Chasing The Sun
We recently had to say goodbye to a beloved member of the family.
He came into our lives as a stray — A lost little dog, matted and cold and frightened. The year was 2008. Luckily, he was wandering around in an alley behind a dinner theater where my step-daughter worked. She took him inside. He got some prime rib that night, and was taken home for a bath and a look-over. She brought him over to our house the next day, asking her mom and I to take care of him for a few days, until she could find the little guy a home. She was obviously excellent at finding him a home, because he never us left after she dropped him off.
We named him Buddy. Officially, his full name was “Buddy Buddy Small Dog.” Yes, I had a weird Lord of the Rings moment, and my Wife and I had a private giggle.
He was a little thing, a ten-pound mix of Terrier and some-other-mystery-breed. We couldn’t be certain. All-in-all, he was a cute little mutt. The veterinarian clocked him at around a year and a half to two years old, judging by the teeth and bone structure. No more than a puppy, really.
Buddy was a good dog. A very good dog. I know people always say that, but in this case, it was absolutely true. In D&D terms (and geeks will know what I’m talking about) he was Lawful Good. He wanted to please, and he loved his new pack. The people who met him loved him, and offered on more than one occasion to take him off our hands if we ever tired of him. Like that was ever going to happen. I think one of his groomers was considering a dog-napping, but it never came to fruition.
He was the calmest dog I had ever met. He invented the word ‘chill.’ He would only bark in the most extreme circumstances. There was no “yippy dog” in this cute little package. If Buddy actually felt that he had a reason to bark, we stopped and took notice. The vacuum cleaner? Bring it on. He had no fear. I could vacuum right around him. A loud noise? Fireworks? Thunder? He simply followed our lead. He’d look up at us to check — And if we didn’t care about it, neither did he.
Buddy liked riding in the car. He would excitedly look out the left passenger window, then trot across the back seat and look out the right. He was curious, looking at everything he could as it passed by. And the fast-food drive-through? That really sparked his curiosity: “Where is that voice coming from?” When we pulled up to the window, He would find a new friend, tail wagging as he propped himself up in the back window, looking at the person handing us the food with bright welcoming eyes. That person, young or old, was always affected by the cute little dog who greeted them.
Buddy was quite the athlete. The little, foot and a half-sized dog totally threw us for a loop when he jumped up onto our bed from a dead stop. He just pulled a Superman, or perhaps an Air-Bud, seemingly defying gravity. One moment he was on the floor, and an instant later, suddenly three feet off the ground and on the bed.
He was also a master magician. The one thing that Buddy didn’t like was to be left alone. I’m sure there was trauma there for a small dog who was alone on the street. And while we took him everywhere we could, sometimes the weather prevented him from hanging out in the car, so we’d put him in the bedroom, close the door, and go run our errands. When we got home, he was waiting for us… At the front door. To this day, how he managed to get out of the closed bedroom remains a mystery.
Buddy was a world-class traveller, as well. He liked the airport. I would carry him in his travel bag, slung over my shoulder. His head would be poking out of the top, and he (mostly) stayed in that position while we sat and ate over-priced snacks waiting for our flight. The calm, curious dog watching the passers-by from his travel bag sitting on the table was a tourist-magnet. Buddy made more friends than I could count, and brought smiles to people I never even met.
Around the house, Buddy’s favorite pastime was chasing the sun. He liked to nap in the sunlight streaming through the window, but found that it would never stay still. He would start on the main living room sofa, but the sun would run off, moving to the second-floor stairway. Thus would begin Buddy’s “SunQuest,” as he would leave the sofa and re-center himself in the sun’s glow in the stairs. But the sun would continue to sneak away from him. Buddy would have to get up and track it down again, slowly making his way up the steps. I could almost pinpoint the time of day by noting Buddy’s latest position in his ongoing quest for a warm place to nap.
Buddy was a constant in our lives for sixteen years. Since we found him at the age of two (I’m sure you can do the math), I have to add one more thing to Buddy’s list: Defier of the odds. There was a rumor in our family. It was whispered in very hushed tones, for fear of jinxing it: Buddy would outlive us all.
But that was not to be, although it wasn’t for his lack of trying. Sixteen years later, the bright eyes were no longer sparkling. His curiosity and amazement of the world were extinguished as his eyesight failed him. He withdrew within himself, and only felt safe when close to us. If we were so much as to leave the room, he would start to pace and look for us
While he could still hear, the loss of his sight made his world a scary place. Most of the sounds that he would have taken for granted in his prime now frightened him: A water bottle clicking shut, a glass being set on a table, a cough, or a sneeze.
He was no longer living. He was merely enduring.
It took us a while to realize that Buddy was truly in a bad way — His presence brought us more comfort than ours was bringing him. He was still a good dog. In fact, an amazing dog with a life pedigree that other dogs would probably envy if they cared about such things. But even though his body seemed to be willing, every day life was now taking a toll on him mentally. The world that brought him joy was not accessable to him anymore. If we had selfishly kept him with us simply because he was living, we would be condemning him to a world of darkness, uncertainty, and fear.
The end of a pet’s life is not always as cut and dry as a collapse, or a diagnosis, or an obvious sudden change. Buddy had slowly slipped away from us, and we had to make the difficult decision to let him go. The hardest decision we ever had to make. A kind and caring veterinarian came to our home and helped Buddy move on. Contrary to what you might believe, it was a peaceful, comforting event. The time spent with Buddy was a joy. The ability to end his confusion and fear about a life that no longer served him, to watch him calmly let go and find peace, A difficult blessing.
Amazingly, Buddy taught me more about aging and mortality than the humans around me. More, even, than my own face in a mirror. Watching his changes from a puppy to a senior citizen in those compressed “dog years” were much easier to see as a whole, complete picture of existence than our longer, more complex human timeframe. It has made me more aware of my own changes and the value of my own place here in the world, and what effect I might have on others before I take my leave.
If there is a heaven for you, Buddy Buddy Small Dog, may you reclaim your curiosity and joy, may you remember us as fondly as we remember you - And may you forever chase the sun.
Utterly Random Squirrel is a product of Vincent Hase. Sometimes funny, sometimes serious, often senseless. Please take a moment to share, and be sure to subscribe, allowing something utterly random into your inbox (besides all that junk mail).