He was the kind of animal that changed your life, one we'll remember forever because he was our first family dog and we waited several years to get him. I can still clearly recall the day my parents drove us to a little farm in northern Utah to bring home our puppy. He was a bit of a chubby pup, a sweet, playful little guy that ran and tumbled with his brothers and sisters. My brother picked him out of the pile of fuzzy gray- and silver-coated babies. He wanted to name him Tyrannosaurus Rex. That was a bit long, so we finally decided on the short, simple Buddy. Bud for short.
He was the calmest, most gentle dog I've ever known. I remember when my parents brought home our second puppy, Beth, from the local shelter, he immediately took to his big brother role. The aggressive, nervous Beth would pounce on him, pull his ears and nip his neck, drawing blood with her sharp, tiny teeth. His patience amazed us. Never once did he growl or show his teeth. Never once was he jealous of his new sister.
He hated being left out of any situation. Sometimes in the summer we would eat on the patio and leave the dogs in the house; Bud would lick the window over and over to show his displeasure.
Bud definitely had a big old grin. He was the dog who taught me the strength of animal personalities. He would sink into sadness only when my dad was gone for an extended period. Ninety-five percent of the time, Bud was happy. Four percent of the remaining time, he was out-of-his-mind happy (car rides, in particular, made him so giddy we'd often have to ask him to calm down).
He was nothing short of the word my mom used to describe him his entire life: awesome.
After work on Friday, Dan and I arrived at my parents' house so that we could all travel to the race together on Saturday morning. We walked in and knew Bud was having a rough afternoon. Over the past few weeks, he had been walking the line between a normal and happy, albeit extremely tired, geriatric dog and a dog we knew would be leaving us soon. Unfortunately, Friday was another bad day for our Bud. He was standing the foyer in a way that told us putting weight on his hind legs fatigued him. He was breathing heavily through his open mouth, often dropping dots of drool on our clothes as we held him. His eyes were at half mast, and he only wagged his tail halfheartedly, as if to say, "Hi guys, I love you and I'm so glad to see you, but boy, I'm tired, so please excuse me if I don't run around with you today."
That night, I climbed into bed around nine to get some sleep for the race. My head racing, my heart tight, I tossed and turned for hours. I was too hot, so I cracked a window. I was too uncomfortable, so I moved to the floor so the cool air could touch my face. Around 1:00 a.m., distracted by outside noises, I made my way downstairs to make a bed on the couch. Frustrated by my racing mind, I read. When that didn't work, I finally broke down, cried into my pillow, prayed for the ability to sleep.
When I finally gave up on the basement around 1:30 and made my way upstairs, I realized my parents' light was on and the car was gone. "Shit," I mumbled. I called my mom, who said, yes, they were at the vet and that she would let me know what was happening. She was crying. I offered to come take my dad's place so he could sleep. They, of course, refused. "I know you can't sleep," she said, "but please try to rest."
I tiptoed into the spare room and patted Dan, told him the news, broke down. He held me tight, let me cry against him. I settled next to him and closed my eyes. Somewhere after 2 a.m., I slipped into a deep sleep. I didn't know it at the time, but a few miles away, around the same time my heavy heart and racing mind let me fall into the sleep I had been praying for, our Bud took his last breath.