My Buddy

I suppose Buddy’s story with our family starts as most other pets does: child begs parent for dog, parent says no, repeat for years, parent finally relents. That kid was me, and boy I never could’ve predicted the journey that Buddy would take us on. The day we got Buddy was most likely a Saturday, since that was when the shelter had the adoption trailer outside our local PetSmart. I was around 9 or 10, so my only concerns about this future puppy was that it was, well...a puppy. My mom, being a single mother with me, an apartment, and 2 other pets to take care of (a rabbit and a guinea pig) wanted something medium sized. Easier to care for you know. They brought out baby Buddy, and gosh he was cute. I was sold. The kennel attendant said that he had a fear of men from a previous adoption. Buddy was still very much a puppy when we adopted him, so it hurts me to think of what someone could’ve done to him in such a short amount of time for him to have a phobia that would persist throughout his life. Anyway, papers were signed and adoption fees were paid, and we left with a tiny brown and white puppy in a St Patrick’s day themed green bandanna. I don’t remember everything from that day (it was 20 some odd years ago) but I clearly remember a moment when we first got into the car with Buddy. He had started to cry in my lap and my mom asked if I was sure I wanted this dog. It was one of those turning point moments, a moment that I knew was going to be important. Small me of course said yes, and I’m really glad she did.

Years went by pretty quickly. Buddy and I kinda grew up together. I considered him my furry brother with how much he could annoy me sometimes. His bark was high pitched and his breath was smelly. He could be a real pain in the butt; he took his job as surrogate brother very seriously apparently. He gained a sister in our pot bellied beagle Maggie and a tiny little friend in our chihuahua Chip. Maggie was rescued pregnant off the street and Chip was bereaved to us after a family member passed. After Chip came Sandy, our white lab/husky mix who kinda adopted us. Buddy took to his siblings well, and I think they all regarded him as the elder of their little pack. Through time and moves, Buddy was always there. He was a staple of the Johnsen house. I thought it was funny when I found a prescription bottle of his that was labeled “Buddy Dog Johnsen”. I get a kick out of how country it made him sound, but it’s a fitting name. I honestly can’t picture him with anyone else, of being part of anyone else’s family. I hope he felt the same way.

We got to love and cherish Buddy for many years, he had to have been close to 16 or 17 years old. I remember the day painfully well. Mom called and said that Buddy had broken his leg, and that they were going to have a vet look at him the next day. That was Saturday or Sunday night, Monday morning I called out at work to be there. The vet confirmed what we all thought: his leg was indeed broken. I don’t really remember starting to cry until then. That was when it me, with all the force of a Mack truck. But we all knew it was the best option. Buddy couldn’t really hear or see well anymore and his body was old and stiff. None of that made it any easier. I got to spend time alone with him, to say goodbye. To tell him he was a good boy, that he was always a good boy. That I loved him. After everyone had had a moment with him, it was time. It was peaceful, and I’m thankful for that. It hasn’t been easy moving on without him. I miss him every day and my mother’s house still feels like something is missing. But as hard as the aftermath can be, I wouldn’t change or take back any of our time together. Rescuing Buddy is something I will never, ever regret. Small me might not have known what kind of journey I was in for; that there was a light at the end of the tunnel of needle teeth and dog breath. But I’m glad I said yes. Buddy was worth every moment of it.