Illustration accompanying A Dog Named Boy; not a documentary photograph.
The green, grassy slopes of Griffith Park near downtown Los Angeles have always been a playground for kids and dogs. This is a story about both. It was 1982, and a young actor named Ricky Schroder was filming a movie scene at the park one sunny afternoon. During a break, he noticed a friendly stray dog wagging his tail and nudging for attention. Ricky happily obliged, and the two played between takes for the rest of the day.
As the crew began to wrap up, Ricky noticed the dog was limping. Upon closer look, he saw the pup had cut his paw. With no tags or collar in sight, a crew member called the Los Angeles Humane Society. And that’s when the story took an unexpected—and unforgettable—turn. “What’s going to happen to him?” Ricky asked the man lifting the dog into the caged truck.
The answer came cold and casual: “Oh, he’ll probably be dead by tomorrow.” That was all 12-year-old Ricky needed to hear. He asked his manager to take action—and fast. Within hours, the story had hit the wire services and appeared on every evening newscast in Los Angeles. The next morning, I sat at my favorite coffee shop on Ventura Boulevard, reading the L.A. Times. A photo caught my eye: a lonely-looking Collie-Shepherd mix peering through a chain-link fence.
The caption read: “Who will save this dog?” Being single at the time, I’d been toying with the idea of adopting a dog. Maybe—just maybe—this was my dog. When I called to inquire, I didn’t expect the answer I got. “The auction for the Schroder dog will be held Saturday morning at 8 a.m. Thank you for calling.” The dog’s overnight celebrity had apparently increased his “value.” Looking back, I’m surprised they didn’t refer me to his agent.
Still… was I supposed to have this dog? At 6 a.m. that Saturday, my alarm clock buzzed. The last thing I wanted to do was drive to downtown L.A. But I was torn. So I did what I always do when I need guidance—I said a prayer and asked for a sign. I barely said “Amen” when my neighbor’s dog barked. “I hear you,” I said aloud, looking skyward.
On the drive down, I rehearsed my strategy, preparing to outbid whoever showed up. “One hundred. Two hundred. Okay… three hundred, but no more,” I told myself. (Why couldn’t God have picked a lower-priced best friend?) I arrived at 7:45 a.m. to find half a dozen people already waiting. No one said a word. I wore a suit to project confidence— this dog was mine.
When the doors opened, a staffer asked, “Who’s here for the Schroder dog?” I raised my hand. I looked around. No one else raised theirs. Could it be? I was the only one? Apparently, no one else had gotten the sign. Thirty minutes later, I walked out with one thrilled dog—and I was an even more thrilled owner. The total cost? A whopping $11.50. (Just the fee for shots and tags.) God had answered both of my prayers.
But wait—there’s more to this tail… er, tale. As my new buddy trotted beside me to the car, we were approached by several TV news reporters covering the story. One told me Ricky Schroder wanted the adopter to know the dog answered to the name Boy. Of course he did. I looked into the camera and said, “Ricky, his name will be Boy—and you can visit him anytime.” Two weeks later, a wrap party was held at a gorgeous home in the San Fernando Valley for the cast and crew of the film.
Boy the Wonder Dog was the guest of honor. As part of the celebration, he was served a T-bone steak on a silver platter—which he promptly trotted outside and buried in the flower bed. Better the steak than the dog.
By Sonny Melendrez · From the April 2025 issue.