In the wake of my separation, the thing that got me out of bed was my dog, my American Bully, my Buddy Guillermosson. Sure, I could lay in bed and not bother, but then where would the dog food come from? I would wake, I would see his 70 pounds of affirmative majesty just raring to go, and I would drag myself up, pet him, put on his collar, and he'd follow me to the kitchen and I'd let him out to do backyard business while I undraugr'd with a cup of coffee. Before I left for work I'd fill the treat ball, and before putting it down on the floor I'd say:
"Guard the house. Take no guff. Don't let anybody in. See you after work. I love you."
And I'd lock the door and go earn those sacks of dog food at my day job, hit that food warehouse after work, and carry that fuckton bag of kibble through the door to my grateful dog when I got home to the sound of his paws dancing on floor, his broader-than-human smile, and his soulful brown eyes that said:
"Thank you. Thank you for doing that for me. I've kept our house safe. I took no guff. Nobody got in. And I love you, too."
And that dutiful exchange kept me alive. Buddy kept me alive during my separation, and through the incalculable loss of my father, and through my heartbreaks. It's been six years of being with him of his approximately decade-long life.
This week on Monday, Buddy threw up his dinner. Tuesday he hacked up some blood. Wednesday more blood occurred. Thursday I called the vet to get an appointment the next day, but no blood, so I almost cancelled, but I just wanted to be sure. And Friday the vet takes chest x-rays to discover a 2" tumor in my dog's right lung, and tells me that gives him a 6-8 month timeline, perhaps more, perhaps less if quality of life takes a sudden dive when his lungs fill with liquid to impair his breathing or he decides not to eat.
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| [The blood.] |
I. Hate. Loss. And circumstantial/unwanted change. I hate it. I've never handled it well. After my last cat died, I told myself that I was done with pets until they solve the problem of death. But my future-then-wife moved three dogs into the house, among whom I found Buddy a far & away favourite. Buddy's white blaze on dark gray shorthaired coat, boxy head, wide-set bully frame, big paws, and alpha confidence was the clear winner. The bat-like over-cropped ears spoke of a past where he was beginning to be trained to dogfight, which means they start out by training them to kill small dogs so they get a taste for blood & death. Buddy escaped that fate, and this potentially $4,000 American Bully Classic was bought from the rescue shelter for $50. The anti-social behaviour of being game to fight had already been hardwired into him, which was his only flaw. He loved people & children, but when another dog got in his line of sight he'd suddenly rear up and become this embarrassingly savage monster that needed serious restraining. Some days I secretly loved that berserker flaw, other days I had to immediately leave wherever I was very red-in-the-face, depending.
[Buddy totally flips out on the guy trying to return my lost luggage!]
Buddy's brutal hólmgangr history was what it was, and there would be many nights where he would bark & growl & whine in his sleep, probably still remembering the martial past of his dark puppyhood years later. I would whisper to my sleeping dog, "Hey boy, it's okay. That's over. You're done with it, and you're with me now. You're safe with me." And many times the bad dream would stop at that comforting.
There was a bad moment where I found a precious pair of boots had been damaged by him, and I was mad at him for a good three days until I got the repaired shoes back from the leatherworker. I sat him down and talked to him about my feelings and respecting my things, and he looked at me knowingly, and I really felt better after I'd done that. My then-wife criticized me for bothering to do that, which really spoke more about her emotional shortcomings than it did about my need to process & make peace with the incident by monologuing with Buddy, and coming to accept that dogs will be dogs, no matter how intelligent they are. Though otherwise to her merit, she did once loudly & definitely declare, "Why would anyone have a baby, when they could have a puppy?!?", which was probably a Buddy-inspired comment.
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[Buddy's a sidesitter.] The running assignation was that since Buddy was the smartest of the pack that he was a doctor, or "dog-ter". (His two girlfriend dogs were then dubbed his nurse and medical coder, which still was all about him.) |
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| [because glasses denote intelligence.] |
Yet his smartness & exceptionality wasn't just our labelling him as a PhD: I discovered Buddy could speak. He was never a very verbal dog, maybe barking only when suspicious strangers crept up the driveway or dared to place a foot on the porch steps. Then one winter's night in the bedroom (for he was the one dog that got the privilege of first sleeping in the bedroom, then actually slowly but surely testing his boundaries and sympathetically wearing us down to sleep in the bed), I heard someone say, "Cold. Chilly. Chilly." That voice was not my sleeping then-wife's, it was the dog sleep-talking! There were two other instances of his speaking. The second time also in his sleep he said "Oh no!" The third, during a date, my then-girlfriend had just made a statement, where he suddenly interjected, "Sure." We both paused in disbelief, looked wide-eyed at each other, then looked at him. I asked Buddy to elaborate why he agreed, but he decided not to say anything else. It felt like a slip-up, like it was a quality he wished to keep hidden. Since the first time it happened I've been patiently waiting to hear him use his words again. There were moments while he napped or slept I'd notice his mouth move in a distinctly sleep-talking fashion for minutes, but inaudibly, and I'd come up, place my ear to his mouth, and whisper to him, "Speak, boy, speak. Tell me your words, tell me your dreamworld wonders. Speak."
To fill in these long silences between & after these six precious words, and in-line with my only-child background, we would speak for him. He would issues demands for treats or second dinners, or say judgments that as a then-married couple we would never speak directly to each other, but could be effectively negotiated by the dog. Beyond playful anthropomorphizing, it was almost a form of channeling the all-too evident persona of Buddy in the room, an outward building and sounding board of expression that added to the tapestry of domestic life.
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| [I would sometimes take dictation from him for correspondence.] |
After the divorce the two girl dogs were no longer there, so to comfort now-co-bachelor Buddy, I began singing (badly) to him a lot more, taking lyrics and displacing them with his name & species to celebrate him, coming up with a veritable K-tel album of covers like:
‣ "Buddy Crocket: Dog of the Wild Frontier" [Disney film theme]
‣ "(I Am) Iron Dog" [Black Sabbath]
‣ "My Dog Be Like (Ooh-Ahh)" [Grits from Tokyo Drift soundtrack]
‣ "Buddy: Guardian of Hausgard" [Amon Amarth]
‣ "Come, Come My Doggle" [Crazy Town's "Butterfly"]
‣ "Charming Buddy" [1800s "Billy Boy" song]
‣ "(I've Got) Big Paws" [AC/DC]
‣ "Buddy Planes" [M.I.A.]
‣ "Big Paws I Know You're The One" [Violent Femmes' "Add It Up"]
‣ "Rock Me Buddideus" [Falco]
... and many, many more.
And the lyrics would come out just as ludicrous as you'd imagine. Also there was an equal selection of nonsense songs that helped expand Buddy's already plentiful monikers to things like Bu-Fu, Booley-Fu, Lord Buddlington, Lil' Teef, Jarl Booley, Doggle-Fu, Hund Des Schloss, Bat-Ears, Drooly McFoo, Mr Gray Jeans, Sir Wagglebottoms, and many other kennings & verbal laurels.
In return, at night when alone, I would listen to the song of the heavy rise & fall of his barrel chested breathing, which would lull me to sleep, and let me know that I wasn't so alone.
And maybe Buddy was even secretly less alone. Sometimes I'd come home, the couch was in post-makeout disarray, his paws would smell like Cheetos, his breath like cigars, and it made me wonder if he'd been entertaining while I was out, because we were pretty sure he was also being studded before we got him, so dog got game.
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| ["Hey baby girl, this sweater's made of 100% Sancho material. Pet me, but know you can't touch it just once. Double dog dare you."] |
And if the ladies loved LL Cool J, they loved Buddy Guillermosson even more. Passing girls would just outright stop us on walks, begin to pet him, and ask me questions about his age, breed, background, and supercool tactical vest accessories & Norse patches. Sometimes I'd even get some collateral attention from them as well, but the dog was always the slightly more handsome of our Team Handsome (which is our official pack name). Above regular walks & parks & a few hikes, we went to craft breweries, bars, public events, private weddings, and even DJ booths & dancefloors to nightclub it just like his master. Buddy was always the hit no matter where we went, which spoke alot about him and how he holds himself.
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| [they loved him so much they even offered him a second Puppuccino, which they never do.] |
And he even somehow won his Nana's affection (something which is tenuous even for me on some days); she never was a dog person, and she saves him scraps & buys him treats for when he visits.
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| [His Nana enjoys her grand-dog's company.] While he already knew how to sit, Nana gave us a sheet of dog tricks, and we trained him at the late age of eight to roll over. He was always too smart for fetch though as he quickly saw through to the fact that I'd just throw the ball, and he'd have to do it all again for nothing. |
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| [enjoying the sun during a road trip to Bisbee.] |
I am going to lose Buddy's voice, that presence, that comfort, the company that has kept me alive during the unexpected and undeserved events of recent years. I often find myself mentally lost between actions, and I pause & ask the dog, "Hey Buddy, what was I doing?", and he responds, and I'm back on track. And I so, so, so fear the absence & silence & despair that will come when he's no longer there to answer.
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| [In the magic hallway at The McCoy during one of many awesome late night walks.] |
Having Buddy has been a blessing in so many immeasurable ways. He's an emotional constant in a world of fluctuating judgments & evaluations, a factor of such shining worth by simply being no more or no less than what he is (well, the super-rare talking aside), a present-minded motivator, a metronome of wagging happiness to helicopter near-flight propeller-tail joy to ecstatic tap dancing, a needed example of taking rest, a fearless explorer, cataloguer & connoisseur of the olfactory, a contented & tireless gourmand, an accomplished city-wide mark-leaver, and good boy.
He is the goodest of boys, the bestest of dogs.
In these next 6-8 months of impending death I'm going to be there for him and am actually attempting to cut a day off my weekly work schedule. I'm going to double-dinner down until the salmon kibble's gone, then he's going to eat like a motherfucking jarl: cojack, yogurt, chicken, pork chops, hamburger, and steak, and maybe even at the table with me. I want to make his eyes bulge in amazement at meals, and give him twice the bully sticks, which are his favourite thing to gnaw on, since at this point the extra fat doesn't matter. I want to give him the most enjoyment and wonder before his health declines and he has to be put down. I know all of that won't be enough to thank him, and I know there will be nothing comparable to replace him when he is gone, but until that end comes we have the present and I'm going to make the most of it with him and for him.
This entry is his orðstírr, the reputation of his life skalded into word-glory for us to remember him by because he more than deserves all the praise I can set down. And I end this by saying what I always say to him when we lay down to sleep:
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| [In. The. World.] |
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