When I called the agency, the woman on the line claimed they only had one left and mumbled something else I couldn't understand.
Long story short, I did not get Kevin Kostner.
My bodyguard is retired from the secret service.
You know how rock stars are.
Like so many, this one couldn't stay down.
He got up and went back to work.
His name is Hunter.
Sometimes, Hunter Bunter.
And often, Mr. Puppy Dog.
Hunter is very dedicated.
But I feel like maybe he should have stayed retired back when he retired.
He is a nice guy.
He has a great sense of humor, if you are into cat jokes.
A booming voice.
And he has an amazing appetite.
However I don't believe he would have a chance in hell trying to save me or anyone else from a flying bullet.
It is possible that by a stroke of luck I might duck at just the right moment while tucking another piece of carpet under his back legs for better traction. And maybe I would duck again to place another rug under his front legs for some added zest.
I suppose I could be fortunate enough to be standing upright in between machine gun rounds while I am rolling out his red carpet so that he is able to engage in a hot pursuit.
Wood and tiled floors can be slippery when your legs are a bit rubbery.
And that is what my sweet Sven and I chose back in the day.
How could we have possibly known that my future bodyguard would have preferred carpet?
That was three dogs ago.
I have remedied the situation by tossing throw rugs all over this house.
But it doesn't matter how many I line up or how many there are.
Hunter twirls himself around and then sets his ass down on the nearest piece of bare flooring.
His understudy, Baby Face Tuna, however knows to sit on a rug.
It doesn't matter if I am in the kitchen cooking, in my office writing or in the bathroom taking a....
My bodyguard is always by my side, ready to protect me as soon as he can get up from down there.
Some mornings I will have assisted my assistant three times before my one cup of coffee is finished brewing.
"Sven, could you come in here please?"
"We've got a one rug, two rug, three rug, dog again."
"I have my snow shoes on."
Mr. Puppy Dog may often be the last to know when there is a vehicle in our driveway or a man at our door.
But he catches up pretty quickly, once he catches on.
If I were the would be door bell ringer, I would run like hell.
Tuna says that the reason dogs chase mail trucks and bark at meter readers is because mail trucks and meter readers leave, which reinforces their big heads.
It is a matter of instant gratification for canines.
I suppose it is like vacuuming, when you are able to see your path.
Sometimes Hunter Bunter bites off more than he can chew, and I am not talking flip chips right now.
Take the other evening.
We were in our living room.
The woodstove was crackling.
Sven was eating a chocolate chip cookie for dessert.
Hunter worries very much about any crumbs landing on my rug, so...
"No he doesn't."
"Tuna, I am speaking."
As I was saying, Hunter was keeping a close eye on the hand to mouth action over there by Sven when I noticed a bunch of flashing lights outside the dining room window.
"Hey the snow plow finally made it," I said.
Back and forth all those lights went.
It wasn't until the last crumb of Sven's cookie disappeared that my bodyguard noticed the invasion.
He and the fur on the back of his neck stood straight up.
Hunter ran to the window and he boomed out warning after warning.
My Mr. Puppy Dog meant business.
The trouble with snow plows is they go away and then they return.
So every time Hunter would leave his post at the window to begin his twirl arounds to get settled in again the flashing lights would come back.
It was an exhausting event for all of us, as there was quite a bit of snow.
The cold winter air had the same degree of wildness as a hot summer night around here when he takes on thunder.
All by himself.
The plow finally did leave, thanks to Hunter.
He may not be Kevin Kostner.
But, he is my bodyguard.
And I am happy to report that to date, I have not been shot.
Nor has anyone else on his watch.