by Sheldon Oberman

Bootsy and I were both pups when I got him. I was seven years old and he was three months old. I lifted him out of his cardboard box and named him Bootsy because he had white markings on his feet that looked like boots.
I put Bootsy on a leash and paraded him down the street but people only laughed and said, "Look at that little dog on that big leash." That didn't bother me. I figured that Bootsy would grow so big people would say, "Look at that a big dog on that little leash."
However, then someone said, "That dog is a mongrel, a mutt. That's a mixed up, Heinz 57 Variety dog." That bothered me. I considered Bootsy a one of a kind dog. He wasn't a mixed up dog, he was a pure bred mystery dog. He might have come from some noble family of dogs that was so rare, that no one had ever seen one before. He was special. But how could I prove it?

Then I remembered hearing about Monarch. Monarch was a retired circus lion who had been donated to our zoo by the Shriners. Monarch was a noble king of beasts, even his name meant king. I figured that Monarch would be a perfect role model for Bootsy. I just had to get Bootsy to meet him.
It turned out to be easy. My parents liked going to the zoo. My dad parked near the zoo entrance and began fussing with the camera. My mom began fussing with the picnic food, taking out the fruit salad, egg salad and potato salad and arranging them all on the back seat and I fussed with Bootsy. I snapped on his leash and explained what a lion was and how a pup could learn a lot from a lion about looking noble and dignified. As usual, I finished fussing sooner than my parents who were always telling me to hurry, but were never ready when I was. They let me go ahead, saying they would meet us at the lion's cage.
The zoo was a big hit for Bootsy, especially for his nose. He sniffed at every cage, smelling peacock and porcupine, monkeys buffalos. For his it was a smelling zoo, an animal Smellorama. His nose pushed forward, pulling the rest of him and then his leash and finally pulling me, stumbling after him.
Bootsy's nose eventually caught the scent of that lion. It wasn't hard, he turned out to be a real stinker. Bootsy found Monarch in flopped out in his iron cage snoring in the sun. That old lion was so moth eaten and musty that he looked more like a dusty pile of rags than a king of beasts. I don't know if Bootsy was disappointed, surprised or annoyed but he started barking as fiercely as he could. It wasn't really a bark, it was more of a yap but it was enough to wake the old lion. One eye opened, then the other, and then Monarch's huge head lifted. That set Bootsy into a ferocious "Yip yip yip!"

I didn't think that old fleabag was going to do anything but cough but he rose on his legs and stood full height. Monarch glowered down at Bootsy and delivered his response. It was a roar that sounded like a blast, it seemed to shake the whole zoo . If Bootsy had actually been wearing boots he would have shook right out of them. Bootsy bolted and pulled the leash right out of my hnds. I rushed after him hollering, "Bootsy come back!" but Monarch kept roaring and Bootsy tore through the crowd like a canonball, he shot past the cages, out of the zoo, across the parking lot towards our car. Dad's door was wide open as he was sitting inside loading his camera. Bootsy leaped into the car, over my dad, over the camera, into the back seat full of fruit salad, egg salad, potato salad and then he dove down to the floor where he huddled and trembled as if that old lion was hot on his trail.
We couldn't get a picture, of course, since the film was ruined. We couldn't get any picnic salad either since it was spilled over the backseat. And Bootsy would never be considered noble, not after that cowardly behaviour. No one would ever call him Prince of Pups, or Monarch of Mongrels, and certainly not His Majesty the Mutt.
Then I heard people coming out of the zoo talking about Bootsy, saying, "Did you see how that dog was running? He was flying! What a yellow streak!"
I thought about what they said. Then with the perfect clarity of a seven year old, I realized what my dog really was. He was a runner, a racer, a bred-for-speed champion track star. He deserved a title. He could be Bootsy, the Yellow Streaker, The Fur Bullet, Speed Dog, or maybe Hot Paws. My dog was special after all.

THE END