequences on her website at:

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Bruny Hudson
Bruny Hudson, manager and editor of, assists as a consultant with Hobo’s blog.
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