Dear Buddy

How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.  

Winnie the Pooh

With the possible exception of squirrels, Buddy never met a human or animal he didn’t like. When I brought him home as a puppy, I promised to love and protect him until the end of his days. As he matured, and I use the term loosely, the Budster developed quirks that were exasperating and endearing in equal measure. He snored like a rusty chainsaw; I kept balled-up socks to bop him when it went sonic. Separation anxiety was a challenge; he literally lived in my shadow. If left alone, he’d wiggle into the couch cushions like the filling in a taco, or shred paper in paroxysms of grief. He wouldn’t walk on wet grass, or drink water from anything but a glass bowl. He loved to perform tricks, especially feigning death by gunshot if you pointed a finger, betrayed only by a twitching tail. All guests were treated like new toys; he’d jump on their legs, and lick any exposed skin. As my friend put it, “The first lick is a kiss, but after that, they’re just flavour licks.”

At eleven years old, Buddy was deaf and he struggled with stairs, but his appetite for food and play were undiminished. So when I was told last spring he had cancer, I was shocked. In a cruel twist of fate, my husband was also diagnosed with cancer the same week. My husband's cancer was treatable and his future is positive, but Buddy's tumour was aggressive. Treatment was mentioned; it wouldn't cure him, only prolong his life briefly, and at a terrible cost. This would only benefit me, not him. I asked if we'd get one more summer together at the lake, and was told no, he wouldn't make it to the summer, let alone through it.

Maybe it was his obstinate nature, or high tolerance for pain, or his love for me and cottage life, but as we anxiously watched for signs of decline, he ambled through June, then July, seemingly the same old Buddy. I gave him the best summer I could, fearing each day would be his last. Someone said, "don't mourn your dog before he's gone" so I didn't. He ate, he played, and he was even there to comfort me when my husband underwent his cancer surgery on our 30th wedding anniversary last August.

By mid-September, I brought Buddy to the cottage one last time. He ate raw beef, fetched sticks from the lake, rolled in dirt under sun-warmed cedars, and sprawled on the forbidden couch beside me.

I had a date for home euthanasia, which literally means "gentle death" but when the day arrived, I panicked. He seemed so happy, still had an appetite and bright eyes, The vet walked into our home and Buddy, the jumper, the licker, just sat before him. The doctor kneeled, and their eyes locked for several minutes, in silence. After a thorough exam, he said quietly, "His heart is very weak, he's in a lot of pain. I believe he's hanging on for you. It's time." 

I loved Buddy enough to let him go, and he died peacefully in my arms a short time later.

His snores no longer fill our bedroom each night. Who knew I would miss that so much? When I open the front door, he is no longer waiting for me, tail swishing in full circles. I found his stuffed monkey the other day, and was undone. There are now crumbs on the floor because my canine Hoover is gone. I have spent more time with him in the past few years than anyone else, and the pain feels like repeated punches to the head and heart. I bagged his leash, his sweaters and beds, but I've yet to throw them out. He was cremated, but I can't bring myself to collect his ashes. I forget sometimes and reach under the table with a morsel of chicken, and I'm surprised when he isn't there to take it from my hand. My family, and those who have read about his antics over the years, miss his gentle spirit and goofy charm.

I mourn his loss, yet choose to remember all those summer nights we sat together on the screened-in porch watching the sun dip below the hills. The loons would call goodnight across the water, and Buddy would yawn and sprawl on my feet, keeping them warm. He was content simply to be with me, and I with him. My grief is raw and relentless, yet I'm so glad to have had these years with him, and I wouldn't trade them for anything.

You are missed, little guy, and you were loved. Saying goodbye was hard, but oh, my sweet dog, how lucky I was to have known you. 

Buddy, February 1st 2004 - September  14th, 2015  

R.I.P. Buddy

 

Buddy died in my arms last night, at home, peacefully and quietly. He had been diagnosed with cancer last May, and it slowly invaded his body, ultimately affecting his heart and lungs. The vet said Buddy would not make it to see the summer, let alone live through it. But live he did, tail wagging and eyes sparkling, and I made sure he had the best summer ever. He ate steak and fresh strawberries, swam and retrieved endless sticks, chased chipmunks off the deck and napped on the couch. And then I had to let him go. I woke to my new reality of life without my beloved Budster. No gentle snoring in the corner of our bedroom woke me this morning, no nails clicked behind me on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the kitchen for coffee. My home feels so empty, and my heart is broken, the price one pays for loving so fiercely. We sign up for this reality when we bring that puppy home to share our lives, but damn it's hard to say goodbye.

L'Amour

Oh, Vancouver, how you seduce me with your mountains and fresh air and vegan lifestyle. I'm so used to city streets, arguments over politics and smokers on every corner. This is what I saw when I pulled the curtains open every morning.

View from my window, Sunrise, Day One.

View from same window, Sunrise, Day Two.

Luckily the sun came up....

and burned off the fog.

 Got home last night from five invigorating, exhilarating, exhausting, but very fulfilling days at the Surrey International Writers' Conference. Amazed at how this conference can leave one wrung out like an old dishrag and leaping around like a spring lamb at the same time.

Spent days and evenings with friends and authors I know well, and I made some new friends, too. I flew there against my doctor's advice, and it was actually a bit touch and go before I left. By my departure date, I felt like things were under control and that I'd beaten down the beast, until I realized I hadn't. 

View from the stairwell on my way up to the magic room on the 21st floor. Don't attempt this drunk.

Last Saturday night was a tad rough, and I missed what everyone later said was the BEST keynote speech of the conference given by Jim C. Hines, as well as Jack Whyte's rendition of Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud.

(stifled sob into my fist)

I'm hoping someone taped both of these events, and posts them on YouTube. I did, however, make it up to the partay room later. I have to be at death's door to miss a good party. This is what happens at the partay. That's all I can tell you, because what happens in Surrey, stays in Surrey.

Tyner Gillies, the Wonder Mountie, won the non-fiction prize. He wasn't told in advance as most winners are, and he was clearly blown away. He blinked back tears as we all pounded him on the back. I just love this guy, and his story is both moving and unforgettable. We passed around a copy of the anthology at the table so we could read his entry, and we were all in floods of tears.

There are Many Things Afoot. Most I can't talk about right now, some have to do with me, others about dear friends. Got some great feedback from an agent who requested material, and also from a presenter who asked me to send her some of my essays.

I laughed, I cried, I ate a lot of chocolate. Just the way it should be.

My husband was late to pick me up at the airport in Montreal, so I passed the time by chatting to airport staff, i.e., the guy directing people to the taxi stand. A friend of my daughter walked past, without saying hello to me, but then texted her and he said, "Just saw your mom at the airport. She was asking a black guy what part of Africa he was from."

Okay, for the record, here is the complete conversation.

Me: "What an interesting accent you have. Where are you from originally?"

Him: "Africa."

Me: "Cool. What part of Africa are you from?"

(See? This is called context.)

Him: "Mali. I came to Canada in 2006."

Me: "So, how do you like our Montreal winters?"

Him: "Oooooh, I will never get used to those. They are bad, bad, BAD."

Us: Much laughter and banter.

In other words, I do NOT go up to random people and ask them what part of Africa they're from. 

As for the title of this post...

The couple sitting next to me on the plane? Oh my. It was like sitting next to lightening.

They were from France. You can tell from their accents, which makes it easy for me to understand as it's the French I learned in high school. They looked similar, thirties, maybe early forties, same slight builds and casual chic clothes, tee shirts and leather jackets. He had messy curly hair, stubble and a scarf casually knotted around his neck and she was pretty without makeup, though she looked tired. They were clearly in love, but not in a gross P.D.A. kind of way. It was as though they were magnets; one moved, then the other leaned in that direction. They reminded me of the French movies I watched in the seventies. You just know they have great sex, probably all the time, because they were both so sensual and beautiful. (And then afterwards, they lounge in bed with croissants and cafe au lait and newspapers, and probably a cat or two.)

It was as though they were attached by invisible strings. It was mesmerizing.

He would put his hand on her leg while he read, and she would put her hand on top of his hand, and lock her fingers into his. He fell asleep on her shoulder, and she rested her head on his. They talked softly to each other, murmuring, heads together, never raising their voices to be heard.

When the plane landed, and everyone jumped up and scrambled for their bags in the overhead bins, they stood in the aisle, faced each other and melded into one, as though no one else was there and they were simply one person. She looked into his eyes, and he into hers. He brushed her hair away from her face, and noticed the pendant on her choker was askew, and gently straightened it then brushed her hair from her cheek. They kissed gently, softly. She touched his forehead with hers, their eyes closed, and eventually they burrowed in each others' necks, as thought they were puzzle pieces that just clicked into place. Have you ever seen horses in a field, just resting, heads and necks entwined? That was this couple. I could not stop looking at them (not that they would have noticed me staring.) They stepped out of the plane and walked slowly to the baggage area, hand in hand, swaying in time.  It was a sight to behold.

Anyway, they disappeared, my husband pulled up in the car, and we headed to the local bistro for drinks, succulent oysters on the half shell, and steaks and frites. The air is crisp in Montreal, a big change after the warm sunny weather in Surrey.

Now we have frost, and snow up north.

 But I have my Buddy back, and he, clearly, has me in his sights once again. I think in his tiny walnut of a brain, he and I are like that couple on the plane.