A text message alerted me to call Rebecca. I called.
She asked. “We’re putting Buddy down tomorrow. Can we come up and have you take pictures?”
Buddy is one boy’s dog. Has been since Buddy was rescued from an animal shelter and presented to Nathaniel when he was in the 4th grade. Nathaniel who is now a man. Nathaniel who graduated from high school last year, Nathaniel who takes college courses now, and who works as a roofer. Buddy is a black dog, nine years old (they think). Buddy is sweet. Has kidney failure. He’s big, and can be scary.
Buddy is one family’s dog. Truthfully, since Nathaniel has reached his manhood and taken on such responsibility, much of the care of Buddy has fallen to Rebecca, my daughter, Nathaniel’s mother. We’re all lovers of animals, and both Jerry and I were attached to Buddy.
“Sure, all of you come on up,” I told Rebecca.
I did not take a picture of Buddy wearing a diaper, for it seemed demeaning to that beautiful animal. Blood and urine and pain. Nathaniel would dig a grave . . .in their back yard.
We talked. All of us spoke of grief and love and attachment.
“It’s worth it though, Granny,” Nathaniel said once. “The fun, the love, the good times I’ve had with Buddy makes this time of sorrow worth it.”
Rebecca sent me pictures of the grave and of Buddy’s body. Jerry said, “I don’t want to see them.”
I cried . . .as have we all.
Shirley Buxton 