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  

Buddy is Busted

Doug and I had a date night tonight. 

A dinner out. 

A new place around the corner. (Lucille's. Very nice. Most Excellent plate of oysters on the half shell, calamari, steak and lobster rolls. A lot of extreme facelifts all around us, and I don't mean renovations to the restaurant. But I digress.)

We were gone...maybe two hours, if that. We were with Buddy all day, and in fact, when I went to the gym this afternoon, Doug waited until I got back before he did his errands so Buddy wouldn't get lonely. 

I took him for a long walk, fed him, and played fetch the monkey with him for twenty minutes. Even though that monkey was soaking wet with dog saliva and smelled like corpse, I picked it up and flung it over and over again because it made my furry little friend happy.

To Summarize: The Budster was well fed, amply walked and played with, so he wouldn't have the energy to get into mischief.

And yet he still felt compelled to do this tonight. How did he get in there, I hear you asking? Don't you make sure all doors are closed securely, knowing he has a history of murdering paper when he's alone? Well, someone (hey, no names, no finger-pointing, but there are only two people living here and it wasn't me) left a door ajar.

You tell me. Guilty face? Or unrepentant miscreant?

OK Go White Knuckles

Apparently this took 124 takes to get it right.

(thanks to Lynn for the link)

I wonder if I could get the Budster to do this?

Scottish Phraseology and Brad Thunder

Ah, the brilliant Brad Thunder demonstrating the joys of Choice Scottish Phraseology. For those who love Diana Gabaldon's OUTLANDER series and therefore all things Scottish, you might want to check him out.

For some reason, the embedding on his first video is disabled, but you can find it here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHzVoNDf5gA&feature=related

This is the second one on the topic:



And the following video is for kc dyer, writer extraordinaire and the Grand Poobah of the Surrey International Writers' Conference, and for anyone else who loves dogs and Scottish men equally. The camera bounces around more than Britney's kids on a roadtrip, but it makes me happy to watch it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTN6e9TdfAg&feature=related

My Secret Shame

I love almost everything about Autumn. The low sun filtered through blazing maples on our street, apple crisp in the oven scenting our home, cool nights replacing the humid nights of summer – all make my heart sing. Unfortunately, the change in temperature also signals a return to my secret shame.

Our black Labrador Rosie died five years ago, and we agreed our next dog would be smaller, but with a similar, easy-going temperament. After a lot of research, I decided on a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Despite the fact that this new puppy was akin to having a toddler in the house again – a clingy toddler with sharp teeth and no diaper - I loved Buddy, also known as The Love Sponge, and he certainly has lived up to both monikers.

When I chose this breed, I admit I did not take into consideration that Cavaliers do not tolerate the cold very well. The regal name should have been a tip off; even his colouring smacks of gentility. He’s not brown and white, but “Blenheim” after Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire, seat of the Dukes of Marlborough, and the birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill. However, everything I read said that even though ladies of the court kept warm on long carriage rides by cuddling these little critters, Cavaliers were also hardy hunting dogs who have been bred for centuries to run through the countryside and flush game.

What the experts did not say was that after allowing your Cavie to run and sniff through aforementioned countryside with all of its detritus, people will wonder why you are walking a dirty Swiffer. And if there is any snow on the ground, it will collect on the long chest and leg feathers as though someone wrapped the dog in a length of pom-pom fringe. But most importantly, at the least hint of cold weather, a Cavie will turn into a whiney baby who will persistently and stubbornly claw at your legs, begging to snuggle into your coat. To his tiny dog brain, a down-filled jacket is really no more than a fashionable, portable duvet with buttons, one which was clearly transported on a human’s back just to be available to him. Heck, he sneaks onto beds at home. Why should this be any different?

The only solution was a dog jacket or sweater, and therein lies my shame. The dog could tolerate wearing a jacket, but could I tolerate walking beside him while he wore it in public? It wasn’t as though I was putting bows on him, or rhinestone collars, or little doggie sunglasses and a hat. It was for a very practical reason. Shouldn’t I do everything in my power to make my dog comfortable? I resisted, but after yet one more walk beginning with a bouncing dog and ending with a shivering, wet mess stubbornly refusing at the halfway mark to walk another step, the answer was a qualified yes.

In my quest for a simple, unobtrusive and practical dog ensemble, I was amazed by the vast array of outfits available for the fashion conscious canine - fuzzy pink pajamas with a discreet tail hole, a faux-leather Harley Davidson jacket and cap, a hooded sweatshirt with pockets… Come on. A hood? Biker jacket? Pockets? A dog needs pockets like a fish needs shoes. I couldn’t bring myself to buy any of it. I just wanted something functional and low-key to keep the little critter warm. So I did what any resourceful suburban mom would do when she needs information – I went to the park and asked around.

Sure enough, I spied a feisty Jack Russell in a fetching yet modest little jacket (without pockets or emblems.) Turns out it was made by a local woman working from her home. I took her business card and wondered how I was going to explain to my husband that I was taking Buddy to a canine couturier to be fitted for a couple of custom, made-to-measure, dog coats. I thought I’d hit a new low when she snapped her tape measure shut, tilted her head, and suggested matching boots to protect against road salt. I figured I had to draw the line somewhere and declined.

Now my husband, like our kids, refuses to walk Buddy unless the dog is in his birthday suit. So each Fall, when the air has a bit of a nip, I take a bit of a nip too before heading out with Buddy in his lined, waterproof, tailored, plaid coat. My husband jokes that in his next reincarnation, he wants to come back as my dog, minus the goofy wardrobe. I steel myself for the comments or looks of disdain from the owners of those big rugged, manly dogs. Ah, what do they know? Are their dogs descended from royal laps and hunting parties? Doesn’t my dog have the same rights as….oh, what’s the use. I admit it. I’m ashamed I have a girlie-boy dog in a jacket. Sometimes, life’s a bitch, disguised in togs for dogs.

And in case you don't believe me, just look at the poor bugger: