Yesterday, a Facebook memory punched me in the face, as they sometimes do. This particular one was a photo of a dog with a woman I met once, who came one afternoon and took him from me.
It was six years ago yesterday, and it was a very bad day.
We had been evicted from The Dump, as I so lovingly called it, and with that relief came also bitter disappointment as I was turned away from apartments time after time, due solely to breed restrictions. I had cash in hand and good references, but I also had a pitbull. His name was Buddy, and we had been together for a year when the word came that we had to leave. It was one of the hardest years of my life, and without my pup I truly do not know how I would have gotten through it. And then, when it just kept getting worse, he was ripped away from me.
Buddy and I had a lot in common, the main thing being anxiety. But when I was in bed crying, he would nuzzle under the blanket and curl beside me. And when he was having a panic attack over loud noises, I would climb into the closet where he would hide and he would put his head in my lap. We were each other’s comfort.
Then, I had to give him up.
The woman, a friend of a friend, ran a group that rescued animals, and she certainly rescued Buddy. She took him to a doggy day spa and the vet and got him all shiny and clean for his foster, but then they fell through. There was a mad scramble to find him a home. The post about Buddy was shared on Facebook over 20k times. Then, a woman in Allegany, I believe, came and saved the day.
So yesterday, this picture shows up in my memories, and I cry, and then I send a message to the woman who rehomed him for me, thanking her for taking care of my dear little friend. I told her that I always imagined him running in a field with a friend somewhere, as that was his favorite thing to do with me. She thanked me for the kind words and said “You are right about running in fields. He had his huge backyard and mountainside to roam and enjoy.”
I did the math. Dogs don’t usually live for thirteen years. I don’t know what I was thinking.
So, while it may not have technically been yesterday, I’m claiming it. Yesterday is the day my dog died.
Buddy, An Obituary: Known by many names throughout his life, this dog was nothing if not your friend, and so we called him Buddy. A brown and white pitbull with floppy ears and a clipped tail due to an accident in youth, he never let his disabilities get the best of him. Lover of rolling in the grass and peanut butter; enemy of car rides, fireworks, and the mailman. He was the proud brother to four beautiful little kiddos. On Friday afternoons, you could often find him waiting at the window for their arrival. He protected and played with them, as though they were his pups. Dear friend to Mark, he was always ready for a midnight play date after Mark got off the night shift. Constant companion of Brigid, always by her side, Buddy dedicated his existence to her comfort, and she to his. His big brown eyes and sloppy smile will be missed by everyone. (Her, especially.)