Ole Budds

Of all the things I think about writing someday, I'd never really thought about my Ode to Buddy. He's always been such a boisterous fixture in our lives, it wasn't until recently that it ever really occurred to me that we wouldn't have him around. For years I thought to write an essay on Budd's; his life as a true Lowcountry Dog. It would celebrate his fondness for saltwater activities and local cuisine, and also acknowledge his very relatable tendency to hide from the heat of the day with afternoon naps on the cold slab of marble at the base of the fireplace.  

What other dog had a self-appointed role as Dock Guardian but a lowcounrty pup; patrolling the length of those boards up and down, up and down. No bird shall land here. Violators will be prosecuted. He took his shifts so seriously, we could rely on him to forgo privacy and decency, and leave a steaming pile in the midst of his workspace. Occasionally we would remark about his inaugural poo at the first of the warm Spring weather or encourage visitors to watch their step. As he got older, his shifts were shorter and less spirited, but he'd still lay there and bark when he thought the birds needed a reminder, and then he wander down a ways and leave his mark.

But don't let the Dock Patrol fool you. He was a worthless guard dog; running from danger, leaving his family behind. Dad once charged him in the night with a flashlight and Buddy ran off barking. You couldn't walk him either. He'd drag you however far you dared venture out and when he came upon other dogs, brace yourself. He'd come with me, off leash, on my night time jogs and once he'd seen me safely back to the driveway, he'd head out into the night to party. For thirteen years he escaped the backyard and for thirteen years Dad would find a hole, patch it up and say, "I got him this time!" 
Hours later you'd find him casually sprawled out in the front yard, enjoying Dad's defeat more than the freedom. 

He wouldn't come when you called him. He'd pretend not to hear you. He'd breathe his hot breath on you while you ate, and put his giant rump in your path as you moved through the house. He sure loved fanny scratches. He tolerated pets of other kinds, but those were more for you than for him. He softened up only one time after I'd had surgery and must have smelled like unconsciousness and chemicals. He broke his code of hardened ethics and sat with me and licked my face until I was better again. He never gave me another kiss after I recovered. He wasn't about doling out kisses. He was a man's man.

Here I've listed all these things that made him an unruly family dog. Buddy did his own thing, but did it with enough charisma that you wanted to keep him around. In human form, I imagine he'd be that friend that always disappears at some point during your night out, but shows up later the next day with coffee and donuts. "Dude, where were you last night?" you ask that friend. "Oh you know, just out following vibes, bro." Then you smile at their wild, twinkly eyes, shake your head, and enjoy the time you do have with them. I think it's that no one ever told Buddy he was a dog. So he climbed aboard jet-skis and kayaks and demanded that you go faster and faster.

Watching such a spirited trouble-maker descend first towards achy legs and then stiff joints tricks you into thinking that it won't be that bad. His enthusiasm never wavered. So he took a few extra seconds to get going... but then he'd be up and out again. Nothing'll stop him. He'd limp along and find a good place to lay down and then he'd enjoy the view and twinkle his eyes at you and you'd know he was still living out his adventure. The hard part is making the call for someone else. How do you tell when it's getting to be too much for him? That's the bit that makes you feel guilty when you go over to his house but he's not there anymore. 
On his last day he didn't get up to greet me when I came over. Usually he'd come whooping through, grunting and corralling me into a corner so that my only option was to give him fanny scratches. But that day he just laid on his cold slab of marble, breathing shallow, closing his eyes for long stretches. We loaded him up into my passenger seat and Budds and I went on one last cruise together. He laid his head on the windowsill while I drove and he took in the sights and smells. It was a very peaceful ride - no boisterous barking or antsy dancing around in the backseat. 

Just old Budd's feeling the wind in his hair on his way to his next adventure. 

The Warp Speed Yellowstone Trip

Quite spontaneously Erik invited Brett and me to come stay at his family's cabin in Idaho, just an hour and a half outside of Yellowstone Park. We said "yes" just as spontaneously. 

We did a foolish thing and spent our very first day hiking around Yellowstone. As anyone who has visited will tell you, it's a heap of beautiful views and vistas of wonder. Being the only girl on this day, I felt lots of pressure to keep up with the long-legged men-folk and not be the reason they didn't get to hike as far as they wanted to. There was only one occasion, after I had fallen down, when I had to stop for frequent breaks because the incline was too steep for someone from the flattest town of all time. I'd stop and talk to other hikers as an excuse to catch my breath.

Back at the cabin that night, Brett and I cooked supper in the tiniest kitchen and waited for Erik's friend to arrive from Colorado. She'd left that morning and drove across a collection of states to spend the rest of the weekend with us. We set the little fireplace ablaze and then spent the night chitchatting and telling stories. There was only one bedroom in the cabin (downstairs) and then there was a little loft with two beds in it. Brett and I shared one bed while our new friend took the other. Unbeknownst to us until bedtime, some of the fireplace fumes were circumventing their flue duties and instead, were collecting up in our loft. It was smokey up there and Brett said he woke me up twice in the night to make sure I was still alive. We didn't sleep well that night and woke up with headaches the next day. We did not go on to light the fireplace ever again.

On the second day, we did a foolish thing and drove to Big Sky to go white water rafting. I was very nervous about this but since the rest of my weekend comrades are the brazen fearless type, I had to just go along with it. In addition to having never rafted before, I knew the water was very cold and I was mostly nervous about winding up in it. Then, just before setting out, the tour company had to give their spiel about how people have died doing this so pay attention and follow the rules. I looked at Brett hopelessly. I'll tell you that I stayed highly nervous the whole time, and then when it was over I was so thrilled and relived that I wanted to go again. 

We dilly dallied in Big Sky, ate some lunch, got some coffee, and then made the trek back to the cabin ni Island Park. After showers and naps, we set out on the lake in canoes before deciding that it was too much effort. 

I say all of our decisions were foolish ones because on the third day, Brett woke up with altitude sickness. We'd both been feeling minor symptoms of it - being the littlest bit dizzy, having a hard time eating - but Brett woke up all weak and puny and queasy, so we bowed out of the day's trip to see the Tetons. Erik and Jordan set out around 9:30 as Brett got settled in the recliner. As it turns out, when you get to a high up place, you're supposed to sit still for a couple days and drink lots of water. What they say not to do is immediately go hiking and partake in other strenuos activities where you go long stretches without water. We didn't read about this until it was too late and the Jolly Lean Giant had succumbed.

What I loved about the day in the cabin, was caring for The Big One and getting a glimpse of the future. The cabin has no tv or other modern distractions. Brett and I sat together under old quilts and looked out he window all morning. He'd nod off and I'd read a bit and then at noon I said, "Well, I guess it's time for some lunch. Can I make you something?"
"I'm not hungry," Brett said.
"Well you gotta eat something or you'll feel worse," I said from in the little kitchen.
"What?"
"I said you gotta eat somethin' or you'll feel worse!" I looked at Brett over in the recliner and saw the 70 year old version of him. "Here," I said, somewhat more brusque than normal, "Eat some watermelon."

We were suddenly a well-worn old couple, just spending the day the way you do when the world isn't asking you for things anymore. I loved it. But also I'm glad to not live there just yet. While Brett napped I cleaned the cabin and worked my way through the checkout checklist. We sat by the water awhile, fed some ducks, and then read a little more. 

"This is what it's going to be like someday," we said, beaming at each other.

Erik and Jordan got home around 10:00pm and pretty much fell right to sleep. Due to our distance from the Bozeman airport, we had to get up at 2am to get to the airport at 4am to be prepared for our 6am flight home. Driving a winding, pitch-black Montana highway with buffalo in the road at 2am is one of the more stressful activities I've partaken in. Brett was feeling much better by then, so he did the driving while Erik and I tried to stay awake. 

Clint and Susan picked the three of us up from the airport and we sat in a row in the backseat in big Montana stupors. It was a real whirlwind three days - and it felt like a little tease. 

We're just going to have to go back.