By Bruce Bouchard and John Turchiano
Editor’s note: Bruce Bouchard is former executive director of The Paramount Theatre. John Turchiano, his friend for 52 years, was formerly the editor of “Hotel Voice,” a weekly newspaper on the New York Hotel Trades Council. They are co-authoring this column collaborating to tell short stories on a wide range of topics.
I have always loved dogs — other people’s dogs. An early trauma in my life was the steadfast refusal of my parents to give me a “damn dog”; and boy were they awful about it. I felt it to be an abdication of parental responsibility, I howled. “I want a dog!!”
“Well, yuuu ain’t gettin’ wun” said my mother in her Alabama accent.
Most of this bad dog mojo was the result of what happened to the family dog — yup, we did have one, early on in my life, before I was fully aware of his existence. His name was Barney. He was a hyper cocker spaniel. We were in Dad’s new Plymouth (which, no kidding, he had won with a raffle ticket that cost him $5!!) driving from Pueblo, Colorado to Los Angeles, California to start a new life. The year was 1951. I was 3 years old at the time and, as I said, was not fully with the program of the family dog. He was “tightly wound” as my dad used to say. When, on our trip, we stopped at a little country store to buy sandwiches for the road, Barney bolted out of the car window and disappeared into the nearby forest.
I clearly remember the trauma and the upset following Barney’s brazen leap; my mom running in circles, hands on either side of her head as if she was shutting out a loud train blasting through a station. My sister, 6 years older than me, crying and biting her knuckles, and my dad’s voice — deep in the forest pleading for Barney to come back, over and over and over. We waited three hours. He never did.
My parents made plans with the owners of the country store to be on the lookout for him, so that we could plan to get him to California. Weeks and then months went by with no word. “More than likely,” my father told me, in an effort to quell my anxiety (“Where’s Barney?”), “he found a new home on a ranch, or a farm and the new folks loved him up.”
I was a little resentful about that incident and re-lived Barney’s flight through that window over and over. How could it be that the dog could jump out the window? Should the window have been half up? Should the dog have been tethered somehow inside the car? Maybe he didn’t like us and wanted to escape.
As time went by the sadness deepened. I thought about him a lot, the dog I hadn’t the chance to get to know — cause I was pretty certain that once I knew what I was doing, once I was acclimated, I’d have loved him up just fine.
Brigitte Ritchie, owner, Golden Huggs Rescue, was Godmother of Charley.
There were a number of dogs since that I loved vicariously. My best friend from the 7th grade was named Steve (everyone called him Crammit). This nickname came about as a result of his older brother Mike, smacking the back of Steve’s head, with the flat of his hand and saying, “CRAM-mit, Crammit!!” A ghastly nickname, but it sure stuck, like the word “Groovy” a few years later. Anyway, Crammit had a dog, with an equally colorful name, Spooker. He was the sweetest little guy, he looked like a ball of twine, with floppy ears and curious eyes, always ready for a roll on the carpet, a lick of your face, or a chase of the ball in the back yard. I loved that little guy and cared for him a number of times when the family went away.
Spooker and I had a nearly 10-year lovefest, right up until the day that Steve’s father, Jim, drunk on Manhattans, jumped in the car to hit the liquor store and squashed that little Spooker into a bloody gray pancake! Another dog trauma — and oooooh boy it was one to behold! How Crammit loved that dog! His howls of grief could be heard two blocks away. Things were rough with Crammit and Jim for a good while after that…until, that is, he got a monkey, but that is a chaos story for another time.
The demise of Spooker was on a sultry summer day in 1965. The demise of Crammit was May 30, 2004, killed by a deadly melanoma — his fourth. He was a pale skinned Irishman who refused to wear long sleeves on the golf course.
Fast forward: 42 years after the Spooker pancake, I found myself in Vermont at our beloved Paramount Theatre and I thought that this might be the place where I could bring a dog to work every day, the schedule in presenting was far less demanding than producing, or any of the other theatres I had run, and well maybe, just maybe…
On my first week on the job, after some research, I made a cold call to Brigitte Richie at Citizens Bank in Burlington. She was the top dog in giving and all other external affairs at the bank. We hit it right off on the phone and she told me she would be coming through Rutland that Friday and asked if could we spend time together. She is a tall striking blonde, of Germen descent and regal bearing. We spent nearly the entire day together, sharing our love of the arts, laughing with abandon, and me defining my vision for the future of the Paramount. That led to an initial generous sponsorship gift of $10,000 and then another the next year — to my great surprise, a substantial increase to the top “Gold” season sponsor at $25,000.
The next year I thought it best to make my way up to Burlington, pay obeisance, and visit her on her turf, and learn more about her. I walked into her corner office, resplendent with flowers and tasteful décor. I was struck by a large number of dog rescue pictures and awards on the walls. She sat smiling serenely at her desk.
“Brigitte, what is all this?” Arms wide acknowledging the pictures and awards.
“Oh Bruce, banking is my avocation, my true love is my dog rescue business, called Golden Huggs. By the way, Bouchard, do you have a dog?
“Uhh, um…no I don’t — I love dogs, but…ah,um…. I have always loved other people’s dogs.”
“Well, do you like getting money from the bank?”
“Oh, yes, ever so much, and all of us in Rutland are very grateful.”
“Well, let me put it to you this way, you will not get one more thin dime from the bank until you choose (keystroke and then a turn of the computer screen) one of these dogs…come over here and look through the pictures of our beautiful dogs…take your time…I’ve got all afternoon,” and she swept out of the room.
She didn’t need to blackmail me because I was all in and growing more excited by the minute. I found him on the fourth page and as soon as I looked him in the eyes, I knew that was the guy! A 70-pound yellow English Lab, big head, big chest, and little legs, bred by the English to run after birds under thickets. You might remember the English Lab in “Downton Abbey” named Isis. The name of this English Lab was Charley, a name I wasn’t about to change.
We made our arrangements quickly, set for pick up two weeks hence. Charley would be arriving in Manchester, New Hampshire, on a transport truck traveling from Kentucky to the northeast (an odd factoid in the dog rescue business: a dominant number of abandoned dogs come from the south. I wonder why?)
Later that day at our departure I hugged Bridget and thanked her profusely. She had knocked down the last pin standing in the way of finally getting my own damn dog. The adventure was about to begin.
