FEBRUARY 2015 SUNRAYS | 37
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to a huge oak tree that provided ample
shade. The dog house matched my stor-
age barn. My home sat on a channel of
the lake, a heavily wooded property of
about two and a half acres covered with
huge oak trees. Buddy adapted quickly
to his new surroundings.
I was amazed at how quickly Buddy
learned the sound of my car, and how
he was even faster to figure out when
I’d be coming home from work. I could
see him standing at the gate of his ken-
nel before I even reached the corner of
my street, his tongue hanging out and
tail just a-wagging. As soon as I would
open that gate, he’d be gone - running
at lightning speed all over the property.
One day, two cottontail rabbits were sit-
ting outside the fence, gazing at Buddy.
It was almost as if they were asking if
he could come out and play. Buddy lay
there dozing, but kept one eye on the
rabbits, not overly concerned one way
or the other. Later in the day, when I
let Buddy out, he disappeared into the
wooded lot next door. Abruptly, two cot-
tontail rabbits came sprinting across the
yard, Buddy just five seconds behind.
They disappeared into the woods on the
other side, only to reappear minutes lat-
er, Buddy still on the chase. This zigzag
game of hide and seek quickly became a
daily deal for all three creatures.
Buddy was a bright dog, and he knew
there was more to the world than the
wooded lots around him. I could search
for him for hours, only to find him buried
down to his rear in a nutria hole or ar-
madillo den, trying to discover whatever
might be inside. Other times, I’d find him
blocks away, sitting on a neighbor’s dock
and barking at the fish. Though Buddy
never had a worry in the world, he could
sense when I was mad and make a break
for the house, heading straight for his
pen. There he’d sit, tongue hanging out,
pretending to be asleep as though he had
been there the whole time.
These adventures went on for many
years, however, there came a day when
I started noticing Buddy biting at his
tail. Looking at it closer, I noticed some-
thing he’d clearly been after. I called my
veterinarian. At the vet, they shaved
the area, and concluded that a tumor
was situated at the base of his tail. They
suggested bobbing the tail to resolve the
issue. Though I couldn’t imagine Buddy
without a tail, we decided it was the best
option and scheduled the surgery for the
upcoming Friday.
On the morning of the operation, I took
Buddy in. The surgery would take a
couple of hours and the vet had asked to
keep him for observation. Later that day,
I got a call – the veterinarian asked me
to come back. As it turned out, when the
vet shaved the whole area to prepare for
surgery, he discovered that Buddy was
riddled with cancers, making surgery
a moot point. I asked him what options
were available. The vet readily offered to
get Buddy accepted to the A&MSchool of
Veterinary Medicine, where veterinary
students could try to resolve Buddy’s ill-
ness with an assortment of “things.” He
would be kept there, in a cage, allowing
students to work on him at their con-
venience, rather than me making trips
back and forth. The vet informed me that
I would probably get to visit him once
in a while.
Buddy and I looked at each other. We
both knew that this was not an option.
Buddy wanted to enjoy being a dog as
long as he could, and I wanted that for
him as well.
Over the next few weeks, we carried
on as best we could, though Buddy’s
energy was on a rapid decline. Neither
of us could keep his sores clean, and it
was becoming clear that the time was
approaching.
Finally, I called the vet to make another
appointment. I took off of work the whole
week prior so Buddy and I could spend
just a few more days together. The day
before his appointment, I told Buddy
what to expect when we got to the vet,
adding that I would be there with him
the whole time. I filled up a tub with
warm, soapy water to get him all gussied
up. For once, he did not wimp out in wa-
ter deeper than his feet.
On Friday morning it was time to go.
Buddy knew that he always got to ride in
the bed of the truck when we were going
to the vet, and he headed straight for
the vehicle. I helped him in. This time,
however, my friend, Julie, came to drive
the truck - I sat in the truck bed and rode
alongside Buddy.
At the vet, Buddy was brought into the
examining room, and I followed as usual.
However, this time, the vet turned to
me, saying, “David, this is where I draw
the line. It is an emotional time and I
do not allow pet owners in the examin-
ing room for this.” I didn’t know how
to react or what to say, so I returned,
dumbfounded, to sit in the waiting room.
Several minutes later, the veterinarian
came back out.
“David,” he said, “Buddy won’t let us
near him.” I replied, “I told him I would
be there,” and they showed me into the
examining room. As soon as he saw me
enter, Buddy calmed down. While we
waited for the vet to administer the shot,
I stroked his thick white hair. Buddy
looked like he was pretending to be
asleep, only this time, he didn’t open his
eye to see what all the fuss was about. I
knew he was at peace. For weeks after I
buried him, those two cottontail rabbits
continued visiting Buddy’s pen, sitting
patiently as they waited for him to play.
Fifteen years have passed since then,
and I still find myself thinking about
Buddy from time to time. Someday, I be-
lieve I will see him again. He’ll be laying
there, pretending to sleep, keeping one
eye open to see what all the fuss is about.
