Kris KIBBEE

Tullys Bully Tails: A JF Series

Tullys Bully Tails

Pup-PEE Power!
Preface: I cant count the number of times someone has sniggered at my preference towards male dogs and proclaimed well, I dont want to deal with a little boy lifting his leg on everything! Of course, those of us drawn to these little boy-toys know full well that a housetrained dog is a housetrained dog and that many male dogs never adopt the propensity to lift their legs at all. So, as Tullys 7-month birthday approached and Id seen nary a paw off the ground when he tinkled, I thought HA! Well show you bitch lovers!

Chapter One

Apparently Tully had other plans.

The Tail

The first time Tully lifted his leg, it was casual; barely noticeable. He was sauntering past a particularly motley-looking dandelion and pop, there went the back right leg an inch or less off the ground. As his stinky stream coated the stem, Tully eyed it from his peripheral. Humph, kinda neat. I could see trouble brewing. When we returned to our familiar walking trail the next day, I noticed a distasteful tang in the air. My suspicions were confirmed as a Public Works employee, lugging a drum of weed spray and an exhausted expression, tipped his hat as we walked past. Tully, too intoxicated by a spray of fallen cotton blowing around the trail, took little note of the man and continued to stalk the white gob it like a puma about to pounce. Better watch out Tully, I warned as he neared a freshly-doused patch of morning glory that was encroaching on the walkway, that weed spray is bad news. Tully glanced at me as if I had no clue what bad news he was and proceeded to trot over to the same dandelion hed anointed with his pee the day before, and lift his leg. This time it was a full inch and a half. He got a good hike and gave a satisfied sigh as he relieved himself. I rolled my eyes. Like clockwork, we hit the trails the very next day. This time the air was fresh and piney. Tully shooed a lavender-winged butterfly from a patch of grass alongside the parking area and

Christmas time. Poor little thing. Youre gettin it from every angle, arent you? I soothed as we got nearer. proceeded to jump alarmingly high as he snapped at it like a Velociraptor. I imagined it giggling as it soared far out of his reach. Chest inflated, he pranced ahead as if it had fled in terror. As we approached the poor dandelion which had now become accustomed to a steady diet of dog urine, I noticed it browned and wilting. Sure enough, it had fallen victim to the citys seasonal weed spray and been doused right alongside those menacing the rest of the trail. I found myself feeling obscurely emotional, like I sometimes do towards a random Folgers coffee commercial during Tully must have noticed a change in the weed as well, because he approached it more cautiously this time. He sniffed at the stem warily. Yup, thats my pee. He sized up the gangly green ghoul, walking around one side and then the other. And just when I thought I sensed an inkling of empathy, up rose the leg. Ahhhhhh. But when he finished, Tully didnt tottle off to take on the next impediment in his trail. This time he looked back, his little mug screwed into a pensive expression. One blackened brow lifted and arched as he examined the dying plant. His chest bowed. I could read him like a book. I wonder if I did that? It was Friday by the time we took our trusty trail walk again and as we set out, there seemed urgency to Tullys steps. No harassing the native insect population, no chasing peculiar fallen plant life around the trail. He was on a mission. In as fast a sprint as Ive ever seen on a Frenchie, Tully raced to the spot where hed anointed his first unsuspecting weed. And there it was; a defeated, nearly coal-black stalk where a vibrant, green life had once been. Three of its four tattered leaves were shriveled into crispy clumps. The fourth fluttered to the ground as Tully advanced. Tully skidded to a stop beside the poor, desecrated husk of a dandelion and as he lifted his leg one final his posture gained a certain loft. With a jovial wag of my head, I realized that hed become utterly convinced his pee had powers beyond comprehension and could strike dead anything on earth. Certain to save some of his venomous piddle for the unsuspecting flora to follow, Tully quickly finished his work and dashed ahead. As a monstrous clump of horsetails appeared in the distance, he turned to me with a puckish glimmer in his eye and set out to annihilate. From that day forward, he lifted his leg without exception.

Kris Kibbee (Castle Rock, WA) is a Pacific Northwest native with a love of language and dogs. While attending Washington State University she studied in the Professional Writing program and was a contributing writer to The Vancougar. An avid animal welfare advocate and experienced dog trainer, Kris has a contagious affection for French bulldogs and shares her home with three of the mischievous mongrels. She will be writing about the Tails of Tully! Kris Kibbee twofrenchies@hotmail.com