Part 9 - Bye Bye, Buddy

Shortly after deciding to move we had to figure out what to do with our property. Fortunately, we have two pairs of parents that wanted to spend time with us before we hopped the pond. My parents lived just down the road. The plan was to get virtually everything out of our place into a storage unit, then use their house as a sort of short-term hotel while we finished tidying up and getting our place ready to rent. We decided to store our king mattress and bed frame there, and use it. Man…my back and soul both miss that bed!

A friend and I rented a truck to move that mattress and we drove it to my parents place, where Buddy, a 90 lb. golden retriever was sure to greet us.

Buddy was your quintessential golden. Warm, playful, patient. We got him when I was 22, between my fourth and fifth years of college. I remember riding home with him between my brother and I in the backseat. When he stayed with us, he drove Addie nuts with his incessant panting, following, and begging for snacks. He walked like a large shark swims, with a noticeable sway in the middle of his body from side to side.

For a few years, we’d run together and he’d been able to outpace me for distance. Then I started running ultra-marathons and I could outpace him. He grew from being the dog that other dogs barked at to being the old guy who would yap because he just couldn’t quite keep up and didn’t know what to do about it but yell.

One of my favorite things about Buddy was the reliable romping greeting. When he knew it was me, he’d squeal and run full-on to the door. He’d keep grunting and squealing and wriggling between my legs, then around and around again. He had to get all the butt and side and ear scratches. It’d go for minutes.

When my friend and I arrived with the mattress, Buddy didn’t greet us. I had to walk around the house and find him. He didn’t lift his head until I was standing over him, and then it was a perfunctory glance of Oh, good. You’re here. Please help.

We were mid-move, so I called my mom to let her know what was up. I left him a little water close by and a little food, and we finished our move (which involved squeezing the mattress down a narrow stair, setting up the bedframe, returning the truck, taking care of a couple errands and then heading back to my parents).

On returning, I went looking for Buddy. My first thought was Good. You moved. My second thought was Ah, shit. He’d moved about a body length towards his food bowl. There was black, tar-like vomit between him and the bowl. His breathing was fast and shallow. I texted Addie and my brother, “I think he’s dying.” I told my mom, “If he was my dog, I’d take him to the emergency vet right now.”

She called her vet and they had her check his gums. They were several shades towards white indicating a medical emergency. My dad taught me the proper technique for lifting a large dog– you hold your forearms out like the arms on a forklift, one behind the pup’s front legs and one in front the rear legs then squat. Imagine the dog in a typical standing position, but floating a few feet off the ground. We prepped my mom’s car trunk for him and I carried the poor guy to the car. His glance said OK. Let’s go. and he sighed. We went in to pack for what might be a long visit and my dad said, “We should start preparing ourselves to have to make a decision.”

It turns out the visit was quick and there wasn’t much of a decision to make. A dog’s heart is encased in a sort of biological sack. Buddy’s heart itself was leaking blood into the sack because it had been punctured by tumors. There wasn’t enough pressure in his bloodstream to push blood up into his brain, hence the too-white gums. Not much to do but pay the $600 bill and order the euthanasia. It’s amazing how sometimes $600 seems like a lot of money and other times… it just doesn’t.

The clinic allowed us to be in the room with him while they put him down. My dad laid with him and said, “This was the plan, Bud. We got you to grow old together.” Then we went around the room and shared our favorite Buddy moments.

That Russian Olive in my parents back yard has a thick rope hanging from about 15 feet down to about one foot above the grass. It used to serve as a kids rope swing. My dad never cut it down. Buddy loved chasing that dangling rope. He also loved it in another way. Every so often he’d get the rope between his two front paws and mount it. Several thrusts later he’d lose his balance, or his grip, and the ashamed rope would swing away. This was the memory my mom shared.

My dad struggled to find a particularly good moment, and so did I. Every day with that dog was Good. He recounted the story of us picking Buddy up at the breeder. The guided personality test we underwent. “He was a good boy. He never talked back.” My dad loved to throw Buddy a ball, getting him to catch it on the second bounce and bring it back. They walked several times a day. And Buddy always knew where he could find a few extra pieces of kibble or some other tasty treat.

My brother shared another great Buddy moment. My parents property abuts a golf course, just on the other side of the Russian Olive. One of my brothers plays there often. When he’s on the course, he typically stops by and says hello to whoever’s at the house. One day, my parents let Buddy out to say hello. The dog trots out, ignores the people, approaches a golf cart, and wolfs a breakfast burrito in a single gulp. Burrito gone. Foil and all. Sometimes there’s nothing to do but laugh.

I loved Buddy, with all my heart and all my soul. I miss him. That missing leaks out into my relationship with Bubbas, whom we hauled across an ocean to the tune of much more than $600. We will miss him more than I can bear when he’s gone. But until then we get to love the s.o.b. with all we can muster. We get to give him the best life we can. And then, as the circle of life turns, we will bear what comes.

That’s how this game goes. We do the best we can. Then we grin and bear it.