IN MEMORY OF BUD

     I lost my best friend today.  For 13 years we were together almost every day, Bud, my yellow lab and me.  I’ve told so many people about him when he was alive that I almost feel I have to tell everyone that he has passed on.  Bud was special to everyone he met.  So special some even asked, point blank, if I would consider giving him to them.  He was the “old yeller” everyone dreamed of having.

 

But Bud didn’t pass on unexpectedly.  He lived over two years after he was diagnosed with osteoarthritis of the spine.  It was just a matter of time, the vet explained, before the spinal nerves would be affected and he would experience so much pain he would have to be put to sleep.  He had a serious episode not long after he was diagnosed but with pain killers and lots of expense he came through crippled somewhat but relatively free of pain as long as he had his drugs.  He couldn’t do those “10.0” dives into the pool anymore chasing his other lifelong companion the “KONG”, but he seemed quite content to watch the other dogs  have the fun from the pools edge.  He’d bark and I would pitch it to him once in a while and he would catch it and drop it as if to say “It’s OK.  It’s still mine.  Go ahead and let them play with it.”

 

We still had a good life, Bud and me.  He could still hobble out to the truck when I said, “Let’s go to work!”. But his condition gradually worsened and soon he couldn’t get into the truck by himself.  He could get his front feet up but I would have to lift up his back half and push him into the front floorboard.  Then he had trouble even walking to the truck so I’d back the truck up as close to the door as I could and he would “tippy-toe” to the truck.  But he would look up to me now for help because he couldn’t get his front feet up any longer either and I would load both halves in now, first the front and then the back.  But Bud was OK with that….he got to go with me and that was all that mattered to him.  He just wanted the company.  I’d like to think that being with me was all that ever mattered to Bud but there were times, even when he was healthy, that he would pass on the “Let’s go to work!” invitation.  He seemed to know the days when not everyone was going to leave for work.  When my wife sat around in her house coat beyond her normal departure to work Bud knew he could stay home and someone would be with him.  And he would respectfully decline by just lying down when I would asked him to go with me.  But my wife said he would always start waiting by the window facing the driveway in late afternoon to see me drive in from the studio.

 

Bud’s condition gradually declined further.  Soon he couldn’t make it to the truck at all.  Oh, he wanted to but he began to measure all his activities based on how much discomfort it caused him.  You just could see the gears in his brain turning when I said “Want to go to work today?”.  Sometimes he would get all excited and make it onto the front porch.  But when I walked to the truck and looked back, he would remain near the front door as if longing to go but not able to stand the pain.  So I would return to the house, he would hobble back inside and spend the day alone.  But he never failed to meet me at the front door when I returned home, tip-toeing across the floor, unable to get much traction having toenails no longer worn from activity.  He would spend the evening like he had for over 12 years, lying at my feet, touching me n some way, sleeping peacefully.

 

In Bud’s last weeks it was hard.  I knew it was time and every morning I looked down on the floor next to my bed half hoping he had passed during the night.  But there he always was, sleeping even though more and more fitfully.  The nerves in his back were becoming irritated and inflamed.  He went from having good days and bad days to having good and bad hours of the day.  But he seemed always thankful and chipper when he knew we were all settled in for the evening and he would not have to move around from room to room to be near us.  Bud could never be separated, no matter what the pain.  I remember purchasing a new pickup truck once with a sliding back window just for him.  At last, I thought, I can make him stay in the bed of the truck and he can stick his head through the open window and I won’t have all the hair in my front floorboard.  I placed him in the bed of the truck and he went straight through the open window to the front floorboard of the cab.  So much for that idea!

 

In the last weeks Bud couldn’t walk more than about ten or fifteen feet at each attempt and it would take him several attempts to make it from one room to the next following me.  I could always hear him coming, clippity-clopping along after he was convinced I was going to be in another room for a while.  I would call for him to “stay” but that wouldn’t stop him.  He was coming to be close to me….little else mattered.

 

I knew it was time to say goodbye to Bud but as long as he slept peacefully and went to do his “duty” outside, I selfishly refused to let him go.  After all, he was happy,  and I was happy.  The whole family was willing to do whatever necessary to keep Bud comfortable.  I could tell when he was in pain by his panting and as long as he took his pill each day he seemed content although less active.  We brought his food and water to him and catered to his every need. 

 

But all that changed in just one day.   Bud began to pant one evening and couldn’t seem to find a position where he was comfortable.  He had awakened me on a couple of previous nights panting, tossing and turning.  I would take him to the den, lie down with him there.  He seemed to calm down when I wrapped my arms around him and he would doze into a restless sleep.  But this time the pain seemed to be unrelenting.  This time it would not pass.  I called the vet about 9pm and met him to get some tranquilizers.  The vet would come to the house the next morning and put Bud to sleep.  I had vowed Bud would not die in my truck or at the vet office.  When the time came I promised he would die right on the den floor where he felt calm and secure. 

 

I sedated Bud and slept with him in the den once again and he went into a very deep, almost comatose sleep until about 3am.  I sedated him once again and Bud was still in deep sleep when my wife left for work and tearfully said her goodbyes.  The vet was to come about 9am.  I had prepared Bud’s resting place weeks before when I suspected the time was getting closer.  Bud woke up about 8am.  He began to have problems lying comfortable once again with constant twitching in his legs.  I lay down with him; we cuddled close.  I still had one sedative left and I knew I would need it to keep Bud from pain until the vet arrived.  But for a few minutes, while he was awake, we would have our last time together.  I comforted him with the soft words he loved to hear.  We lay cheek to cheek, eye to eye.  “Good boy, my big boy”, I said to him as I stoked his forehead, his cheeks and muzzle.  He patted his tail in response and stared into my eyes with those  amber eyes still clear and bright as the day I brought him home.  Bud began tossing and turning once again as his body began to be invaded with pain once again and I gave him the last sedative.  He lay up against me.  I sweet talked him some more and he wagged his tail once again.  I cried.  This dog had made his way deep into my heart and it was now all coming out.

 

The vet arrived and did his job.  I took Bud out in the back yard to his final place and put him in a soft blanket there.  I took his rubber KONG and placed it near his head and gave him a last hug.  He looked peaceful and free of pain.  I thought maybe I had waited too long; been too selfish.  His muzzle was still warm to my cheek and I said my last goodbye to my best friend.  Bud was special.  I’ll never forget him.  I packed the soil on top of the grave.  Woodrow, my one year old chocolate lab, came over to lick my salty cheeks.  I would have all this to do over again someday.

 

I went back into the house and began vacuuming up the  yellow hair we had complained about for so many years.  Somehow it no longer felt like a chore.  I savored every yellow hair I could find.