Hobo Hudson's Pet Finder Machine Brings His Parents A New Dog

Hobo Hudson has always been an extraordinary dog.  Author, investor, business owner, adventurer, he is a trailblazer and a true renaissance dog.

I missed my long chats with Hobo when we became separated after I arrived at the Bridge.  Now that he is with me again I drop by his home every morning for coffee.  This morning I found him in his backyard, sitting in a lawn chair, looking over his pool, deep in thought.

“What is wrong, old friend?” I asked.

“I went to visit my dad in his dreams last night,” Hobo said.  “He said Wyley is missing me and needs a sibling.  Of course, I recognized the fib.  While Wyley does miss me, so do my parents, and they are the ones  longing for the sound of four more paws on the floor in the morning.”

There’s a standard procedure we angels follow to find our parents’ next pup.  We zip from shelters to rescues searching for candidates, then interview each one until we find the most suitable unrescued pup.  From there we whittle the applicants down until we find the perfect dog. We then enter our parents’ dreams where we plant the idea that they need to go to where the dog is currently inhabiting.  Inevitably dog and humans are united, and the angel’s work is done.  I asked Hobo if he was going to follow the traditional route on his quest to locate his parents’ next companion.

I asked Hobo if he would be taking the traditional route to get his parents a new dog, but of course, our friends had other ideas. He asked me to follow him to his laboratory.  He had put together a massive contraption with tubes, a soup spoon, a bootie, eyeglasses, a scale, a fan, various weights and a dog bowl.  “This is my perfect pet finding machine,” Hobo boasted.  “I lick the soup spoon to send my taste, look in the eyeglasses to copy my pupils, step in the bootie to measure my paws, get on the scale for a body scan and lick the bowl for my texture.  The machine does the rest and, when we go to the printer the perfect dog for my parents will be revealed.”

Hobo went to the printer.  “And here it is.  Hond, an Icelandic Sheepdog in Akureyri Iceland, a perfect match.”

“Hobo, old chum,” I said delicately.  “Do you think your dad is going to go all the way to Iceland to get a dog?”

“He always takes my advice.  I am sure he will be more than willing to go a little out of his way for the perfect dog.”

I told Hobo I had to go and promised to check in the next morning.  When I did, he told me, “Bad news. You were right; dad doesn’t want to go to Iceland.”

I said I was sorry and suggested he limit his search.  “Already done,” Hobo said.  “You won’t believe this, but there was a match at the pound by my dad’s house.  A little Chihuahua mix.  She was almost as good a match as the sheepdog.”

“Excellent, Hudson you have done it again,” I said.  “I suppose you told your dad the right pound to visit and told the lucky little pup to act excited when he arrived?

Hobo shook his head.  “It has to occur naturally for my dad.  I convinced him to go to a pound, but he doesn’t know which one, and I told the pup to be aloof when he first arrives.”

I was sure this was a recipe for disaster.  Hobo invited me to watch his dad meet the new dog on Hobo’s Tunes TV.  We saw his dad go to the wrong pound.  “Hobo, what if he gets the wrong dog?” I asked anxiously.

Hobo shook his head.  “It won’t happen, Foley.  Dad will know the perfect match when he sees it.”
At the next pound, I immediately spotted the chihuahua and waited for her to react with excitement when Hobo’s dad beckoned her.  But the dog just stared at the wall ignoring Hobo’s dad as he tried to get her attention. He turned away. 

“Hobo, he’s leaving!” I cried.

“She knows what to do,” Hobo said.  That is when the chihuahua got down and began barking frantically.  Hobo’s dad stopped.  “Dad prefers to be chosen,” Hobo said with a smile.

We watched as Hobo’s dad made the arrangements to adopt the pup.  I was back at Hobo’s house on Friday to see his dad bring the rescued dog, now named Zoe, home. All the members of the Hudson pack, except for Thomas, the cat, were enthralled with Zoe.  I got up and told Hobo I was relieved everything worked out.

Hobo took a sip of coffee.  “Not yet,” he said. “I gave Zoe a case of kennel cough.”

“What did you do that for?” I asked shocked.

“Zoe and Dad have to bond over a stressful situation, once that is done Zoe is truly home.”
Hobo’s dad and Zoe spent the night secluded in a room together as the little dog coughed.  The next morning Zoe got the medicine she needed, and her dad began taking care of her and bonding.

Hobo looked at his dad snuggled with Zoe and turned off the Tunes’ TV.  “Now my job is done,” he said and drank the rest of is coffee with a self-satisfied look on his face.