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.