Bullmina the Courageous Bulldog Comes Home

By Lita Eitner-England

Bullmina the Courageous Bulldog Comes Home is the final book in Lita Eitner-Englands Bulldog trilogy. Readers dont need to read the first two books in order to enjoy this last installment.

More than 130 years have passed since Trevor Sheffield, Lisette St. Germaine, Matthew Connors, and their friends said goodbye to the duke of Chathamworthshires first Bullmina in London and embarked on new adventures. We are now in Redwood City, California, home to Carey Evers and her dysfunctional parents. The family of Careys grandparents has a history of raising bulldogs, but Careys abusive father, Hank, refuses to let Carey adopt even a rescue dog. Careys grandmother, the indefatigable Nonna Beppa, is the only person keeping Carey sane until Bobbi Weinberg and her family move in with a station wagon full of champion and rescue English bulldogs.

Carey and Bobbi become fast friends, bonding over the dogs. Even Careys mentally ill mother, Liz, finds new motivation to live while helping Bobbis mother, Lyndsey, take care of the new litters and tend to the rescue bulldogs.

Unfortunately, tragedy strikes twice. Liz comes down with a catastrophic illness, and Hank is convicted of felony vehicular manslaughter. With the help of Bobbis father, Dr. Josh Weinberg, and both Lyndsey and Bobbi, Carey must navigate these uncertain waters and build a new future. She discovers that her life and Bobbis are more intricately tied together than she could ever have imagined, bringing new conflicts that threaten to tear both families apart until the unconditional love of an abandoned rescue bulldog saves the day, and Bullminas legacy lives on for more generations to come.

This book also includes a bonus short story about an irresistible Siberian husky named Payasito (little clown).

Proceeds from all book sales are being donated to animal rescue organizations around the country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546241034

Lita Eitner-England

When she couldn't find a good story about Bulldogs for her then nine-year-old daughter, Lita Eitner-England decided to write one herself. Her first book, Bullmina the Courageous Bulldog, was a finalist for the 2004 ASPCA Henry Bergh Children's Book Award for Young Adult Fiction. The book chronicles Bullmina's turbulent early years in the 1830's, when she is abandoned on the outskirts of London, then rescued, only to be stolen and forced to fight in the illegal dogfight pits. Because of the first book's success, Lita Eitner-England started The Bullmina Foundation in 2005 to support animal rescue organizations, promote children's literacy programs, and teach responsible dog ownership. Her second book, Bullmina the Courageous Bulldog to the Rescue, was published in 2010. Inspired by her own Bulldogs, Ms. Eitner-England's writing reflects the joys of owning Bulldogs as well as some of the very real health problems they face. She is an advocate of animal rescue and adoption and participates in Visiting Author Programs at local schools in the San Francisco Bay Area. Leslie Hoops-Wallace has illustrated all three of Ms. Eitner-England's books. Ms. Hoops Wallace graduated from The Academy of Art University, San Francisco, with a BFA in Illustration. She enjoys painting animals, and she creates pet portraits. Ms. Hoops-Wallace manages the Fine Art Societies Gallery in Warner Robins, Georgia. She believes art heals, and she encourages the community to visit the gallery and chat with the artists and each other. Follow her on Facebook or email her for more information: [e-mail]

Book preview

Bullmina

THE

COURAGEOUS BULLDOG

Comes Home

Lita Eitner-England

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: [phone]

© 2018 Lita Eitner-England. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/29/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4104-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4102-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4103-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018905548

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For my mother, Betty Lou Pardini Eitner,

the most courageous woman I’ve ever known,

my daughter, Micaéla Noelani England,

who inspires me every day,

and our own beloved

Rescue Bulldog, Sofia

Contents

Letting Go

Chapter 1     New Neighbors…With Bulldogs!

Chapter 2     Friday Night Dinner

Chapter 3     Elsa Gets a New Home

Chapter 4     Mom Blossoms

Chapter 5     Buddy and Clementine

Chapter 6     And So it Begins

Chapter 7     Dr. Moe Takes Charge

Chapter 8     The Red Devil

Chapter 9     Thanks Again, Dad

Chapter 10   A Perfect Storm

Chapter 11   Memories of Our Fathers

Chapter 12   Another Setback…San Quentin Here I Come

Chapter 13   Nonna Beppa Looks Back

Chapter 14   A New Home for the Misbegotten

Chapter 15   Letters and Memories

Chapter 16   A Treasure Trove of Letters

Chapter 17   Mom Goes Home

Chapter 18   A New Start

Chapter 19   Life Goes On

Payasito – Little Clown

Acknowledgements

Letting Go

"H ow fast can you get over here, Carey? sniffed Bobbi, on her phone. The police just brought him in, and he’s one of the worst we’ve ever seen," she exhaled heavily, barely containing her rage and controlled hysteria.

Worse than our Bullmina was? I asked, remembering the very first rescued English Bulldog we were grudgingly allowed to bring home and take care of when I was in high school.

Oh, hell yeah! she cried. Words can’t even describe it. Triple J says he’s a real mess.

Oh, Lord. If Triple J, Bobbi’s adopted brother, said the dog was a mess, I knew I had to prepare myself.

I’ll get Nancy to take the rest of my appointments this afternoon, I said, referring to the woman with whom I shared my veterinary practice. We specialize in English Bulldogs and other brachycephalic breeds with pushed-up noses, like Pugs, Boston Terriers, Boxers, and French Bulldogs. Fortunately I only have a couple of re-checks, so it shouldn’t be too crazy for her.

Thanks. I know we’re really putting you out, making you drive all the way over here. And bring your kit, she gulped into the phone, "just in case. I know they can do it here, but…but I’d rather you do it if it comes to that. We’re going to do all we can, but this one’s really suffering."

Okay, I sighed deeply, hearing the anguish in her voice. I got my kit together and made the arrangements with my vet techs and front reception staff. If the Bulldog could travel, we’d bring him over here for round-the-clock care; if not, then it wasn’t going to be the type of send-off I usually administered with my little flowery bag in tow.

Nancy’s and my practice not only specializes in Bulldogs, but it’s one of the few that offers house calls, specifically for those families whose beloved four-legged children have reached the end of the line. Rather than stress the pet out even more, and having him die on the seat of the car on the way to the pet hospital, we offer to come to the family’s home. No one, not even a dog, would choose to die on a table in an off-white, impersonal examination room if they didn’t have to. Better to die on Mom’s bed, or on the couch in the family room, where you’d spent your happiest times snuggled up in your soft, old worn-out blanket with your favorite people beside you. I deliberately chose a brightly-colored, flower-patterned bag rather than a dark one, so the family wouldn’t associate any negative connotations with it when I walked through their front door.

Uh oh, the vet’s here…with a black bag.

Each euthanizing act – and I really hate the word euthanasia, but what else do you call it? Putting the cat to sleep? That really isn’t the truth. Putting them out of their misery? Expediting the inevitable? Whatever you choose to call it, each act is different because every family is different, and every pet is different.

Sometimes it’s a lovely and tender goodbye, after a faithful companion has lived a long, happy life. You know it’s time when you have to carry him outside to go potty because he mostly crawls rather than walks. He’s so painfully crippled from arthritis that he can’t even get out of his orthopedic bed to go lap up a few tongue-fulls of water. You both know it’s time to let him go.

And other times it’s a really shitty goodbye, especially when a young dog, four or five years old, succumbs to the excruciating downward spiral of terminal cancer. It’s spread. The treatment isn’t working, I tell the family as honestly and compassionately as I can.

But she’s so young! Their frustration and resentment builds. Can’t we do anything else? Can’t you try just one more round of chemo on her?

She’s lost so much weight and she’s in a whole lot of pain now, I gently say, which they obviously already know because they’ve been taking turns staying up with her for weeks now without sleeping.

We have some pretty strong pain medication nowadays, doggy narcotics, but after a while, even they aren’t strong enough to alleviate the suffering. When she can barely move her head without groaning and won’t even eat her favorite treats anymore, you have to ask yourself, Am I prolonging her life just to keep her around for me, or am I just prolonging an agonizing death?

It’s never an easy call.

When I show up in the van with my flowery kit bag in tow, I always let the family take as long as they need. Everybody gets a chance to hug him, stroke him, kiss him, and thank him. I leave the room, and tell them to come and get me when they’re ready.

Mom and Dad are usually the voice of reason when the older kids protest. Let’s not prolong his pain anymore, sweetheart. I know, I know. But it’s time to send him home. I usually leave it up to the parents to decide whether or not they want the kids to stay – that’s if I don’t know the family very well. But most of the time I ask the kids myself if they want to stay. More often than not, they say yes.

To protect mom’s upholstery, we always lay down an absorbent, two-sided mat with plastic on the underside to contain any urine or feces the cat or dog might release when they finally slip away. Then there’s the disposal of the body. We bring special blankets and respectfully wrap the dog or cat and carry her out to our van. Sometimes the family asks us to use one of their blankets, as a way of closure. We have a stretcher to help us carry out the larger breeds like Mastiffs, Great Danes, Malamutes, and American Bulldogs. The family often helps. Like pall bearers, they carry their beloved pet out to the ersatz hearse. Once again, I let them take as long as they need to say their goodbyes beside the van door.

As I drive their beloved family member away, watching them wave, tears streaming down their cheeks, I say a prayer, thanking the Lord for the wonderful bond they had with their pet and the love they shared. And I pray that they can work through their grief. And I thank the dog for being such a wonderful companion, enriching every family member’s life and offering them comfort in anxious, stressful times.

About a week later, the ashes are ready to pick up in a sealed, carved mahogany box, with the pet’s name engraved on a little gold tag. I’d only been a practicing vet for a few months in another established doctor’s practice, and before long, I saw how hard it was for the family members, and the widowed, older women, God bless them, to come in and claim the ashes. With their eyes red, they’d smile tenderly at the reception staff, bite their lip, and ask in a voice just above a whisper, I’m here to pick up my Thomas, or my Maddie.

They would usually try to complete this errand during the lunch hour because it was easier to stop by the vet hospital when there weren’t all these bouncing, healthy dogs sitting in the reception area, waiting for their follow-up visits and their well-puppy visits. Being the new, young vet in the practice, I’d have to pitch in while the reception staff was at lunch. And every single time I saw this, it would cut through me like a knife, just like with my mom, and my Bullmina. I vowed that when I had my own practice, I would take it upon myself to deliver these boxes to their homes myself or have a compassionate member of staff do it at no charge, to spare the family any more pain.

It’s very rare that mom or dad will actually want to keep the body and bury it in the backyard. I strongly discourage it because there are ordinances against home pet burials in most cities and municipalities, but if they insist, especially when it’s a little Chihuahua or a tiny Terrier, I’ll look the other way, making sure to tell them how deep to bury the body and what to line the hole with.

With the urgency of Bobbi’s voice ringing in my ears, I put my Volvo station wagon in gear and made record time across the San Mateo Bridge. As I headed over to the Peninsula Humane Society and SPCA, I prayed that we we’d be able to save this Bulldog, rehabilitate him, and find him a loving, forever family who would cherish him for years to come. If no one else offered to take him, we would take him. My husband and I had taken in more than a couple of rescue Bulldogs over the years. They are the best dogs. I swear on my mom’s grave, they actually seem to know that they’ve been rescued and given another chance, and they love you and offer up their affection and gratitude even more than the pick-of-the-litter, sold-at-the-highest-price breeders’ dogs do.

Bobbi met me out in the parking lot, tears rolling down her cheeks. He’s in real bad shape, Carey. You’re the best with Bulldogs, and that’s why Triple J called you. Someone in the neighborhood saw him dragging himself along the sidewalk in front of an apartment carport and called the police. They brought him in. The board’s already been contacted, and we’re going to offer a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of whoever’s responsible for this. It’s absolutely revolting. God, even that word isn’t enough to describe it, she clenched her hands, shaking her head.

I steeled myself as Bobbi hurried me past the lobby area.

By his beautiful, mournful face, he was indeed an English Bulldog. At first glance, I couldn’t even tell what color he was because he was covered with assorted rash and mange. His rashy underbelly and hind legs were also caked with dried feces and stained with blood along with the strong urine smell of dehydration. It looked like someone had poured some type of acid on his back, the burns were that bad.

My sweet Lord, I whispered inaudibly, how could this poor darling still be alive? Any other breed would probably be dead by now, but that Bulldog tenacity and their high tolerance for pain kept him alive. And maybe, just maybe, some little spark of hope that someone would find him and take care of him the way he should have been taken care of.

We’ve already taken blood and x-rays while we were waiting for you to get here, said Triple J, composed and firmly in command. Poor guy’s barely hanging on. You’d think after all we’ve seen over the years that we wouldn’t be shocked anymore, he said, gently stroking the severely abused dog.

Bobbi’s adopted brother, Jose Joaquin Jimenez, or Triple J, was now a Peninsula Humane Society volunteer veterinarian. He had his own thriving practice in Redwood City, close to where we all grew up. Despite his past and his learning disabilities, he graduated from UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine at the top of his class because he was always dedicated and thorough. His patients and their human parents loved him, tattoos and all. To them, he was Doctor Triple J or simply just Doctor TJ.

He has a compound fracture of the front right leg, the cartilage in his left rear leg is gone… Triple J began, enumerating all of the dog’s health issues while I examined the computer screen, noting the severity of the fracture.

The young Bulldog, not even two years old, was struggling desperately. He was seriously malnourished and looked at us with his deep brown eyes, just begging us to keep him going. He panted heavily as the vet tech volunteers fed him ice chips, one or two tiny pieces at a time. He was totally grateful to receive all the attention and even the smallest attempt at re-hydration. Triple J didn’t want to let him drink any water because he might aspirate the fluid into his lungs and die from asphyxiation during surgery. To bring his electrolytes and fluid levels up, the young dog had just about finished his first IV bag, and another vet tech was waiting to hook up another.

And now look at this, said Triple J, trying not to lift the dog’s other mangled leg too much and cause him any more pain than he had to during the examination. See that exposed bone stump rounded at the edges?

I nodded, staring at the old untreated injury. Who knows how long he’s been suffering like this. I’m surprised it’s not totally septic by now.

Do you think he was hit by a car, Carey?

I don’t know. I sighed, shaking my head. And look at his left leg.

The Bulldog was also missing most of his left paw. What was left was barely there with just two little crushed toes.

This is totally f’d, said Triple J. Who in the hell would do this to a dog? The other x-rays indicate a fractured left pelvis too. That’s why he can only crawl.

Well, he’s got mange on all his paws and legs, but he doesn’t have too many fleas on him, and there are only a few maggots in his wounds, so he was probably kept in a garage or outside patio while they starved him, I noted as we ran down the other obvious signs of physical abuse and neglect. I’d seen them so many times with other discarded Bulldogs and Pit Bull Terriers over the years. Let me see the rest of the scans and the blood work.

Here they are, Bobbi handed them over.

Geez! I exclaimed. He’s got abdominal bleeding and look at that enlarged heart.

Yep, he’s also got a heart murmur, exhaled Triple J.

If we can get him stabilized, we can set his bones, get him a sturdy leather bootie for that left paw, try some heart meds and deal with the burns, I said, formulating a partial treatment plan in my head.

We gotta go in there and stop the internal bleeding first.

Just then Bobbi blurted, He’s lost consciousness again.

The three of us sprang into action.

Bobbi, a trained vet tech, volunteers at both my practice and Triple J’s. I often refer rescue dogs over to Triple J when we don’t have the room, and he does the same with me. And when I’ve had to be there at his practice to help with the most unfortunate cases, everyone has heard the litany innumerable times before because I always explain everything I’m doing, even to the vet techs. You never know when one of them might be a rookie: the shot, what it’s composed of, how I’m injecting it, how long it will take, what the dog’s mouth will do, what his eyes will do, how he might shiver or tremble as he drifts off, how he might defecate or urinate. It’s a meditative recitation that keeps me calm and focused as they drift off to sleep permanently. I always have to say the words. It’s what I have to do, especially when I’m screaming inside and want to go out and beat the shit out of the bastards who do these unforgivable things to helpless animals. I looked over at Bobbi, who had her arms around the dog. I hoped I wouldn’t have to say the words this time. He was still young, and we’d pulled dogs who were much older than him back from the brink before.

Please let him come back, Lord, if it be your will! I prayed. I had set bones and put leather booties on several other dogs who’d lost part of their feet. They adapt and they get around and they’re just fine. Come on! You can do it, little man!

Triple J tried to resuscitate him, but it was no use. He heaved a deep sigh as he removed his stethoscope. He doesn’t have any more fight left in him.

No second chance with a forever family. No final injection.

You won’t have to say the words, Carey. He just wanted to die in the arms of people who gave a damn.

What should we name him? sniffed Bobbi, tears still streaming down her cheeks as she bent down and kissed the Bulldog’s wrinkled forehead.

I don’t know. Maybe ‘The Unknown Bullman’? I offered softly.

From the Bullmina-Bullman line? You know he didn’t come from that line or any reputable line…probably from another greedy puppy mill breeder, just like most of them these days, Triple J huffed angrily.

We don’t know that, Dr. Jimenez, I said, respecting his opinion. Regardless, this dog deserves to be honored just as the original Bullmina was, way back in the 1830’s, with Trevor and Lisette, and Matthew and Leslie.

My dear friend Bobbi reached out and clenched both Triple J’s and my hands. Triple J knew the history. We all did.

Many English Bulldogs in America can trace their heritage back to the Duke of Chathamworthshire’s Bullmina-Bullman line from some ancestor on either their sire’s side or their dam’s side. We’re not going to throw him on a mass heap and incinerate him like all those forgotten dogs at the city pound, I firmly said. "There will be a carved mahogany box with an engraved gold nametag for this one, and I’ll pay for it myself. I’ll bring him home so he can sit on the mantle right next to my own Bullmina," I said, referring to the urn holding my mother’s and my first rescue dog, which she had named Bullmina, after the very first Bullmina, born in 1829, from our English ancestors’ famous bloodline.

Well, you can take his ashes home, but you’re not paying for it, said Triple J. My practice will cover it.

You’re not paying for it, I’m doing it.

"But I want to!"

Why?

Because I almost ended up just like him. I could’ve let go. But I fought, Carey, he said, almost choking up. You and Bobbi taught me how to fight.

I saw something in that dying Bulldog’s face right before he slipped away. Why his face and not some other dog’s face after all these years? And why did I give him that name and not some other rescue Bulldog?

I don’t know, but I have to find out. Bobbi’s and my family had been through so much over the years. And so had the original Bullmina, two centuries ago. The Unknown Bullman’s death was the catalyst.

We were separated by decades of persecution, shame and strife, two branches of a family, who couldn’t be more opposite. We finally came together because of the legacy passed on by that original courageous Bulldog, Bullmina.

CHAPTER

1

New Neighbors…With Bulldogs!

"I  don’t know what it is, Bobbi, I heaved a defeated, exasperated sigh into the phone. I’ve filled pages and pages in my notebooks, but I’m just not getting anywhere. It’s all just spinning around and around in my head."

I was over there at the clinic last week on your day off, helping with some rescue check-ups, and your new vet tech, Stephanie, said you’ve been really distracted. Are you sure you should be doing this, hon?

I have to do it, Bobbi.

But Steph says you look so tired and drained.

"Geez, it is that obvious? Maybe I should get some new eyeliner."

We know you’re going through some heavy-duty shit, plowing through all the letters and journals and stuff, but is it really worth it? What do you hope to gain from all this? Your life is stable now. You don’t need to slash open old wounds.

My throat was dry. I reached over and took another sip from my cup of tea as the early evening shadows slowly crept up my redwood-stained fence. Bettina, one of our newest rescue Bulldogs, was tethered to the mahogany rocker bench beside me so