Buddy, 20?? - 2024

In the neighborhood I grew up in there was a dog named Shannon. To this day I'd probably count her as the nicest dog I've ever met. She was a Sheltie who was eager to make friends with everybody she encountered - including kids - and had boundless energy for play, especially if a tennis ball was involved. She was a joy to be around.

When I was seven years old what I wanted more than anything in the world was a dog of my own. As luck would have it, Shannon was due to have a litter of puppies around that time and my parents agreed that we could adopt one. In the summer of 1990 we had a new family member named Mickey. He was an interesting looking mutt with the body frame and hair texture of his mother combined with floppy ears and the hair color of a Rottweiler. More importantly, he inherited Shannon's friendless and desire for playtime, albeit with the protective streak of a shepherd as he barked at any living thing that dared come near the house.

Life with Mickey was everything my young brain could imagine and more. He sought out the attention I was all too willing to give him. He loved to play inside with any toy that was around, even if it was an empty soda bottle. When it came to playing outside, my energy could never outlast his. He was fiercely loyal, ready for anything that I was up for, and more so a brother than a friend or companion.

In my college years Mickey slowed down considerably, but he was always there to greet me at the door when I came home and sleep in my bed as he always did when I was around. He died just days after I graduated, because his work was done. I couldn't have picked a more perfect dog to be there with me for those adventurous years between youth and adulthood, and I still cherish every moment I had with him. Any dog I would have after Mickey was going to have an awful lot to live up to in my book.

I spent my 20's missing Mickey, soaking up moments spent with the dogs of family and friends, and dreaming of the days when I'd be able to have a dog of my own. Living the single life with roommates and no family close by that could dogsit in a pinch made that close to impossible. But by the time I was 30 I was living only with the eventual Mrs. Sez, who knew that moving in with me came with the requirement of eventually getting a dog. Thanks to another stroke of luck, her cousin was fostering a dog that she thought would be perfect for us. After getting a glowing description and looking at a few pictures of him, we were all set to meet and take home Buddy on Memorial Day of 2014.

To say we chose Buddy wouldn't be accurate. He sauntered up to Mrs. Sez who knelt down in front him while he slowly lifted one paw and gently tapped her between her neck and chest, as if to say, "You're mine now." The three of us instantly developed a tight bond. He had complete trust in us from day one, despite living through the awful circumstances that often result in dogs going to a foster home. That trust was tested immediately as we learned after only a few days that Buddy came to us with unchecked heartworms which required a lengthy and difficult treatment regimen.

During those first six months we learned a lot about our boy. As part of his treatment, we were under strict orders to not increase his heart rate at all, which was a breeze for Buddy. He was perpetually cool as a cucumber, and walking no more than a block from our house was no issue at all in his mind. Playtime, or toys of any kind, didn't exist in Buddy's world. All he wanted out of life was to occasionally remind us that he was around by placing himself within a few inches of us, inevitably getting some pets and head scratches, and dutifully returning to his bed to relax. Xanax couldn't hold a candle to the calming effect that he had on a room.

But don't let that calm exterior fool you, Buddy was tough when he needed to be, and stubborn as all hell when he wanted to be. He handled multiple injections in his spine like a champ, never fearing a return trip to the vet. The cocktail of medication that he was on also left him with little to no appetite. Convincing him to eat was a daily chore that often involved physically dragging him over to his food bowl and using any means necessary to get a few bites into his mouth.

Buddy came out his treatment with a clean bill of health and we were finally able to do some normal dog-owner things like taking him on longer walks, going on the occasional hike, and introducing him to friends and family. In doing these things, I soon discovered Buddy's superpower. It's a theory of mine that every dog has a superpower. Some are supremely athletic, some can sniff out weapons, drugs, or even cancer that may be hiding in or on a human. Some have the capacity to be overwhelmingly and incessantly annoying. Shannon's power was her unadulterated friendliness, Mickey's his ability to outlast everyone else when it was time to play.

Buddy's superpower was both simple and complicated, obvious and tough to notice at the same time, but I saw it happen with every grown human being that he encountered. After he did his patented saunter to get close to an adult, within seconds their mood improved, they were patting his head and showering him with compliments. He had every one of them convinced that he was their best friend because he was providing them the calm comfort of someone that's known and cared for them since childhood, even though they just met. It was pure magic.

As his primary caretakers, we had the privilege of experiencing Buddy's magic everyday. Little did we know how much we would need that in the ensuing years. The major sources of concurrent stress included: planning and executing a DIY wedding, my father's death, Mrs. Sez being a full-time nurse and full-time student at the same time, a major work project that had me working 10-12 hour days consistently, buying our first house, and preparing for the birth of our first child. The one constant, reassuring presence through all of that was a furry mutt who couldn't possibly be bothered.

Buddington McFancypants

It didn't matter if we were out of the house for 14+ hours at a time. Buddy was in his bed for most of that time anyway, and never had any accidents. When we got home, he would give us a bleary-eyed greeting and calm our nerves while he got just a few minutes of pets and head scratches before returning to the comfort of his bed. He was exactly what we needed to come home to, and made us feel like we were giving him exaclty what he needed too.

Soon after moving in to a house we could call our own, our family started to expand. First a daughter, and soon after a son. Buddy with children in the house was going to be interesting. While he sought out the attention of adults in his own low-key way, he never had any use for the high energy of kids, or even puppies. In the wild, he steered clear of energetic youth, not even acknowledging their presence. How would that translate to sharing a house full-time with babies?

Naturally, it was no sweat for Buddy. He kept his distance as best he could and let us figure out how to take care of small humans. He was perfectly content with getting from us what little we had left at the end of each day. When they did get too close for comfort, he reacted with the patience of a saint, letting them do as they pleased with no repercussions. We also began to notice a trend that made Buddy even more lovable, as if that was possible. Should either of the kids be sick in any way, we would suddenly find him curled up on the floor right next to their crib. He may have wanted no part of their antics, but in his little brain they still deserved his attention and protection when under the weather.

For the rest of his life, Buddy fit in perfectly as a seamless part of our family. He would come with us on trips, large or small, whenever possible. Family, friends, and neighbors looked forward to seeing him, always. We celebrated his (made up) birthday, and he celebrated with us when it was someone else's. He was always around, never overwhelmingly, but enough that his presence was felt, in a good way.

After more than ten years with us - and at the estimated age of 16 - Buddy's life ended this past Friday. For the last year or so, he had very obviously been an old man, but he emptied the tank for us, giving everything he had. Stubborn as he was, it was an awful lot. In life, he weighed only about 40 pounds, but we're now left with a Grand Canyon-size crater in our family. Nothing seems right, something always seems missing, and we're doing our best to remind ourselves that we need to stop expecting him to be there. It's not easy.

The flip side of this, of course, is that we need to appreciate that we might have been the luckiest family in the world. You never know exactly what you're getting when you bring a pet into your home. Therefore, it would be unfair to expect a dog like Buddy, but there he was. The perfect dog to help me bridge that difficult gap between being barely an adult and being truly a grown-up with real responsibilities and a family to support. A family that he was such a significant part of.

Years ago I thought Mickey set the bar impossibly high for any other dog I would have. Buddy taught me that nothing is impossible with the right attitude: be calm, be friendly, be there for the people you care about at all times, and don't need much back in return. Lessons I'll need to remind myself of when my next dog is inevitably a royal pain in the ass.

I'd say rest easy, Buddy, but I know that's the only thing you know how to do. So instead, I'll just say thanks. There will never be another one like you.