Requiem for Buddy

We lost our senior dog, Buddy on Thursday.  Sure we have five dogs, but that doesn’t make losing one any easier.  Buddy was our “best boy”.  He was part of our family and went through big changes in our lives.  And he was a medical “miracle”, a boy who helped future dogs extend their lives despite the ravages of cancer.

Rescue

Buddy, like the rest of our pack, was a rescue.  I’d like to say “we” (Jenn and I) brought him home, but that would be stretching the truth.  The truth:  I got a text from Jenn at work that said, “Going to the shelter to get a dog”.  While I was a very new husband, I instinctively knew what the right response was:  “OK”.   At that time, Buddy would be the third in our rescue group, along with Sierra, an elderly mix, and Dash, our thoughtful, considerate Yellow Lab.  

At first, I wasn’t sure Buddy and I would get along.  He was about one year old, undersized for a shepherd/border-collie mix, and kind of wild.  After we first met, he jumped on the couch and nipped at me.  From the very beginning, he was definitely Jenn’s dog.  He knew, after a couple of failed fosters and returns to the shelter, that Jenn was his savior.   But, at least for that first week, I wasn’t so sure he was going to be a success with us, either.

It all changed when we opened his crate one night, and invited him to join “the pack” in bed.  Sierra had her own low platform bed, but Dash slept with us.  And when Buddy jumped in and snuggled among us, his whole attitude changed. He was home, and we were family, and that was that.  

All that was more than a decade ago.

Survivor

We lost Sierra in 2014, and Dash and Buddy became fast friends.  Dash showed Buddy “the ropes” in every situation.  We all went on walks, even runs, and Buddy learned the “wilds” of the school woods.  Buddy was a “good boy”, and became the “alert” dog when something was going on.  He could bark “above his weight class” when he needed to; we didn’t need doorbells anymore – Buddy knew.

Then Buddy got lumps in his throat.  Our fantastic local vet, Dr. Hickin, warned us that it might be bad news. She sent us to Med-Vet in Worthington, one of the Columbus emergency veterinary hospitals.  They made the diagnosis:  our Buddy had a form of cancer, lymphoma.  They could operate and remove the tumors, and he could take chemotherapy.  If everything went “well”, we could expect a couple more years.

There’s nothing cheap about dog medicine, but Buddy was only three, healthy and active.  And we found Dr. Malone, a veterinary oncologist, willing to try a new treatment protocol.  So we went with it; surgery, then an eleven-month long treatment with a drug that Jenn and I had to wear gloves to handle. It all worked: and at the end, Buddy had no signs of lymphoma, and got to be a “normal” dog once again.

Travelling Dogs

In the meantime, Jenn and I retired, and  the four of us travelled the country.  We drove out to Colorado, through New Mexico and back.  Dash and Buddy ran around the Ophir Pass near 12,000 feet in altitude, tried to be good “restaurant dogs” in Silverton, and got to walk by the Rio Grande in Albuquerque. 

That became our plan.  We bought a camper, to “snow-bird” in Florida. Just the four of us, Jenn and I, Dash and Buddy.  We used the camper to  go to see a solar eclipse (well, they sort of saw it, we were shading their eyes) in Tennessee, and had a late September break, hiking around at our favorite Ohio state park, Salt Fork.

Then cancer struck again, this time with Dash.  Within a couple of weeks, he went from healthy to struggling.  Dr. Hickin had sadness in her eyes as she sent us to Med-Vet once again.  This time it was a glioblastoma, sudden and deadly.  The medical choices were minimal and very short term, and we did the right thing for Dash, and let him go.

We were all devastated, but Buddy was the worst.  Dash was his guide and teacher, now he was on his own.  We headed to Florida, and spent the winter there.  Buddy became a “beach and bar” dog, comfortable in both environments.  That is, except for going in the ocean, he wasn’t much fond of waves.  But he’d jump in the intercoastal waterway for a swim, and loved hiking down the “Jungle Trail”.

When we came home in March, Buddy immediately searched the house for Dash.  So we decided he needed a new companion, who actually looked a lot like Dash.  We rescued Atticus from the Franklin County Shelter.  We soon discovered looks are deceiving.  Atticus was a wild man, not at all the intellectual Dash.  But Buddy did his best to show him the ropes, even if “Atticus-Baddicus” wasn’t a very willing learner.

Leader of the Pack

We tried camping with Atticus and Buddy, but it was difficult.  And then we got involved with finding lost dogs. Some were found who didn’t have owners.  Soon we had Keelie, our caring Australian shepherd mix, and then Louisiana, rescued from the parking lot of Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge.  And, somewhere in the middle of Covid, we also gained CeCe, a mix puppy found in a storm sewer in Dayton.

Camping with five dogs was out of the question.  Buddy became the “old man” of the pack, helping each new entry find their place.  Even when the other dogs were “arguing” about where they stood, Buddy tried to maintain the peace.  And even as Buddy grew older, he still gamely raced across the yard to drive squirrels from our “territory”, even if he was now last in the chase.  And when someone was doing something “wrong” in the backyard, Buddy was the first to let us know.

Buddy was our evening “time keeper”.  He told everyone when it was time for dinner.  But, like his Mom, Buddy was happy to sleep in the mornings.  The others wouldn’t hear of it, and so Bud would grudgingly stagger out of the bedroom, looking sleepy and bedraggled, to join in the breakfast rituals.  He wanted to sleep, but he wasn’t going to miss a meal in the process.

Buddy wasn’t demanding (other than mealtimes).  Usually he’d “waddle” over a few times a day, to have his ears scratched, or a belly rub.  And his response was to stare at you with those bottomless brown eyes, sending his love deep into your soul.  And when he was done, he’d roll over, and catch up on his beauty sleep.

Dignity

That’s how we knew something  was really wrong last week.  Buddy wasn’t coming out for breakfast.  He didn’t really want to move at all, even to go outside.  But Buddy would never, ever, have an accident in the house.  It was undignified, something he wouldn’t allow.  So we managed to get him to the door, and he made what was now the long trip down the stairs to the backyard.  

Afterwards, Buddy lay panting in the hallway, trying to cool himself against the air conditioning duct.  The other dogs knew something was seriously wrong.  Keelie and Lou lay nearby, a vigil, with eyes on Buddy.  CeCe kept coming over to lick his face, and even Atticus was subdued. And while Jenn and I didn’t say it, we both had a pretty good idea what was happening.  Last Thursday, we took him in to see his favorite, Dr. Hickin, one more time.  And we saw that same sadness in her eyes, the unspoken message that she thought the worst.  

Best Boy

It was back to Med-Vet and a battery of tests to tell us what we already knew.  The lymphoma was back, now eight years later.  This time, treatment would only mean an extra couple of miserable months.

Jenn and I had our last few minutes with Buddy.  He was dopey from the tests and the drugs, but his eyes lit up and his ears perked when Jenn said, “You’ll get to run with Dash again”.  The folks at Med-Vet were gentle with him, and with us, as we said goodbye.  

There are now four dogs mourning at our house.  While they still go through the rituals of the day, there is always something missing, for them, and for us.  No one is telling me, “you’re late for dinner”.  No one is cheered as they come out of the bedroom door (except for Jenn, of course). It will take a while for us to all discover the new normal, a normal without Buddy.

I’ve got a friend who once told me after having to let his dog go, that he would never have another.  “It hurt so much, too much.  I can’t go through that again”.  And he was right about one thing.  It does hurt, so much.   But I am so glad we had the opportunity to have Buddy:  a rescue, a miracle, a beach dog and a bar dog and the “best boy” ever.  Missing him hurts now,  a lot.  But our good memories are forever. 

Goodbye, Buddy, thanks for everything.  You were the best.

Dog Stories

Author: Marty Dahlman

I'm Marty Dahlman. After forty years of teaching and coaching track and cross country, I've finally retired!!! I've also spent a lot of time in politics, working campaigns from local school elections to Presidential campaigns.

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