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R.I.P. Buddy

4/12/2007
On losing a great dog.

Buddy died today. He was twelve. For three years, he was a constant, loyal companion and the best dog I have ever known, which is saying a lot. If there is any justice in the world, Mount Dogmore will be carving his noble head into the granite as we speak.

Three years ago, my wife, Tia, got a call about this dog who was in the pound in Boston. He was on death row. He had belonged to an old woman who, when she went into a nursing home, could not take him. When Tia brought him up to me--we already had two dogs--I said, what kind of dog is he? A rottweiler/golden retriever, she said. No way, I told her, thinking about all the scary things I had heard about Rottweilers.

 Pictures are coming, she said. Just look at him.

And I did. He was handsome, no doubt about it. His head was shaped like a retriever but with those distinctive rottweiler markings. He was also tall, and barrel-chested, well-defined muscles. In short, a beautiful dog.

    And so, on a fall day, I drove to New Hampshire where at a reststop on the highway, Buddy became my dog. He had his weaknesses: he was tall enough that he could counter surf for food. But when you sat on the couch reading a book or watching television, he would crawl up with you and place his head on your lap and fall asleep. When Tia was pregnant with Sarah, he would often lay his big head on the rise of her stomach, listening to the heartbeat of the not yet born child, and somehow when I watched him do that, it comforted me, like he was protecting Tia, and like he was protecting Sarah. Like he was protecting all of us.

He was also amazingly trained by whoever had owned him first. He sat and lied down on command, and when he went outside, if he wanted to come back in, he barked once at the door and would sit there at attention until you opened the door.

No dog sat like Buddy did. He was like a sentry. He looked like a bookend.

When they told me three weeks ago he had terminal cancer, I brought him out of the vet's office to the car and I put him in it. It was a warm day for late March, and with the windows rolled down he put his head out and waited for me to get in. I rubbed him between the eyes and then I took a moment. I walked out of his view and behind the building and I cried. I cried because he was sick and I cried because I was going to miss him. When I came home at night, he ran out to greet my car. Wherever I went, he  followed me. He stood by me and he never asked anything in return, other than food in his bowl and water and the occasional scratch on his big head. He did whatever I asked him to, and he did it because he was grateful. Grateful that I picked him up that day at the rest-stop and brought him to our Vermont home, where there was land to run on, and a river to swim in, and two other dogs to keep him company. He was grateful that we were around to play with him, and that he never had to be on a leash. He showed his gratitude with the unconditional love he gave us and everyone who came into our home.

I miss you, Buddy. You were one of a kind.