In the spring of 2005, Steve adopted a Boston bull terrier and named him Earl.

Earl was brought home as a pet, but it didn’t take long for him to become much more than that. This little black and white aristocrat’s (Earl was a perfect name) love, loyalty and attitude worked his way deep into Steve’s heart.

Anyone who knew them understood that Earl was much more than a pet; he was Steve’s companion and best friend.

For all the years I’ve known them, just being around them warmed my heart, for I truly relate to the bond between a man and his dog.

“How are you doing Earl?” I would ask. 

“Couldn’t be better, Uncle Lennie,” would always be his reply. 

Earl wouldn’t be exaggerating with that reply because, besides his own personal four-poster bed, he had any toy he liked, he rode on his special seat on Steve’s motorcycle,  and he wanted for nothing, especially love. Earl was part of Steve like an appendage and wherever Steve went, his little friend went along.

Two years ago, Steve came to me and asked if I could find a young female for Earl.

“The old fella is slowing down a bit,” Steve said with a slight tear in his voice. 

“I’ll do my best buddy, but that’s a tall order, perhaps you should try a rescue.” 

“No Lennie, we can wait.”

In April of this year, Earl had a stroke and, at age 13, was quietly put to sleep. 

Steve held up pretty well, but anyone who knew him could sense the emptiness he was experiencing. More than once he told me, “I’m still in the market for another Boston bull Lennie; I’d prefer a female but would take another male.”

Two weeks ago, I had a dream of Monty, my old Boxer doggie Angel that is on the cover of “A Voice In The Hills.” 

In the dream, Monty was playing with Earl, and I was pleased my boy was taking care of the little guy. I called to them, but they couldn’t come — instead, they went into a cage at the shelter and sat down and just looked up at me.

The next day, I went over to the Foothills Humane Society just to visit some of the kids and see if I’m needed somewhere. The night before, three dogs were brought as an owner-turn-in from a drug arrest.

One of them was Emma, a 2-3 year old brindle Boston bull, who was spayed, had all her shots, was house trained and was cute and friendly as all get out. 

I tearfully rushed over to Christine, the shelter director and told her, if I can, I have the perfect home for that dog. 

“It’s an owner turn-in Lennie, so we don’t have to hold for three days — I will hold her for you till you contact your friend.”

I finally reached Steve the next day, which was Saturday. We arrived exactly at 11 a.m. when the shelter opened. 

I had already contacted them and said we were coming for Emma. 

Steve had told me, “I just turned down a puppy. I just had faith that you’d come through.”

I laughed, “I hope you like her.”

Upon entering, Emma was brought out for Steve, and I swear she almost broke her leash trying to get to him. She was let go and nearly jumped into Steve’s arms. 

There wasn’t a dry eye in the place, including my good friend.

Emma’s name has been changed to Molly, and she is attached to him like another Boston bull I knew.  I’ve already heard three different tales of all the things Molly is and does.

“She’s perfect Lennie, just perfect.”

Last night I dreamed again — this time it was just Earl. 

“How are you doing little fella?” I asked. 

“I’m better now, Uncle Lennie, now that Dad isn’t lonely anymore.”

Earl went on, “Tell Dad I miss him, but I will see him again someday, and when I do, please ask him to bring Molly along.”

Thanks for listening.