Line from perhaps the definitive Our Gang comedy, TEACHER'S PET, spoken by June Marlowe as Miss Crabtree: "Jackie, Farina, Chubby and Buddy -- come quickly. Something terrible has happened."
Or, maybe not so terrible, after all. At least the lesson has a happy ending. This story has one, too.
Suppose Stan Laurel, like Hal Roach, had lived to be one-hundred years of age? Or maybe Oliver Hardy, who after all, was born only four days after Roach. Suppose, instead of Hal Roach and Anita Garvin and Marvin Hatley living so long, it had been Jimmy Parrott, Thelma Todd, and Jimmie Finlayson who survived into the 1980s and 1990s for fans to meet and authors to interview? The film history books and biographies would all be different.
We might have far-differing versions of what happened behind the scenes of films we enjoy, and in some cases, study. We would know some performers and technical talent better, others not as well. We would probably perceive the films they all made a little differently, as a function of what some few observed, or what others failed to notice, or recall.
At this late date, it seems the film history surrounding Hal Roach movies is pretty much carved in, well, perhaps "estar," and set in final draft form. We are never going to get an interview with Snub Pollard, or find a lost diary written by Mae Busch. So many people are gone now, that to find a lost participant from the prime-period production days of Hal Roach Studios, who is alive, who has never been interviewed before, and has something to say ... that is a discovery worth sharing.
One Hal Roach Rascal who seemed to have disappeared was Buddy McDonald. It is not a name many know. He was never a leading cast member, but he did appear in the best Our Gang era and had small parts in all the series then in production at Hal Roach Studios.
No information about his subsequent life and career was included in either edition of the LITTLE RASCALS book. Nor were Leonard Maltin and I able to incorporate any of his contemporary observations about the films he made. All we knew stemmed from a single line in SCHOOL'S OUT (1930). Miss Crabtree called upon a "Buddy O'Donnell" to stand and answer a question in front of the class. In 1969, trying to confirm the name of Buddy O'Donnell by any period trade publication, the closest we could find was a listing for "Buddy MacDonald" in two casting directories. From that day to this -- zero further progress. Neither Bud O'Donnell, nor Bud McDonald, nor even any impostor of either, ever came forward, never surfaced, from 1933, into the New Millennium. He, or they, seemed to have vanished without a trace. Until now.
In mid-July of 2001 a friend received an e-mail reporting, "Bud McDonald was Buddy in the Little Rascals. He is a very active eighty year-old. He is living in Seal Beach, California. You can e-mail him."
I did. If this was an impostor -- because, as Wilfred Lucas so wisely observed in PARDON US, "And still they come," early and often -- why would the gentleman pick on an Our Gang character to impersonate who was known by so few? And yet, if he was legitimate, how could he escape detection all these years by people who have seen both HIDE AND SHRIEK and DO DETECTIVES THINK?
So I asked, in an e-mail, essentially, come on now, pardon me, but was this really the Buddy McDonald from PARDON US, ON THE LOOSE, SEAL SKINS, PUPS IS PUPS, SCHOOL'S OUT, TEACHER'S PET, HOOK AND LADDER, THE PANIC IS ON, ONE OF THE SMITHS, etc.? Is it true?
"Yes it is true," the answer came back promptly. "I am the Buddy McDonald from those days. I am alive and kicking. I live at Leisure World in Seal Beach. I have the (LITTLE RASCALS) book that you mentioned. I would be happy to meet with you any time."
First, it turned, out, Mr. McDonald was going on a little two week trip. He visited Australia. But then we could meet and resolve a crying need-to-know issue of concern throughout all mankind, as far as I know.
What's he been doing since he conspired with Jackie Cooper and brought a white mouse to class in TEACHER'S PET (1930)? And what has he been up to since Laurel & Hardy, in their supposed old age, gave him advice on how to live a successful life in the concluding scenes (ultimately excised) from PARDON US (1931)? Has he, in fact, lived a successful life?
Turns out he's experienced quite a lot since disappearing off movie screens, as well as from the radar screens of movie fans some sixty-eight years ago. He has survived reform school, the United States Marine Corps, World War II, alcoholic parents, his own alcoholism, a quintuple bypass operation, prison, cancer of the bladder, prostate cancer, colon cancer, one year's worth of chemo-therapy, a heart attack, a second heart attack, and the death of his wife. While he himself was hospitalized.
Tough guy? Among Our Gang tough guys, it's pretty hard to top that enumeration of obstacles. In Robert Redford's THE LEGEND OF BAGGER VANCE (2000), the golf hero played by Matt Damon sustains his heart attack on the fairway. Bud McDonald incurred one attack in 1980, and his second in 1999 -- both happened while he was playing golf.
Today Bud McDonald is living happily in retirement, the proud father of three over-achieving adult children, and he is active in many worthy causes. His advice and counsel is sought by many. Among other positions, Mr. McDonald is Chairman of the Board of Directors for the Southern California Drug and Alcohol Abuse Center.
So many actors who portray heroes, or at least sympathetic characters, are in fact not what they appear to be. At all. Not at all. Too many, even from the classic era, were and are so self-absorbed that they observed little happening around them. All they were ever concerned with was, primarily, themselves. The worst of the lot, the narcissists, can't tell us much about how their films were made, or what was happening on their sets during production. On the other hand, Bud McDonald is someone who noticed what was going on around him, remembered an extraordinary amount of it, and can tell others about these things today.
We can be grateful for these three skills, as witness the following transcribed interview, conducted in several sessions, and in which my own "questions" and "comments" (so denoted) have been condensed or excluded.
Question: When were you born?
Bud McDonald: October 1, 1922, in Colinga, California.
Question: How did they get your last name wrong in SCHOOL'S OUT and why was it misspelled in those casting directories?
Bud McDonald: I don't know why they called me "O'Donnell" and I don't know why or how the "Mac" and "Mc" got mixed up.
Question: How did you first come to work at Hal Roach Studios in 1930?
Bud McDonald: It was a weird deal. I lived in a little town called Bell, near Vernon and Huntington Park, in Southern California. I was the champion speller for the Los Angeles city schools for my grade. And I got my picture in the paper. I had a ga-zillion freckles and my ears stuck out. I looked like that guy on the cover of MAD magazine.
I didn't know it at the time, but people told me later, I guess I was precocious. I stepped up and made things happen, it's the way I've always been. I didn't come from a show business family, although I had two brothers and we sang as a trio and got noticed during the Depression days. So when this picture ran in the papers showing a kid with the ears and all the freckles, my dad got an idea.
My parents were both "lushes," or drunks. So there they were, drunk on a Sunday night, and my dad said, "Mary, write a letter." And he dictated a letter to Hal Roach Studios about this crazy kid they had, and enclosed a clipping from the newspaper about me, winning the spelling contest. I think they mailed it to Hal Roach on a Monday, and on Wednesday the studio called our next door neighbor -- because we didn't have a phone. They wanted me out there that Thursday.
So the next day, after school, we went all the way over to Washington Boulevard in Culver City to find this place, Hal Roach Studios. It was quite a drive on the roads in those days. We saw Bob McGowan, and Hal Roach. They sort of interviewed me. But very low key. I didn't quite know what this was about and what my parents were doing with me. I had seen the Our Gang comedies and Laurel & Hardy in the movie houses, but I didn't quite understand what we were doing there, or what this was going to be. But as they talked it over, the deal sounded like fun, although nothing really special.
Looking back on it, they were trying to figure out what kind of a kid they had. What could I do? They talked with me, I had to make a few faces, sing a song, recite a poem; they filmed it. They developed the test, almost immediately. Took practically no time. They determined I was photogenic, and told me to report back to the studio the next day, Friday, to begin work on my first picture, which turned out to be PUPS IS PUPS.
From then on I worked in several of the Our Gang comedies, I can't remember exactly how many. But they also used me with Charley Chase, Thelma Todd and Zasu Pitts, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, Ben Blue and Billy Gilbert were also a comedy team of taxi drivers, all making two-reel comedies. I was in a bunch of those and then some of us in the Gang were sent over to Paramount Pictures with Jackie Cooper, the star, to make SKIPPY and also SOOKY, the sequel. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer was only a short distance down the road from Hal Roach Studios and I got little parts in their big shows, too.
Plus I performed on the radio in between picture work. Every Saturday night I sang on a program called JUVENILE REVUE. Jane Withers was on it too. I made more money in a day than my father could make in a week in those days. Of course I was just a child, I didn't know or even care anything about the money. I never saw the money, so I didn't care about it.
Then my parents separated and my mom grabbed we three kids -- my older brother, my younger brother, and myself -- and we went to Oregon. She had an aunt up there she thought would take us in. All the aunt did was point to the berry field. "Go help yourself," was her advice. We lived in a tent, slept on the ground, picking and eating berries and fruit to live. We were fruit tramps. In time we scraped together enough money to get back to Southern California and return to our same house.
Right after that, my dad left. With the money I'd earned in pictures and radio, my parents had been able to pay off the house. In those days a nice, four bedroom house in the town of Bell was something you could have bought for around $800 to $1,200. While we had been tramping up in Oregon, my dad told us -- before he left -- that Hal Roach Studios called six to eight times looking for me to do more picture work. Then that finally stopped. It marked the end of my so-called acting career. I went back to being a nobody -- which didn't do much for my self-esteem. In high school a kid might point me out as having been in the Our Gang comedies. Somebody else would say, "Well, if you're so good, why aren't you in the movies now?" Disheartening.
Question: The town of Bell was a long way from Hal Roach Studios in Culver City. When you were making movies, how did you get there?
Bud McDonald: My mother drove me. Or my dad, when he wasn't doing anything. You had to have one parent with you anyway. We went to school on the lot, you had to do that, too. It was grammar school, and we were all in class together there -- Jack Cooper, Norman Chaney (who was "Chubby"), Al Hoskins (who was "Farina"), Dorothy De Borba, Donald Haines, Mary Ann Jackson, some others. We had one teacher, I think her name was Mrs. Carter, who taught all grades, and we actually crossed two or three grades because of our age differences.
It was a lot of fun, and I was spoiled rotten! It was a great life for us kids. Oh, Christ, because I lived in Bell, and it was such a small community, I was the one and only person who had anything to do with the movies. It made me famous, at least there! If I sneezed, it was news. In Bell, that is.
Big as they are, movies today don't have the same power they once did. Nor TV either, because there are so many channels and shows. Back then it was just a few movie studios and they had no competition from anyone or anything else except radio. Television hadn't been invented. So if you had anything to do with the movies, you were a celebrity. If I sneezed, my name would be on the front page of the Bell INDUSTRIAL POST reporting, "Child Star Ill!" I wasn't a star of anything, but I was in the movies. It was a different time and place, so far removed from today, you know? It was a wonderful time, for that time.
After my folks separated, I never did return to any of that. Of course, as I say, people would put the monkey on me, "How come you're not in movies now?" Well, what the hell, I didn't even know how I got into movies, much less how I got out. I felt very inferior. My parents were divorced, both drunks, and I found booze myself about that time. Which gave me another distinction: I became Bell's only teenaged wino.
Question: Is your heritage Irish?
Bud McDonald: No, Scottish. My father's family came here from Scotland escaping the British Crown along with the Irish. I never finished school, I went to reform school later. My three kids all have advanced degrees. One's an attorney, one has a Ph.D. from Harvard. I had all I could do to complete reform school! So it's kind of funny today to watch my classroom scenes in TEACHER'S PET and SCHOOL'S OUT! Another irony: those scenes with Laurel & Hardy in their prison picture PARDON US where they're supposed to be giving me advice as old men on how to stay out of jail. I hardly remember it anyway, but I should have paid more attention, because I wound up in prison myself! I went into Alcoholics Anonymous finally in 1953 and haven't had a drink since.
Question: What did they send you to prison for?
Bud McDonald: Robbery. I was with some other guys, and we robbed a market. I had just come out of the marine corps, served in Guadalcanal. I didn't know any better, I didn't have any money to get an attorney, so I took a public defender. He got me to cop a plea. I plead guilty. Later on, when I was sober about a dozen years after Alcoholics Anonymous, a probation officer named Brown in Walnut Park gave me some advice. He was going to law school and we found a law I didn't know about and together with my sponsor, a man named Carson, they got all my felonies taken back to court and the guilty pleas removed and the not guilty pleas entered. All my citizenship rights and everything else were restored to me.
The local judge here in Downey, Leon Emerson and I, we started what we called the Dana School -- the Drugs, Alcohol, Narcotics, Awareness school. It was part of the adult education program in the Downey city school system. We had that going successfully for a while, then in 1972 we formed the Southern California Alcohol and Drug Program. In 1975 we opened our first recovery house, the Cider House. We rented a building on the grounds of the Metropolitan State Hospital. And it grew. We had to get a second building. There's one-hundred men there now. In 1985 we submitted a proposal for a women's recovery house that would allow for children to be there, too. So now we have over four-hundred women and children in residential recovery, for alcohol, drug addiction, domestic violence. We are opening up another bigger place right now. It has been quite a successful operation.
Question: So this has been your career?
Bud McDonald: No, my career was in trucking. Before I stopped drinking, I worked for this one fellow as a truck driver. But I was always a tough guy, and I quit. I called him an "S.O.B." and invited him to step outside and fight. Caused a big scene. I couldn't just politely quit a job.
Then I ran into him again later, by accident. He had heard I quit drinking. Word was out in the trade that McDonald didn't drink anymore. It was a front page item among the truckers! He wondered if I could stay sober if I went back to work for him. I said, hell, I don't know why not! So I started as a vacation relief, part-time truck driver. I stayed with the company and was sold into slavery when it changed hands twice; I finally retired as general manager of the outfit thirty years later. It's a big company today, known as Bulk Transportation. Look for that name and you will see it on freeways everywhere around here.
Question: Did you know Hal Roach was a truck driver as a teenager?
No, I didn't know Hal Roach that well, or at all. I was a little kid. Mr. Roach did direct the scenes I did with Thelma Todd and Zasu Pitts, but in the Gang it was his brother Jack that we knew well. He had an affection for me, and I had for him, and he was real special to me when I was little. I liked Jack Roach, and also another guy we saw a lot in the Gang, Don Sandstrom.
Question: He was the assistant director, and Bob McGowan's nephew, the son of McGowan's favorite sister.
McGowan's daughter told me one of her earliest memories in life was crossing the street with her dad after Mass every Sunday to visit an old fashioned soda fountain in Hollywood, where the syrup for sodas was kept in colorful jars. He liked strawberry, Green River, but above all, Coca Cola. At the studio they kept a case of bottled cokes on the set for him. He never left for any location work without that case of Coke. McGowan reached for a bottle of Coca Cola after every single film-take he shot. Do you remember that?
Bud McDonald: Yes, I sure do. The traces of cocaine once found in Coca Cola were probably long gone by 1930, but Bob McGowan seemed to be addicted to the stuff. He really would drink a case a day.
Bob McGowan was our director, and a very kind, sweet old man. At least he seemed old to me, as a little kid. He got to know every one of us well, and knew just how to direct us, like you wouldn't believe. We didn't have to rehearse a bunch of lines, or anything like that. I can remember sitting cross-legged, at the foot of Bob McGowan there in his director's chair, with a Coca Cola bottle handy, and he'd say, "Chubby, you say this, and Buddy, you say that. Okay, say it for me now." We tried to give it back to him, and then he tried to film it on the first take. Or, we might have to shoot it over and over. Then they might change it a little bit. That was how he worked. No pressure.
McGowan seemed to be able to communicate with kids better than any other adult I'd ever been around. He had a special knack. He impressed me as much as anyone I saw on the lot. You had to be there to understand.
He didn't want the parents nearby, and he kept them as far away as possible. But other directors or actors could watch, and sometimes you might look up and see Oliver Hardy or some other actor, maybe Edgar Kennedy. They'd be standing there.
The key was McGowan let us interpret what he wanted us to do. We thought we were doing exactly what he told us, so it made us feel at ease. He'd say, "Now Jackie, you do this and say that; Mary Ann, you do this and say that; Buddy, you do this and say that." It would come out in our own words, in our own way. He wouldn't correct us, and so it sounded a helluva lot more natural than us reciting lines. That we might not understand anyway.
McGowan was a fine, fine older gentleman. Working for him was like play for us because it was play, all day, except when we stopped for lunch. We were lucky enough to eat at the Our Gang Cafe, right outside the gate of the studio on Washington Boulevard. It was the studio commissary. People would come from all over to eat there just to see the many actors at Hal Roach Studios, including us!
We might have several different companies working at once on the big soundstages -- Laurel & Hardy, Thelma Todd, Charley Chase....There was a picture of his called ONE OF THE SMITHS, where he sold some musical instruments to a bunch of hillbillies. He sold a lot of trombones and trumpets that were built into stills, to make illegal whisky during Prohibition. In that picture they had a group called Cactus Mack and the Texas Rangers, I think, for the barn dance scene. And Cactus Mack taught me how to yodel, and my neighbors where we lived in Bell, if they could've caught him they would have killed him! Because for weeks I'd be out on my front porch practicing that yodeling.
Those were a few great years, nothing but fun. It was a helluva place for a kid to be during the Depression days. You got all this attention, just for having fun! I loved being at that studio. As I say, the money meant nothing to me. I'd sign the checks, my folks cashed them, and paid the bills. The fun I had, both at the studio (which was really a big playground for the kids in the Gang) and in my hometown where everybody kissed my ass -- I was spoiled rotten. I looked forward to going there every day.
But that was over in 1933 when we fled to Oregon. About a year later we came back.
During the Prohibition era in this country, my dad had a cafe on Florence Avenue, and he was bootlegging out the back door. When Prohibition was repealed he turned the place into a bar and then he got a liquor license for a second operation in Bell. Trouble was, he and my mother were their own best customers.
My mother was a violent drunk and my father was a passive drunk. My mom could start a fight in an empty room when she was drunk. My dad, if you asked him for a dime to go to the show, and he was sober, he'd tell you he couldn't afford it. If you asked him when he was half in the bag, he'd give you a quarter. My brothers and I would try to disappear if my mother was drinking, because we were scared to death of her. And her father was the same way -- mean. He was an old time silent film actor who used the stage name of Henry Stanley. He was with the old Balboa Film Company. He died in Downey at the poor farm, the Rancho Los Amigos Hospital.
Question: What are your strongest memories from the time you spent at Hal Roach Studios?
Bud McDonald: Well, first, all the kids in the Gang. It was kind of weird, when we went over to Paramount to do SKIPPY, we went out on location to San Bernardino to do the "shantytown" stuff out there, I remember not only Jackie Cooper but Donald Haines from the Gang was in it too. I think some others I knew from Roach also. And a whole family of six or seven kids, the Watson kids. I'd see them at every studio I worked at, except the Hal Roach Studios.
Question: Delmar Watson did appear in PIGSKIN PALOOKA (1937) after you left the series, and he told me his family could make more money working elsewhere than at the Hal Roach Studios! That's why you didn't see them on "the lot of fun." They preferred instead a lot of money.
Was there anybody in Our Gang you didn't particularly like or get along with?
Bud McDonald: Cooper and I didn't get along too well, but we tolerated each other. I'm not sure how to say this ... but Cooper was old for his age. He was bossier than all hell, and I didn't like people bossing me around. He tried to boss me around a little bit like some of the others, but I didn't take too much bossing from another kid. I do believe, by the way, I am the one who got him to take boxing lessons!
Question: So you didn't need any coaching from the director to call Jackie Cooper "You double crosser" in TEACHER'S PET.
Bud McDonald: No.
I liked Mary Ann Jackson. She was funny, a cute kid, and bossier than all get-out.
Al Hoskins was a good kid.
Stymie was a shy kid, and a little kid, bless his heart. One of thirteen children. His father was a preacher down on Central Avenue.
Dorothy De Borba was a beautiful child, real pretty. At that time of our lives, sex had no meaning for us. Girls were different than boys, but no one knew what the difference meant.
Chubby was older than he looked, as was Joe Cobb, who may have been shaving by the time Chubby replaced him. Everybody like Chubby; his delivery on lines was very funny. We all thought he was a regular guy.
Wheezer was a special case. Wheezer felt like he was being picked on, or something. There was a problem of some kind associated with Wheezer, maybe it was because of his parents. He would cry at a moment's notice. We had to be careful around Wheezer, that we wouldn't hurt his feelings. Those were instructions, I believe, from Bob McGowan. Wheezer's dad was pushing McGowan and Hal Roach to feature Wheezer at the expense of the other kids, which they resisted. Roach and McGowan did. In our group at that time, Jackie Cooper was the star. You could see Stymie was going to be star, and then Spanky McFarland, too.
Jackie Cooper could really turn on the "weeps," as easy as flicking a switch. He did it with the Gang and he did it over at Paramount when we made SKIPPY and SOOKY. He was a natural, a born performer -- your eye went right to him in any scene.
It's interesting about Farina and Stymie. I really liked them, both. They were the very first black people I met. I thought nothing of it at the time. I did learn about racial prejudice, but not at Hal Roach Studios. My mother was a bigot. I had a little sweetheart in grade school. Her name was Mako Miztmoto. I "adopted" her, and brought her home one day. My mother gave me hell. "What do you mean by bringing that 'Jap' home?" she said in a mean tone of voice. She was prejudiced. I was in trouble with my mother, and somehow it was Mako's fault. It wasn't mine, was it? What had I done? I couldn't understand it.
Farina was the only one I stayed in touch with. We were pretty good friends. I talked to Al Hoskins around the year he died. He was back and forth between Oakland and Los Angeles. He'd been down and out too. He seemed to have nothing left either from his days in the Gang, other than memories. But it didn't defeat his optimism. What a nice man.
I did run into Cooper once. I was at the veterans' hospital out in the San Fernando Valley. They operated on my leg after the war. There was a theater in the Valley the studios liked to use for previewing pictures, or to stage premieres. I remember Lionel Barrymore and I were both in wheelchairs watching THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES (1946) together. Cooper was out there for some reason and we talked a while. He was still the same way, hadn't changed a bit.
His uncle was Norman Taurog, a top director and one of the major stockholders at Paramount. So Cooper was born and bred to be an actor. Mickey Rooney was another one. They were both good actors. The time I saw Cooper, we talked about what we did as kids together, roaming all over the lot. The guy was okay, I didn't take his attitude personally; it's just how he was.
Really, it's all good memories for me. I had great fun all the way and I sure did learn when I made mistakes. My second wife and I were married forty-six years. She passed away five years ago. I am lucky to have three great kids. When they were little, my wife would tell them, "Hey, that's your dad on TV!" Meant nothing to them. But now the last ten-twenty years they will call me from all over the world to report they saw me in something. I get a kick out of that; now they're impressed.
I went into a Shakey's Pizza Parlor one time and while I'm waiting, I see myself on two Our Gang pictures on the big movie screen there -- TEACHER'S PET and SCHOOL'S OUT. I thought to myself, if I tell anyone that's me up there sixty-some years ago they'd say I was crazy, or throw me out, and I'd never get my pizza. I said nothing. I just laughed to myself.
Comment: You sure got fed well the day you shot that one scene from TEACHER'S PET. My understanding was that McGowan ordered five gallons of ice cream and half-a-dozen cakes, which Dorothy De Borba says came from a favorite ice cream and cake place called Chapman's right there in Culver City.
McGowan issued orders that nobody, except the kids, could have any of these treats until the scene was being shot. Not before. It was a wise decision, because he had to shoot the scene twice, and each kid had at least a double helping of ice cream and cake.
From watching the takes that were used it's plain to see everyone was really devouring those desserts. It's not like television shows, and especially commercials today, where actors fake consuming the product by means of fast cutting. You almost never see a kid or grownup take a normal, healthy bite of any food being advertised, and then actually swallow. We're not supposed to notice. How gullible do they think viewers are? Besides, it's dishonest. No one eats that stuff, their own food, although they are acting as though it's delicious. Does it taste that terrible? Then we are given permission to go out, spend money for that product, and eat it.
Question: Isn't that right?
Bud McDonald: That's right. But we did swallow plenty of real ice cream and cake that day. I never saw so many delicious sweets in my whole life. We practically O.D.'d on dessert.
Question: What can you tell me about June Marlowe, Miss Crabtree?
Bud McDonald: The gal who played Miss Crabtree, she was so sweet. And her sweet disposition was the same whether the camera was running or not. She was real, real nice. So pretty, so kind, so sweet. She'd smile at you, give you a hug or a pat. The kind of a gal who was supportive, who wanted to see you do well. I was surprised -- and disappointed -- the day I discovered her blonde hair was actually a wig. I saw her without the blonde wig.
Question: Were you aware that someone at the studio, as reported even in a 1930 issue of PHOTOPLAY magazine, was poisoning the dogs used to portray Pete the Pup, and in one instance succeeded in killing him -- killing one of the dogs?
Bud McDonald: No, I never heard that. If memory serves, the series of "Petes" all came from one line and were all female dogs.
-- by Richard W. Bann --
FOUND! LOST OUR GANGSTER -- IN 2 L&H PIX copyright by Richard W. Bann 2001 -- All photos copyright CCA