It took more than three years for Bud to trust me enough to crawl into my lap and sleep. He’s as soft as a bunny, and when I rub his head, which he loves, we often fall asleep together. Bud taught me patience and trust, and I have tried to return the favor.

I’ve taught him to trust; he helped show me how to open up to love—a fair deal. Bud was a rescue from Arkansas, he had been left outside in an open pen for years, and the other dogs all died of exposure and starvation. He nearly did too. It took months before a doctor could cure his heartworm and near starvation and bring him back to life.

Animal rescuer worker Carol Johnson nurtured him to health and put him on a truck north. We are grateful to her. But was traumatized for months but slowly and steadily came out of his trauma. That was the most challenging dog experience I ever had.

Our first Boston Terrier, Gus, had died from an intestinal disease. We wanted to try a small dog again. Bue was a very fortunate dog when we adopted him, and we were fortunate when he came. I started training him initially, but he was so sick and shell-shocked that I had to go slow and cautiously, not in my natural state.

First, come, then sit, then come, and then sit again. That’s as far as we could go.

The bottom line is that it worked, and we are pretty loving and wonderful pals, and I have the greatest love and admiration for this dog’s spirit, patience, patience, and passion.

Bud has no ego problems. He thinks he’s a Tyrannosaurus and is outraged when a bird lands in his tree. We call him the Little King.

No living thing should go through what he went through, and yet he is both forgiving and strong-willed – he guards the house like it’s a top-secret Army base. He seems to fear nothing and bow to nothing.

His weakness is that he will do almost anything to have his head rubbed or scratched around his back.

Maria took this short video of me rubbing Bud’s head while he sat on my map and then fell asleep.